An Imperfect Killing. Luke Delaney

to revive her. One thing he immediately noticed was the unusually large volume of uniformed officers guarding the scene and the ever-increasing number of TV crews and journalists who were gathering close by. Clearly word had already got out that the victim was a somebody.

      Sean strode across the tarmac to where he saw DCI Alan Featherstone standing with another detective from the team, DC Zack Benton, who always took pride in being the most smartly dressed detective on the team. Today was no exception. His clothes had been carefully selected to complement his dark, mahogany-coloured skin, and even his spectacles were a designer brand. As Sean grew close it was Featherstone who spoke first.

      ‘Morning,’ was all he said.

      ‘Morning, Sarge,’ Benton added before returning to look at the detritus of emergency medical care the paramedics had left behind.

      ‘Do we know who she is yet?’ Sean asked, ignoring their pleasantries.

      ‘Sue Evans,’ Featherstone answered mournfully.

      ‘The TV presenter?’ Sean checked.

      ‘The very same,’ Featherstone confirmed. ‘Good-looking woman, smart too. Damn shame. What a waste.’

      ‘And the shooter?’ Sean forged ahead.

      ‘We’re checking CCTV, but it looks like he came round the back of the building from the Southbank, ambushed her here in the car park, shot her and fled the way he came,’ Featherstone explained. ‘Dressed in a black boiler suit and balaclava. From what we know there was only one shot.’

      ‘There was a witness?’ Sean asked.

      ‘Not as such,’ Featherstone told him. ‘A security guard heard a gunshot, came out to investigate and found the victim on the ground. He checked the studio’s security CCTV system once she’d been taken to hospital. That’s pretty much where all our information’s coming from.’

      ‘Sounds like a professional,’ Sean suggested.

      ‘It does,’ Featherstone agreed. ‘Only who would want to hit a TV presenter?’

      ‘She did consumer affair shows, didn’t she?’ Sean pursued his own emerging theory. ‘Maybe she pissed off the wrong people?’

      ‘Did you ever see any of her shows?’ Featherstone asked.

      ‘No,’ he admitted. ‘Not my sort of thing.’

      ‘All pretty tame,’ Featherstone explained. ‘This vacuum cleaner’s better and cheaper than that vacuum cleaner. We’re not exactly talking organized crime here. Other than that she did “how to do up your house” crap – again, not the sort of thing to warrant a price on your head.’

      ‘Something else then,’ Sean acknowledged.

      ‘A domestic?’ Benton offered.

      Sean and Featherstone both looked around the large open-air car park, shaking their heads. ‘I don’t think so,’ Sean told him. ‘Domestics are spur-of-the-moment outbursts of madness. This was planned and the use of a firearm—’

      ‘Not just a firearm,’ Featherstone interrupted, ‘a handgun – which pulls us back to a professional hit, despite the current lack of motive.’

      ‘Early days,’ Sean reminded them.

      ‘Early days indeed,’ Featherstone agreed, ‘but the vultures are already gathering.’ He looked over towards the gathering media. ‘The powers-that-be will want a quick and clean result on this one. No excuses. I seem to recall the last time a TV presenter got shot the investigation dragged on for a year before anyone was charged. Let’s not let that happen here.’

      ‘You already got someone gathering up the CCTV?’ Sean asked.

      ‘As we speak,’ Featherstone assured him.

      ‘Then I’m no good here,’ Sean told him. He turned and began to walk away.

      ‘Going somewhere I should know about?’ Featherstone sarcastically asked.

      ‘The mortuary,’ Sean answered, surprised Featherstone hadn’t guessed.

      ‘Good idea,’ Featherstone nodded once. ‘Let me know what you find. I’ll be briefing the team back at Peckham in a couple of hours. I’d appreciate it if you could try and be there.’

      ‘I’ll be there,’ Sean promised and headed back towards the edge of the cordon and his unmarked car. He was calm on the outside, but inside his mind was already spinning with possibilities: had she pissed off the wrong person, despite what Featherstone had said? Or had she attracted a deranged stalker? Or was it a lover, a rival, a business partner? Right now he didn’t have enough to even make a calculated guess. He needed more information and he knew exactly where to start.

      ***

      Sean walked through the alleyways formed by the buildings at Guy’s Hospital, close to London Bridge. This was a part of the city that very few members of the public would ever see, the buildings that housed the huge laundry, the boiler rooms, the clinical waste incinerators and the place he was heading to – the mortuary. He’d been there before, but only ever as a detective constable – a bag carrier and note taker for whichever DCI or DI was heading up the case. As a DS this would be the first time he’d be able to ask his own questions without having to watch what he said – the first time he could let his imagination guide those questions. He pushed his way through a large set of oversized, floppy plastic swing doors and only took a few steps before he had to push his way through another set – the brightness of the mortuary ahead lighting his way. He strode into the large, clinical-looking room and took in his surroundings. The mortuary assistant who had been mopping the floor looked up first – the pathologist a few seconds after, giving Sean a glance of annoyance at having been disturbed from examining the battered and bloodied body that lay on the stainless steel table in front of him.

      ‘Can I help you with something?’ he asked impatiently.

      Sean scanned the other stretcher trolleys in the mortuary, wondering under which green sheet Sue Evans’ body lay. ‘Doctor Canning, isn’t it?’ he asked as he walked towards him uninvited, pulling his warrant card free as he approached.

      ‘Do I know you?’ Canning demanded.

      ‘We’ve met before,’ Sean told him, standing on the opposite side of the operating table that looked more like a giant shallow sink, ‘although perhaps you don’t remember. DS Sean Corrigan. The last time we met I was a DC assisting the OIC at one of your post-mortems.’

      ‘You’re right,’ Canning agreed. ‘I don’t remember you, but I take it you’re here for a reason.’

      ‘Female gunshot victim,’ Sean explained. ‘Brought here this morning. Died in the Critical Care Unit after attempts to keep her alive failed.’

      ‘You mean the television presenter.’

      ‘Yes,’ Sean confirmed. ‘Her name was Sue Evans.’

      ‘Then I’m a little confused as to why you’re here,’ Canning frowned. ‘I haven’t scheduled her post-mortem yet and it almost certainly won’t be today. I have this unfortunate fellow to deal with first,’ Canning swept his hand across the corpse in front of him, ‘and then at least one more before I can get to your victim.’

      ‘I’m not here for the post-mortem,’ Sean assured him.

      ‘Then why are you here?’ Canning asked.

      ‘I wanted to see her,’ Sean explained. ‘Seemed the right thing to do.’

      Canning sighed. ‘Maybe I can let you see her for a moment,’ he conceded, ‘but I need to finish here first.’

      ‘What happened to him?’ Sean asked, looking down at the severely injured body of a white man in his mid-thirties.

      ‘Fell from a twenty-second floor balcony of a local tower block,’ Canning answered.