The Lost

Fletcher and Bennet stood in the corridor, coats damp from the rain.

‘Can we come in?’

Jonah moved back to let them inside. He could barely wait to close the door behind them before he asked.

‘Have you found Stokes?’

‘Love a cup, thanks,’ Fletcher said, going without invitation into the kitchen. By the time Jonah followed them in he was already pulling out a chair at the table, his mac hanging on him like a loose sail. ‘Two sugars in mine.’

Bennet’s face remained impassive. She took the chair next to the DI.

‘Just tell me, have you found him?’

‘Not exactly.’

‘What does that mean?’

The DI sat down and made himself comfortable. ‘Talking’ll be a lot easier if you stick the kettle on.’

Jonah stayed where he was. ‘Just tell me why you’re here.’

Fletcher nodded to Bennet. ‘Show him.’

The policewoman produced a thin folder and took out several large, glossy photographs. She leafed through them, removing two and setting them on the table so Jonah could see.

‘This is one of the surveillance photos we found on McKinney’s computer, with part of it enlarged,’ she said, sitting back. ‘It was taken two weeks before he died, according to the date on the file. There were a lot more like it, but you get the gist.’

The main photograph was full colour. It showed the bar of a pub, glasses and bottles lined up behind it against a long, ornate mirror. Several people stood or sat on tall stools at the bar, but only one of them jumped out at Jonah. A tall, broad-shouldered man with a shaved skull, wearing a denim jacket. He was hunched over the bar, his back to the camera, apparently staring into his drink. Visible above his jacket collar, the black lines of a spider-web tattoo covered the back of his neck. The enlargement was of the mirror behind the bar, in which the reflection of the man’s face was clearly visible. Sullen and heavy-boned, with a thin-lipped gash of a mouth and deep-set eyes.

Owen Stokes.

Jonah gave a start as Bennet’s phone suddenly rang. She glanced at it, then turned to Fletcher.

‘I should get this.’

She went out into the hallway, pulling the door shut behind her. Fletcher regarded Jonah sourly.

‘If you’re not going to make a drink then for God’s sake sit down, Colley. You’re getting on my nerves standing there.’

Jonah considered standing anyway, decided that would be childish, and sat down. ‘Why are you showing me this?’

‘Let’s call it context. Your friend McKinney was following Stokes prior to your little party at Slaughter Quay.’ Fletcher paused to give him a questioning look. ‘I don’t suppose you’ve anything else to share about that?’

‘I’ve already told you what I know.’

Fletcher nodded, as though that was what he’d expected. Taking two more photographs from the folder, he slid them across the table and sat back without comment. These were black-and-white stills from street CCTV footage. Both appeared to have been taken at night on the same stretch of empty road, though the vantage points suggested they were from different cameras. The quality was poor, the images grained and blurry, but Jonah recognised the figure in them as Owen Stokes. He was wearing what looked like the same denim jacket and jeans as before, this time with a dark baseball cap jammed down onto the shaved skull. One of the stills had caught him heading towards a camera, while in the other shot he was striding away. His shoulders were hunched and he walked with his head down, so the cap’s peak obscured his face. But in trying to shield his features he’d exposed the back of his neck. Above the turned-up jacket collar, the radiating lines of the spider-web tattoo were clearly visible.

‘OK, it’s Stokes again.’ Jonah set the photographs down and shrugged. ‘I don’t understand what I’m supposed to be looking at.’

Fletcher reached across and tapped the date and time stamp on one of the photographs. ‘They were taken in Ealing around eleven-thirty p.m., give or take, the night before McKinney died. Not far from his flat.’

Jonah felt his flesh crawl. ‘Stokes knew where he lived?’

‘Looks that way, doesn’t it?’ Fletcher’s eye had started watering. He took a tissue from his pocket and began to dry it. ‘You know he wasn’t living at home anymore, then?’

‘Only since yesterday.’ Jonah was still trying to take in this new revelation. ‘So Stokes knew Gavin was watching him?’

‘Either that or he was making a social call. Popping round for a cup of sugar, like mates do.’

Jonah looked up from the photograph. ‘You’re not serious.’

‘Stranger things have happened.’ Fletcher gestured at the photographs. ‘These only show that McKinney and Stokes were aware of each other before that night at the warehouse. How and why is open to debate.’