‘What I want is for him to tell us the truth, Jenny. That boy is his own worst enemy. He’s too young and too naive to protect himself from a life sentence, so it’s our job to protect him from himself. And if you have to nudge him in the right direction to do that, well, that’s fine with me.’

EIGHTEEN

Joelle Levy tapped the steering wheel impatiently. The cars moving south along Brixton Road were at walking pace. Perhaps slower. It had been that way for the past fifteen minutes of the journey.

These people must be wondering what’s causing this, Levy thought as she looked at the cars crawling along ahead of her.

Maybe they were, but Levy was not.

The police cordon that was up ahead – not yet within her sight – was doing what they always did: causing people to slow. To take a look. It was a natural human reaction. The traffic was just a by-product.

Her destination – the very corner of Brixton Road and Electric Avenue – wasn’t far. Maybe a quarter of a mile away. But it still took another ten minutes. Far longer than it should, even by the standards of Brixton’s always-slow traffic.

Finally Levy turned left onto Electric Avenue, through the police cordon. She did not need to show her Metropolitan Police warrant card for the tape that blocked the road to be lifted; the closest officer had recognised her on sight. Once through she parked next to the kerb, exited the car and surveyed the scene.

Electric Avenue was both a retail and a market street, named for the fact that it was the first street in London to be lit by electricity. The narrow permanent shops sat on the ground floors of identical, connected three-storey buildings. They ran the length of the long, curved street, on both sides of the road. The lack of any gap between the buildings was unusual; it turned the buildings on each side of Electric Avenue into a single, continuous block.

On any other day these permanent shops would be complemented by market stalls running from the top of the street to the bottom. None were visible today. Electric Avenue had been closed, its makeshift businesses a further victim of the crime that had brought Levy here.

‘They’re in this building over here, ma’am.’

The voice of a police officer Levy did not recognise interrupted her thoughts. Like the flicking of a switch, it focused Levy’s mind.

‘What time did the cordon go up?’ she asked, noting the door number of the building to which the uniformed officer had indicated. It was not necessary. It was the only one open on the street.

‘About two hours ago, ma’am. Shortly after the bodies were found.’

‘Which was what? 7 a.m.? 7.30?’

‘Around then, ma’am, yes.’

‘Then the market stalls must have been out already?’ Levy indicated the now-empty road.

‘Yes, ma’am. We had the stall holders put them away so we could secure the scene.’