by Andy Maslen
‘Hi, this is Jaz.’
‘Jasmin Fortuna?’
‘Yes. Who’s this?’
‘I’m Detective Inspector Ford from Wiltshire Police. I’d like to have a chat with you about the Purcell Foundation. Today, if possible.’
‘Do I have to come into the police station?’
Ford smiled and injected a lightness into his tone he wasn’t feeling. ‘Nothing as formal as that. I can come to you, if you like.’
‘You can come round now, in that case. I’m doing my nails. Gonna be a while yet. I’ve only just started.’
Ford parked the Discovery on the street a few doors down from Fortuna’s house, a new-build on an estate on the western edge of the city. The developers had mixed styles and sizes of dwelling, giving the impression of a village rather than row after row of identical boxes.
A metallic-pink BMW 3 Series convertible sat on the concrete drive beside the house, its twin-kidney radiator grille facing the road.
He heard a chain rattling, then a lot of metallic clicks and scrapes from the far side of the door. ‘Bugger! Hold on. It’s my nails.’
The door swung open. Ford tried hard not to stare. The woman facing him was dressed in a silky white T-shirt and leggings that did nothing to disguise her physique. Which, Ford reflected ruefully, was more muscular than his had ever been in his life.
Her pectoral muscles bulged sideways from the T’s armholes and pushed her small breasts out towards him. Biceps, triceps – every muscle group looked inflated. Her caramel skin, which shone in the sunlight, emphasised their interlocking angles, curves and planes.
‘Mrs Fortuna?’
She cackled. ‘Blimey! That’s a bit formal. Call me Jaz. My clients do.’
An unworthy thought flickered through Ford’s mind. ‘Clients?’ he repeated, striving to sound neutral.
His efforts failed. ‘Not that kind. Naughty boy! Nails,’ she deadpanned, waggling the backs of the fingers on her right hand at him. They were tipped with pink-and-white candy-striped talons studded with sparkling gemstones. ‘Look,’ she added, pointing at the side of the BMW.
He turned.
Flowing pink script read ‘Nailz by Jaz’, with website, email, mobile number, plus social media icons.
‘Can I come in?’ he asked.
Having accepted the offer of coffee and then being told to ‘make one for me too, would you, a latte? It’s my nails,’ Ford explained why he was there and what he and his team were doing. He gave her the date and time of Angie and Kai Halpern’s murders.
‘Where were you then, Jaz?’
‘Easy! I was in Reading, at a competition. I’m a powerlifter.’ She flexed her biceps, kissing each in turn. ‘Big guns, tight buns, eh?’ She cackled again.
He gave her another date.
She looked upwards. ‘Tenth wedding anniversary. Out with my family. Loads of us. We’re Filipino. My mum works up at the hospital. Lot of Filipinos up there.’
‘One final date, Jaz.’
She listened carefully, then paused before answering. Looked up and to the left, then back at Ford. She shrugged. ‘Here, I think, with Dom. He’s my husband. I’d have to check, but I’m pretty sure. We only go out at the weekend, and I know I wasn’t training or at an event.’
‘It’s fine. But if you wouldn’t mind letting me know once you’ve double-checked.’
He handed her a card, which she took between the pads of her outstretched finger and thumb.
‘Is this about the murders?’ she asked, putting the card on a side table.
‘Yes. Did you know any of the victims?’
‘Remind me of their names again?’
‘Angie and Kai Halpern. Paul Eadon. Marcus Anderson.’
‘I used to say hi to Angie when she came to the food bank. I met her once, up at the hospital when I was collecting my mum. She was such a caring person – why anyone would want to hurt her, I don’t know.’
‘How about the other two?’
She wrinkled her nose. ‘Paul, I remember. Horrible man. God forgive me for saying this,’ she said, crossing herself, ‘’cause he was poor and using the food bank, but he was trash. You know that, right?’
‘I do. But even trashy people have the right to life.’
She rolled her eyes, which were a deep brown and fringed by thick curtains of lashes. ‘You sound like Reverend Cox.’
‘And he is?’
‘Chairman of the trustees. Like, not the ones who work there. They’re more like posh people who make sure everyone’s doing their best for our clients,’ she said. ‘There’s even a lord. That good-looking one, you know? Lord Bodenham?’
Somewhere in Ford’s brain, two unconnected cogs meshed together.
He stood. ‘Thanks, Jaz. You’ve been really helpful.’
She bounced to her feet. ‘Is that it, then?’
He smiled. ‘That’s it.’
‘You’re not going to slap the cuffs on me?’ she said, holding out her hands.
‘Not today.’
She pouted. ‘Shame. I wouldn’t mind getting the third degree off of you.’
Then she winked. Ford felt a blush heating his cheeks.
At the Purcell Foundation’s main office on Castle Street, a converted Georgian townhouse, Ford asked the receptionist if Leonie Breakspear was available.
‘I’m sorry, she’s at a conference in London on food security and sustainability.’
‘Is there someone else in a position of authority I can speak to?’
‘Rachel’s here. I don’t think she has any meetings until later.’
‘Rachel?’
‘Taylor. She’s the CEO.’
‘Could you let her know I’m here, please?’
The woman in jeans and a polo shirt who welcomed Ford at the top of the narrow flight of stairs was tall, with an athletic physique. Despite her height, she moved gracefully, as if she’d been a dancer. She was in her mid-forties, her dark brown hair cut short, with a low, straight fringe. Her dark eyes sat above a wide, smiling mouth.
‘Sorry about the climb. We’re listed, so no lift.’
She led him to her office, a room that must have been the master bedroom, with a marble fireplace and triple sash windows that gave out on to a small courtyard garden.
‘Are you wondering about my clothes?’ she asked, catching him staring at her jeans.
‘Sorry. Force of habit. Your receptionist said you were the CEO.’
Smiling, she tapped the embroidered logo on the polo shirt. ‘Staff uniform. I was helping out this morning. I save the power suits for the big donors.’
‘People like Lord Bodenham?’
‘Ben’s a good friend. He’s very generous. With his time and his money.’
‘I’m investigating four murders. You’ve read about them?’
‘Yes. Leonie told me they were all customers of ours – the adults, at least,’ she said.
‘We’ve been interviewing your staff and volunteers. One mentioned the trustees. Do you have a list of their names and contact details?’
‘Surely you researched our website? They’re there in plain view.’
‘I did. But websites show what organisations want to tell the public. Not necessarily what they want to tell the police.’
She frowned and pursed her lips. ‘What are you suggesting? We have nothing to hide.’
He shrugged. ‘I’d like to make sure I have a complete list. Perhaps you have new ones you haven’t got round to putting on your website.’
Her face relaxed and she smiled a second time. ‘I’m sorry. I’m under a lot of pressure as it is, and these murders. . .’ She tailed off. ‘Those poor people.’
‘Which is why I and my team are working hard to try and catch their killer. So, the list?’
‘Of course,’ she said, nodding and opening a laptop. ‘Hold on.’
A laser printer beside her desk hummed. She gave Ford the single warm sheet.
He scanned the list.
Geoff R
iley
Paul Wallace
Frances Mackay
Chris Law
Nicola Cronin
Charles Abbott
Revd Julian Cox
David Valentine
Lord Bodenham (President)
‘Tell me,’ he said, eyes locked on to the sixth name, ‘are they actively involved, your trustees, or just names on the letterhead?’
‘Oh, very much the former. I encourage them to put in a few hours at the sharp end every month. I have no time for people using us to add some right-on credentials to their CV in the hopes of an MBE.’
‘And they do that, do they? Get involved at the sharp end?’
She smiled. ‘Some more than others, but yes, they do. They’re all very committed to our work.’
Back in his car, Ford sat with the key in his hand. It’s you, Abbott. It has to be. Everywhere I turn, there you are. To hell with the chief con. And Sandy will thank me when I bring you in.
DAY ELEVEN, 2.00 P.M.
Ford sat at his desk and made a call, trying to ignore the resentment making his lip curl. It was answered after ten rings.
‘Hello again, Mr Abbott. DI Ford here. I—’
‘I must say, I’m rather surprised to hear your voice interrupting my afternoon,’ Abbott said. Ford heard the smile in his voice. ‘I thought I’d made my feelings about your behaviour clear.’
‘You did. And I must apologise for my manner at our last meeting. I was out of order. I’m sorry.’
‘Well, that’s better. Apology accepted. We all lose our tempers from time to time. Some more readily than others, but there you are. How may I help you?’
‘I wonder whether you’d have time for another chat.’
‘If you’re after more blood talk, I assume you have the internet. Just Google it. No doubt Wikipedia has more information than you could possibly need or want.’
‘No. No more blood talk. I’d like to talk to you about your work for the Purcell Foundation. This afternoon, if possible.’
A theatrical sigh. ‘I have rounds from three till four. I can give you fifteen minutes, then I have a meeting with some colleagues.’
‘Four it is.’
Abbott’s suit jacket was on its hanger, as it had been during their last meeting. Ford discerned the edges of dark patches under the arms of the consultant’s pink shirt.
‘Tell me about your work at the Purcell Foundation,’ Ford said, notebook ready on his knee.
‘I’m a trustee.’
‘Which means?’
‘I oversee the work of the management. It’s largely about good governance,’ Abbott said. ‘Making sure everyone’s acting according to the Foundation’s ethics policy – the charity laws, yes? A quarterly meeting, the odd fund-raising reception. Tiresome, if I’m being brutally honest, but one has to do one’s bit, doesn’t one?’
‘Oh, one does. One does.’
Abbott’s lips tightened and his eyes flashed. A momentary expression, then it was gone. He checked his Rolex, pulling his cuff up to give Ford an eyeful. ‘Was there anything else?’
‘Yes. What do you do when you volunteer at the food bank?’
‘I think I just told you.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Ford said, smiling. ‘I didn’t make myself clear. I spoke to Rachel Taylor today and she said the trustees all put in time on the frontline. I think the phrase she used was “We don’t want CV-polishers on our board.” Something like that, anyway. What do you do when you’re on the frontline, Mr Abbott?’
Abbott pulled his cuff down again. ‘You know, handing out food parcels, helping people carry their bags to their cars. Or the bus stop. The usual.’
‘Did you ever help Angie Halpern?’
‘I can’t remember. I might have done.’
‘Paul Eadon?’
Abbott frowned and touched his lower lip. ‘Maybe. I’m not sure. There are rather a lot of them.’
‘Doesn’t say much for our society, does it?’
‘I really wouldn’t know. Most of them could pay their way if they put in a bit more effort. Look, where are you going with this?’
‘How about Marcus Anderson?’
‘No, again. I’m sorry.’
Ford shrugged. Onwards. ‘I’m trying to build up a picture of the victims and their lives. They’re linked by the food bank, so I need to ascertain whether that’s how their murderer selected them,’ he said. ‘Tell me, have you noticed anyone acting suspiciously when you’ve been volunteering there?’
‘Pocketing baked beans meant for the poor, you mean?’ Abbott said with a smirk.
Ford waited a few seconds before trusting himself to answer. Was that a deliberate choice, Abbott? Are you taunting me? ‘Possibly. Or engaging in inappropriate conversations with customers.’
‘No. Nothing like that. Nothing.’
Ford gave his ‘reassuring the suspect’ smile and leaned back in his chair. ‘Just a few more questions, and then you can go to your meeting.’
‘Thank you. It is rather important.’
For the third time, Ford recited the times and dates of the murders. ‘Where were you on each of those dates?’
Abbott’s face was neutral. ‘I’m afraid I’ll have to get back to you on that one.’
‘No diary?’
‘Of course. I’m sorry. You just flustered me there for a second.’
‘It’s just routine. So we can eliminate you from our enquiries.’
Abbott checked his phone, swiping, frowning, swiping, frowning.
‘Any joy?’ Ford asked.
‘I was at home each time.’
‘With someone, or alone?’
‘With my wife.’
‘Well, that’s you in the clear. Thank you, Mr Abbott. You’ve been most helpful.’
Abbott smiled, briefly. ‘You’re just doing your job.’
Ford rose from his chair and turned towards the door, then back to Abbott, over whom he now towered. ‘Do you work out?’
‘What?’
‘You’re in good shape for a man of your age. Do you go to the gym?’
‘Oh. I see. No, is the answer. I play tennis when I can.’
Ford tutted. ‘Best I ever manage is cutting the grass, and even that’s behind a motor mower.’
Then he turned on his heel and left. Planning his next moves. Which in his mind involved handcuffs and a lengthy stay at Bourne Hill’s custody suite.
DAY ELEVEN, 7.45 P.M.
Just nineteen, Nina Gow was old beyond her years, having spent most of her childhood bouncing around foster families and children’s homes, before that glorious, bloody immense day when she turned eighteen and sharing the flat with her bestie became a reality, not a dream. OK, so they had no money, beyond the crappy little amount they got each week in benefits. But they had fun. And the food bank meant they didn’t starve.
She spat out a curse when her key refused to turn in the cheap lock the landlord insisted was ‘perfectly all right for the likes of you’. Then, with a crack, the mechanism admitted defeat.
‘Thank God for that, I really need a wee,’ she said, slamming the thin door behind her. ‘Babe! You in? I got cider.’
She checked her phone on the way up the stairs then put it back in her pocket. She placed the plastic bag of cans on the kitchen counter and walked down the hall to the bathroom, already tugging at the stretchy belt on her jeans.
She opened the door. And she screamed. Her bladder let go. And she didn’t notice.
Aimee was standing in the bath, arms above her head, her naked body sagging. Why was her face dark purple? And why were her eyes bulging out like that? And why was her tongue sticking out? And what, what, oh, Holy Mother of God, what was that in the bath? Blood? No. Not that much, it’s impossible.
Shaking violently, Nina tried to pull her phone out of her jeans pocket, but it wouldn’t budge.
She sank to her knees. ‘Oh, please, oh, please, come on, come on, come ON!’
Finally, she managed to yank i
t free, and with a trembling finger tapped out the number she’d only ever associated with trouble for her or Aimee. Or both of them.
Ford arrived at the flat on Water Street at 8.45 p.m. The road was cordoned off, with uniformed loggists at both ends. A white CSI van was parked outside and he spotted the pathologist’s car double-parked a few doors down. He pushed through the crowd of phones-aloft onlookers, gave his collar number to the PC on duty and ducked under the blue-and-white crime scene tape.
He met Jools outside the house. She was pale, her lips were clamped into a line.
‘You OK, Jools?’
‘Yes, fine. It’s just, you know.’
‘Yeah, I do. Never gets easier, but you’ll find you get better at coping.’
‘Jesus, I hope so.’
‘What do we have? Judging from your face, I’d say it’s our boy again?’
‘Female victim. Exsanguinated. But he’s changed his MO.’
Ford felt his pulse quicken. Changes to the MO might mean the killer was escalating. And that might mean he was getting confident. And that might mean he’d get careless.
‘Changed it how?’
‘It looks like he’s knocked her out, then dragged her into the bathroom and manhandled her into the bath, and then he’s hung her from the open window over the tub. He must have put the plug in. It’s all still in there.’
Ford nodded. ‘Get a door-to-door going. Say, ten houses in each direction, plus all the flats here. Someone must have seen something.’
Jools pointed to a young woman talking to a paramedic. ‘She found the body. She shares the flat with her. I tried to talk to her, but she’s pretty shaken.’
‘Make sure she doesn’t leave. I want to talk to her. I’ll be down in a while.’
He went inside and climbed the stairs to the second-floor flat, pausing on the landing to don a crime scene suit and bootees.
The bathroom was tiny, less than six feet square. There was only room for a single CSI, and Ford recognised Hannah, crouching by the bath and inspecting spatters on its white plastic sides. He looked at the body, suspended by its wrists from the window. Looked away.
‘Hi,’ he said, inhaling, then regretting it as his stomach twitched.
