He glanced round his own place and decided that even though he only occupied a small space in what had been the family home, he still lived better than she did.
Binnie’s place had once been a farmhouse. His mum and dad had bought it and done it up before Binnie was born and he and his little brother had the run of the place and the big garden and the fields beyond.
Mostly, his mum had raised them both. His dad had left for good when Binnie was ten and the summer after that Binnie’s little brother had died. His dad had come home for the funeral and Binnie’s mum had pleaded with him to come back permanently or, if he couldn’t come back, at least to take Kevin with him. Binnie’s mum was the only one who ever called him Kevin. Even his teachers called him by his nickname – when they got the chance. Binnie was bright, could have excelled at school but, to be frank, looking back he realized he just couldn’t be arsed. There were other things he’d rather be doing – even though he hadn’t found his true vocation then.
Binnie looked back at the photographs. He’d bought himself a Polaroid camera. He’d read somewhere that the Stasi, when they went in to search a property, took Polaroid pictures first so they could be sure to get everything back in exactly the right place. He liked that idea; it was neat and it was challenging. He’d also heard that sometimes they’d move something deliberately, something not obvious but enough to be unsettling, just to fuck with people’s heads, and that was an idea Binnie liked even more. Everything had been really tidy in the little flat, everything in its place, and Binnie’s brain had gone into overdrive. It was so perfect. What could he do here that was sure to be noticed?
In the end, after a couple of false starts, he’d settled for rearranging the bookshelves. Taking everything off the top and swapping it with everything on the bottom shelf. He’d taken before and after photos and he looked at them now, wondering whether he’d done enough. Whether she was an observant sort and would notice straight away or whether it would take her a day or two.
Either way, it should freak her out.
Binnie grinned. The fact that he’d found nothing of interest in the flat hadn’t dampened his mood at all. He had been curious, that was all. Professional curiosity was another thing he’d learnt from his study of the secret police; he believed he should be thorough. Go above and beyond.
Binnie got up and put the photographs into one of the kitchen drawers, along with others he had taken elsewhere and the souvenirs he had taken. This time, a postcard someone had sent her from their holiday in Venice.
Binnie felt no actual need to take objects as souvenirs but it was another thing he had read about in the true crime books his mother had liked so much, and which she’d left behind when she had gone away. Killers like to take souvenirs so they can remember what it felt like when they committed their crimes. He’d read that and he’d added it to his magpie’s nest of a brain, his list of stuff he wanted to emulate. He felt it was like playing the role properly, but he couldn’t say that the urge had ever actually been a part of his modus operandi – another thing he’d learnt from those books, and from watching the telly, of course. Binnie was certain he had never felt the urge towards what those who claimed to know called ‘ritualistic behaviours’, even though he now played the game of doing so. It was never something he had actually felt in his bones. Not even that first time. Not even when his little brother had died, his head held under the water, his neck clamped in both of Binnie’s so much stronger hands – not because Binnie had any particular grudge against him but because Binnie had wanted to know what it looked like to see someone die.
TWELVE
Naomi called Karen Morgan just after seven.
‘Naomi Blake! My God, what is this? I never thought—’
‘It’s Friedman, now,’ Naomi laughed. ‘I married him, remember.’
‘Oh God, so it is. You know I really can’t get my head around that. Is he still in the job?’
‘No, left the force coming up for two years ago. Thought it was time for a change.’ That was the diplomatic way of putting it; the reality was a little more complex. ‘He mooched about for a bit and he’s now working for a private security firm. Events management and such.’
‘Oh, not another one,’ Karen complained. ‘And I’ll bet the money’s a damn sight better.’
It was that, Naomi thought. And generally better hours too. This weekend being an exception.
‘Ask him if there are any jobs going for a very jaundiced female DI,’ Karen joked. ‘I’ll swear, Naomi, I’m drowning in bloody paperwork, I’m short handed and I’m getting nowhere with this blasted murder.’
‘The Scotts’ gallery?’
‘That’ll be the one. Why? Is that why you’re calling?’ She sounded amused and only a little surprised. ‘And here’s me thinking you’ve been missing me.’
‘Actually, I have,’ Naomi said, surprised to find it was actually true. Now she’d been reminded of her friend the glow of nostalgia burned much brighter than she’d anticipated.
‘OK, I’ll believe you. So, what’s your interest in the Scott case?’ There was a shift in tone, Naomi noticed. She could almost see Karen reaching for paper and pen. ‘Because if, by some strange fluke, you bumped into the killer in a café and they confessed, I want to know about it.’
‘Not quite that,’ Naomi told her. ‘My interest has more to do with one Freddie Jones.’
Slowly and carefully, sure now that her friend really was taking notes, Naomi filled Karen in on everything she knew, had been told or suspected. At the end of her tale she was terribly aware that it wasn’t a lot: fragments and snippets and maybes, but …
‘What’s your take on this, Naomi? You think she’s on to something?’
‘To something, yes. There are too many coincidences to be, well, really coincidental. And Freddie had form. Was sentenced to two years for faking, served ten months. It was in Fenton Open Prison, and it was years ago, but who knows who he might have bumped into? Bee says her dad told her he was a reformed character but Bob Taylor, who’s known him for a very long time, reckons otherwise and even she’s coming round to the idea.’
There was a pause on the other end of the phone. Naomi waited, suddenly knowing that elements of this were not new to Karen.
‘You know there was a portfolio missing,’ Karen said at last.
‘I do. Drawings by Freddie Jones, apparently.’
‘The thing is, Naomi, that was the only thing taken. No other artwork, no cash, no cards, and Antonia Scott was wearing a necklace worth about five grand and a bangle worth another two. Why didn’t the killer bother with those? They were high carat gold, could have been melted and disappeared.’
‘Maybe they didn’t know what was what.’
‘Any fool can recognize gold. And even if the folio was the target – and I don’t get why it should have been – cover your tracks by taking other stuff. If he’d snatched the jewellery and maybe a painting or two, it might have been an age before even the brother noticed the portfolio was missing. It was almost as though whoever it was wanted it to be noticed. They were pointing it out. Look, I wanted this, I took it. No more, no less.’
‘Disciplined, maybe. I’ve heard art is often stolen to order.’
‘Apparently not as often as you might think, according to the specialist crime unit. And it’s not sold on as often as you might think either. The weird thing is, it becomes a status thing, almost like a currency in its own right. It can get passed around for years, sold or given as a gift or a reward. Organized crime works on its own rules and it’s a very incestuous world, in some ways.’
That chimed with what Naomi’s research suggested.
‘Interesting that it was Bob Taylor who raised the alarm on this. Considering he was a friend of our Mr Jones. He could have maintained his loyalty to his friend and not said anything.’
Naomi hadn’t actually thought about that. ‘He had Antonia Scott with him at the studio,’ she said. ‘She might also have known the Bevi Madonna.
But in any case, I think Bob is essentially honest, and he has a reputation to maintain. If it once got out that he’d suspected something but kept stumm, it could have massive repercussions on his career.’
‘Hmm. True. What was Antonia Scott doing at Freddie’s studio? I didn’t know about that.’
‘Freddie Jones had quite a reputation as a restorer. In fact that’s who gave Bob his start in the business. Antonia Scott had left a couple of pictures with Freddie, to be restored or something. She contacted the solicitor who was dealing with Freddie’s estate and they got permission from the police for Antonia to go and collect the paintings. At least, I think they were paintings.’
‘Right, and the solicitor … you have a name for him?’
‘It’s not come up in your enquiries?’
‘No, it has not. Odd, that.’
Naomi didn’t know the name but said she’d find out. ‘Bee lost her mother to cancer about a year ago, I’d bet she used the same solicitor who helped her out with her mother’s estate. She had a house to sell and bills to settle, that sort of thing. She said a solicitor helped her out with that and I get the impression she’s using the same one for Freddie’s bequest. My guess is you’ll find a common or garden local guy from a firm that deals with conveyancing and will writing. Bee’s only nineteen, she won’t have gone looking for anything fancy. Most like it’ll be someone recommended by friends or family. There’d be no reason for him to come up in relation to anything else Freddie was doing.’
‘True, probably. Get me the name, if you can, will you? Save me some leg work. You say the daughter’s been raising questions with the local police?’
‘Yes, but they’ve not been listening to her. Even after she tried to make the link between Freddie and Scotts Gallery, they were not exactly encouraging.’
‘No, I don’t suppose they would be. On the face of it, it’s a stretch, but …’
‘But?’
‘But we’ve also been looking at Mr Freddie Jones, to start with because of the portfolio, but also because his name’s come up elsewhere.’
‘OK, and in what context?’ Naomi asked.
She could hear her friend hesitating again.
‘Let’s just say there’s evidence that Freddie Jones wasn’t as retired as he claimed to be,’ she said.
THIRTEEN
Sian’s mother found her crying in the summerhouse she’d been using as a studio. They were not childish tears or the tears of frustration her work sometimes produced. They were tears of pain and utter despair and it didn’t take her mother long to realize that.
‘It’s Kevin Binns, isn’t it? That’s what you’re crying over.’
‘No,’ Sian snapped far too sharply. But she allowed herself to be gathered into an embrace and buried her face in her mother’s shoulder. Her mother was wearing an old cardigan, soft with wear and washing and permeated with her scent. For a moment Sian was small again, crying over a scraped knee.
‘What is it, love?’ her mother asked gently. ‘I do wish you wouldn’t see him. He’s a bad lot, you do know that, don’t you?’
Sian nodded and then shook her head. ‘I know, but I can’t not see him.’
‘Oh, sweetheart.’
Sian could almost hear her mother going through all the possible responses in her mind. Considering all the possible interpretations of Sian’s words.
‘Do you … love him?’ she asked at last.
Once upon a time the answer to that might have been yes. Sian had worshipped Binnie. He was exciting and wild and unpredictable. Come to the fair with me, he’d said. Go on the fastest rides. Ride my bike with me; no one will see. Who cares if we don’t have helmets, who cares how fast we go?
She’d been terrified that day as Binnie had thrown what she now knew was a stolen machine around the bends of the country lanes close to their home, her knee almost touching the tarmac as he’d leaned into the bends, her arms tight round his waist.
She’d finally understood that the more she screamed, the tighter she held on, the faster he went, but at the time she had convinced herself that she loved it. That fear was part of the excitement.
She knew better now. Fear was just fear, pure and simple and utterly consuming.
‘I hate him,’ she managed to whisper.
‘Then why—?’
Sian pulled away. How could she explain? How could her mother possibly understand? ‘Just because,’ she said. Then, hoping it would sound more emphatic, ‘Because he’s my friend. Because I …’ Sian wiped her eyes and stepped even further away, though all she really wanted to do was collapse back into her mother’s embrace and ask her to fix it all, just like she used to. ‘Forget it,’ she said angrily. ‘I don’t want to talk about it any more.’
Her mother looked away and Sian knew that she too was blinking back tears. But what could she do? What could anyone do? Sian was implicated. Binnie had told her she’d go to prison and had whispered in her ear what would happen to her there. But that was nothing compared to the threats he had made against those she loved. Threats she knew he’d have no hesitation in carrying out.
She wiped her eyes again and picked up her discarded brush. Dipped it angrily into the paint laid out on her palette. ‘I have to work,’ she said. ‘I’m all right now. Don’t fuss so much.’
Knowing she was going to get no further, her mother sighed and went away and Sian stared after her, willing her away; willing her to come back.
It was only after she’d watched her mother go back inside, through the kitchen door, that Sian looked at the canvas. She’d not noticed what colour had been picked up on to the brush and now an angry crimson streak spread from one side of her canvas to the other, burying the figure she’d been painting in a slash of red.
Binnie was several miles away. His boss had kept him waiting again, sitting on one of the uncomfortable hall chairs that were lined up against one wall in the square lobby. The floor was tiled in black and white and red and partly concealed by a finely knotted Persian rug.
It was usual for him to keep Binnie waiting; his way of letting Binnie know how unimportant he was in the scheme of things. Binnie had researched the psychology of this and knew exactly what he was meant to feel so he resolutely refused to see it that way. Instead, he caught up with his emails and took a look at the news. On one occasion, early in the relationship with his boss, he had walked over to take a look at the display cabinet that occupied the opposite wall and was packed with antiquities. Egyptian shabti, cuneiform tablets, tiny Roman bronzes, sitting beside examples of more modern glass. The owner, his boss, had of course chosen that moment to come down the flight of sweeping stairs and hold forth about his treasures and what they might be worth. It hadn’t taken Binnie long to realize that was exactly what his boss had been waiting for, for Binnie to show an interest so that he could show off.
Binnie had never given him another opportunity. Now, he minded his own business or he considered the state of the world, skimming websites from the BBC to Al Jazeera to CNN and taking in some of the conspiracy sites along the way. He was with the guy on Men in Black, you had to read the worst of the tabloids if you really wanted to know what was going on and then you had to read the respectable press to understand what the majority – and their masters – wanted to believe was happening.
Today he’d been kept waiting for close on an hour. Had skimmed his emails and his Facebook account and then the main headlines. He was taking in one of his favourite truther domains when the man who reckoned to be his lord and master waltzed down the stairs.
‘Good morning, Binnie.’
Binnie logged off and then nodded to the man. ‘Morning.’
‘Have you had lunch? I’m just about to.’
‘No thanks. Got stuff to do.’
‘We’ll make this quick, then.’
Same questions every time, Binnie thought. Lunch, tea, supper – occasionally even breakfast, if Binnie had been summoned early. His opportunity to deliver largesse and Binnie’s to re
fuse. A game they played. One day, Binnie promised himself, he’d shock the cunt by saying yes. He could imagine the shock – swiftly hidden, to be sure – and the awkward conversation over bacon and eggs or lobster or whatever the fucker ate. He lived alone and if he occasionally had guests – Binnie had sometimes seen a second car parked when he arrived – they never put in an appearance when Binnie was there.
‘So, what’s up then?’ Binnie asked.
The man lifted a hand and a door opened close to the stairs. A woman emerged, carrying a set of overalls. Binnie took a good look at her – the first person, apart from his ersatz boss, that he’d seen in this massive house. She was middle-aged, greying hair and dressed in a smart blue dress. Like a secretary, Binnie thought. Or a PA. Respectable looking.
She held out the overalls and the boss took them, then she went away, disappearing through the wide wood-panelled door.
He likes his theatrics, Binnie thought.
‘So?’
‘So, for the job I had in mind, you might want to wear these. Your clothes are likely to get dirty.’
‘I’m not a bloody cleaner, you know.’
‘In a manner of speaking, you are, today. Come with me. Nothing too onerous, I promise, and I think you’ll enjoy it.’
Binnie took the proffered garment and then followed. They exited by the door through which the secretary, or whatever she was, had departed and Binnie noted with interest that the only door furniture was on the other side. There was no obvious means of opening it from the hall – which explained why he’d not taken note of it before. This had, he thought, probably been a service corridor so that the servants could come and go without being seen. He figured whoever wanted to build and own a house like this probably didn’t want to be tripping over the hired help all the time. He wondered how many people actually lived and worked here.
Binnie was surprised to find that the corridor emerged outside. He could smell food so decided they’d emerged close to the kitchen. He followed the leader across the yard and into what he supposed had been a stable block but was now some kind of CCTV room. The man watching the cameras got up and left as they entered and Binnie got only a glimpse of someone with dark hair wearing a charcoal suit. It seemed his lord and master liked his staff nicely dressed. Binnie, currently dressed in jeans, a blue T-shirt and a warm jacket probably didn’t fit the bill.
Fakes and Lies Page 7
