Pulling on a pair of latex gloves Lestrade gently moved the head of the nearest victim.
"Execution style." He confirmed grimly. "Face looks familiar too."
"Yeah, I know him Sir." Greenaway had leaned across, looking over his shoulder. He stepped back, adding "His name's Bartlette, one of Openshaw's fixers. I nicked him on a firearms charge, but their slimy lawyer got him off."
"That's right," Greg agreed, his voice harsh as he leaned further into the car. "And the slimy lawyer joined him by the looks of it. D'you remember his name?"
Greenaway shook his head.
"Right," Lestrade glanced at his watch. "I'll leave you in charge of the team, I want to know who heard or saw what and when."
Ripping off his gloves he headed back to his car, calling over his shoulder as he went.
"I'll be at home, text me if you get anything."
Pulling out into the flow of early evening traffic, Greg sped home.
The flat was eerily silent as he opened the door, and he rushed through the flat, coming finally to the spare room, where there was irrefutable evidence of a struggle. Moving aside the clothes that had been pulled haphazardly from the cupboard he spotted, hidden in the dark confines, Sally's phone.
Snatching it up, he closed his eyes and swore bitterly.