Death Row - Mark Pearson [72]
‘He’s done something a little more serious than skipping a litter-picking trip,’ said Danny Vine.
‘Like what?’
‘Like sticking four inches of steel into a young student’s chest. That’s something we rather frown on,’ snapped Bennett.
Henson shook his head. ‘Oh, I get it. Another fix-up, is it? Not enough you put one of my sons down, you’re going to pin something on the other. Never mind he’s innocent.’
‘Where was he Friday night about midnight?’
‘He was here with me.’
‘You sure about that?’
‘Absolutely positive. I just said it, didn’t I?’
Bennett pulled out the photo and shoved it under the man’s nose. ‘So how come he happens to be on CCTV footage from Camden High Street at the exact same time?’
Adam Henson flapped the paper away.
‘That’s not my son.’
‘What, a doppelgänger, is it?’
‘You what?’
‘Someone else walking around who looks just like him and also happens to have B-minus tattooed on the back of his neck?’ Bennett held the photo up again.
‘Let me guess, this geezer who was stabbed, he wasn’t white, was he?’ Henson threw Danny a withering look.
‘He was an Iranian citizen,’ said Danny evenly.
‘Right.’
‘With dual nationality. He was born here.’
‘And now he’s died here.’
‘Not yet,’ said Bennett pushing the man aside.
It was a three-bedroom flat with a kitchen and bathroom. The first room on the left was a lounge: a three-piece suite that had seen better days, a coffee table strewn with copies of the Sun, a marked-up copy of the Racing Post, assorted lager cans, against the opposite wall a three-bar electric fire, all bars blazing, and beside it on a chrome stand a forty-two-inch state-of-the-art plasma-screen television. The sound off and the new Countdown assistant pertly placing vowels and consonants on the board.
Henson nodded at the picture. ‘You got to keep your brain ticking, don’t you?’
‘Right. And you on benefits as well, Mister Henson,’ said PC Vine pointedly.
‘It was a gift.’
‘Sure it was.’ Bennett opened the door and passed on to the next room, slightly larger and with two single beds in it. It was neatly arranged, no clothes strewn on the floor. No Matt Henson, either. The bathroom and smaller bedroom also proved to be empty, the smell in the second bedroom pretty much making it clear to Bennett that it was used by Henson senior. He backed out of the room and gestured to Danny Vine. ‘Check under the beds.’
The kitchen ahead was empty and windowless and Bennett turned the handle on the door of the last remaining room on the left. It was locked.
‘You can’t go in there. You’ve got no right.’
‘It’s okay,’ said Bennett, smiling affably. ‘I brought a skeleton key.’
He raised his foot and kicked the door at the level of the lock. There was a loud crack and the door flew open. ‘Fits all locks,’ he said and headed into the darkened room.
‘You’re going to pay for that.’
‘Don’t bet on it.’
Adam Henson looked back at Danny Vine as he came out of Henson’s bedroom. ‘Just keep your hands off his stuff,’ he said to the young constable, clearly conflicted about which way to go. Finally he followed Bennett into the darkened room. ‘It’s not illegal,’ he muttered as the detective inspector flicked on the light switch.
Black drapes hung over the front window. The walls were painted black and there was a red carpet underfoot. On the wall opposite DI Bennett was a flag: a red rectangle with a white circle in the middle of it and in the centre of the circle a black swastika. On the adjoining wall were pictures of Hitler and other high-ranking members of the Nazi party. Bennett shook his head at the clichéd stupidity of it all and then stopped and laughed out loud, despite himself. Among the black-and-white photos of Hitler and his generals was also a signed and framed picture of a well-known and glamorous personality.
Bennett looked at the photo more closely, slightly puzzled.
‘That’s Mariella Frostrup,’ said Henson proudly. ‘I reckon we’re related.’
Bennett looked at the squat, bloated man, thinking that they were probably