by Vicky Newham
‘Can I get you anything? Cuppa? Some water?’ Dan often found this the most challenging part of his job. For some, it was the dead bodies and blood. But to Dan, the victim’s suffering was over then. For relatives, their nightmare was only just beginning.
Nicola pulled at her bottom lip. ‘Underneath all the hurt and the anger and the disappointment, I still love him.’ The distress was evident in her eyes. ‘Amanda hoped that one day we’d get back together, and I think that was probably what I wanted too. But not all the while there was a possibility he’d go back to the drugs. And I always suspected he would.’
It was a sad story and Dan sensed there was more to it than that.
She sniffed. Blew her nose and rocked gently, as though she was preparing to explain something important but couldn’t put the words together. ‘Patrick and I split up seven years ago. We were married young and had Amanda. He was working in the city as a trader. The hours and company he kept lured him into lifestyle which ruined our relationship. When we divorced I barely recognised him. If you take cocaine regularly, it changes you. It turns you nasty and manic, and makes you paranoid. And eventually it takes your life over. People think they can control it – Patrick did – and they often can for a while, but eventually it gets you in its grip.’
Dan was thinking about what she was saying. He’d known loads of people who’d got into the coke scene in Sydney. School mates, colleagues, family. Very few managed to keep it recreational. ‘I’m sorry to ask this but was he involved with anything illegal? Now or in the past?’
Her face fell. ‘It depends what you call “illegal”.’
‘I’m a police officer so my definition is anything that breaks the law.’ He wasn’t being patronising. His sense was that her question was more along the lines of, how much do you want to know? ‘It’s likely that his death is related to the arson in Brick Lane so please tell us anything you can.’
She snatched a breath. ‘When Patrick worked in the city, he was a high-flyer and he took a lot of risks. It’s part of the job. He had an eye for the markets, and had split-second timing. He earned a lot of money very quickly and made many of the bank’s clients very rich. But he also pissed people off. Some of his colleagues were envious of his deals and abilities, and there was some backstabbing. Occasionally, something unpredictable happened and people lost money. For a long time, luck seemed to ride with him and then it deserted him. Whether that coincided with the cocaine getting its teeth in, I don’t know, because he denied taking it, but his judgement seemed to waver. You need keen attention to work the markets. You need to be able to spot patterns, relationships, warning signs. Some of the risks paid off and some didn’t. It’s the way that world works. He didn’t tell me the details of all his deals, but I know that many of them involved speculating on unstable markets in the Middle East and central Europe. He had customers from all round the world.’
‘How’d that pan out?’
‘He was barely sleeping, partly due to the coke and partly because somewhere in the world a market is open, twenty-four-seven. He began having psychotic episodes and symptoms of mania, and became very paranoid. It’s truly awful to witness this happening to someone you love. Someone you’ve had a child with. They literally disintegrate in front of you. Eventually, he had a breakdown and landed up in a psychiatric hospital. The coke well and truly messed his brain up. I didn’t trust him around Amanda, and I didn’t feel safe around him myself. His rage was extremely unpredictable and scary.’
‘I have to ask. Did he ever hurt you or your daughter?’
‘Physically, no. Never. But, on many occasions, he was completely out of control of himself. Babbling and ranting, and we were all scared. It was the drugs. It wasn’t him. When we met, Patrick was the nicest person in the world. I wouldn’t have married him otherwise.’ Her voice had got higher. ‘Very few people can work in that city environment for long without it turning their head and dragging them into . . . well, I’ve told you.’ She looked up from her hands. ‘Did he suffer? How was he killed?’
‘It would have been quick.’ No-one wanted to know that their loved one had died an agonising death and been mutilated.
She smiled in appreciation. It was clear that Nicola Grant had cared deeply about her ex-husband, and still did. And that she had obviously been through some extremely challenging times with him. ‘When did you see him last? Were you in touch?’
‘Patrick didn’t cope well with hospital. The drugs they put him on, the attempts at getting him to engage with therapy. They just made him more manic and more determined to self-medicate. He was discharged far too soon. The service had insufficient beds, and they said they had patients with greater needs than him – although that’s hard to fathom. So, he ended up on the streets and never kicked the drugs. He was terrified, sleeping rough. I completely understand. I wouldn’t survive one night. Unfortunately, from cocaine he got into heroin and began mixing it with cheap alcohol. He hadn’t solved his original cocaine addiction and he was self-medicating to cope with living rough. Taking anything he could get hold of. He nearly died. He was lucky to survive and not contract any diseases. Slowly, he got back on his feet, got work at the Old Manor House and worked his way up to sub-foreman. Which is why this . . . this is such a bloody tragedy.’ She let out a sob.
‘How did he get the job there?’
‘He was determined the get off the gear. Took him a good two years but he decided to go cold turkey. After that he touted for a job as a labourer on various building sites. Said he’d work a day for no pay, and if they didn’t want to pay him, they didn’t have to. Manor House Developments offered him a job halfway through the day. He spent the next few years grafting, kept out of trouble, worked his way up, and earned people’s respect and trust. When he got the sub-foreman job, he was really thrilled. He felt he’d finally managed to put the past behind him.’
‘Is there any chance he was involved with anything illegal recently?’
‘Personally, I think it’s unlikely, but I can’t say for definite. Last time I saw him, he was over the moon to have made a success of this job and he’d started some volunteering that he was enjoying. Youth centres round here are busy places, and he was giving talks at them about the dangers of drugs. I can’t see him wanting to risk all that and end up where he was all over again. He said to me that you can’t get much lower or desperate than being a coke and heroin addict and living on the streets. But – he also said that shit was only ever a snort, smoke or syringe away.’ She looked towards the door and the stairs. ‘Can I see him?’
‘Of course. There will be a post-mortem first. We will let you know when that’s possible.’ He glanced round the room. ‘We know that it wasn’t suicide. Can you tell me whether Patrick had any enemies? Or whether he’d had any barneys with anyone recently?’
‘Not that I know of but I’m not the best person to ask. He was very cagey with me. He knew how much distress he had caused us, and he was keen to see his daughter. She worshipped him. But it meant that there were things he didn’t tell me.’
‘A few final questions – did Patrick have any links with Brick Lane?’
‘He knows the area. We all do. We’d go out there occasionally for a curry. I can’t think of much more than that.’
‘Did he know any people there?’
‘Yeah. Of course. He knew people all over London.’
‘Before I go, has anything unusual occurred in the last few weeks?’ Dan focussed his attention on Nicola’s face.
‘Not that I can think of.’
‘He didn’t mention that anything was bothering him?’
She frowned. ‘He did say there’d been some unpleasantness recently but as soon as he told me, he realised he’d freaked me out, and he clammed up.’
Dan felt sad about Patrick Ryan. It was a darn shame for him to have gone through such suffering and hardship, to have been so determined to get his life back on track and to end up dead just when it was all beginning to take shape agai
n. He made a note in his phone to get the office to find out which youth clubs Ryan had been volunteering with. ‘Does Patrick have any family alive other than your daughter? Parents, siblings?’
‘Both his parents are still alive. They’re in Kilburn.’
‘What are their names?’
‘Sinead and Gabriel.’ She jotted his parents’ address on a pad and handed it to him.
Dan nodded. ‘Do you know if he was involved with any social action or community events?’
She frowned.
‘For example, protests or flash mobs?’
Her face fell, and she looked scared. ‘Is this about the arson in Brick Lane?’
‘Yes.’
‘I’ll be honest: protests don’t sound like him but he was certainly against gentrification, just as he was opposed to people pretending to be something they weren’t. When Patrick worked at the bank, he earned a lot of money and suffered terrible imposter syndrome. He felt he’d betrayed his working-class roots and it made him feel guilty. He was a lot of things, but he wasn’t a hypocrite – although he did change when he was working at the bank.’ She paused. ‘But – we obviously weren’t as close in the last few years as we once were. It may be that stuff happened on the streets that I don’t know about. You can’t go through all that, the drugs, psychiatric hospital, and sleeping rough, without it changing you somehow.’ She stopped again, as though there was something she wanted to add but wasn’t sure about. ‘I know he was angry about getting kicked out of hospital so quickly so maybe that changed his attitudes.’
‘Can you explain how he changed?’
‘He got hard when he was working in the city. He began not to give a shit about anyone. He worshipped at the altar of money and his mind was on the current deal and the markets. But it wasn’t really who he was.’ Her eyes ached with regret. ‘That’s probably partly why he started boozing and taking cocaine. The pressure, the weirdness of the environment, the hours, the imposter syndrome. Somewhere along the way he lost touch with who he was, and it was as though he despised himself for what he was doing. That led to more booze and drugs, and more self-loathing. Really, he was a classic example of a working-class boy who got a lucky break, found something that he was good at, made hundreds of thousands, and all the while felt unworthy of the success and guilty.’
Dan was processing what she was saying. Her ex-husband’s experiences were tragic but weren’t uncommon. If he felt unworthy, perhaps the labouring jobs had suited him better? Rather than being catapulted into success, he’d had to work his way up and earn the respect of his peers on the site.
And that made his murder all the sadder.
But it didn’t help them with what was important, and that was finding out how Patrick Ryan’s death was linked to the arson.
Maya, 12.30 p.m.
Having stormed off in a huff, it was a relief to be surrounded by strangers in Mile End Park, where I could gather my thoughts. I was annoyed with myself for getting into an argument with Dan, but I couldn’t let go of the feeling that we had a duty of care towards Ali. As I walked towards the play area, dragging my heels in the grass, only patches of morning dew remained. Most had evaporated under the clear skies and dappled April sunlight.
At the bottom of the slide, a man was standing with a teenager. He looked relaxed and happy as he watched two girls. ‘That’s it,’ he called over encouragingly to the young girl who was perching at the top of the slide, clinging onto the frame. ‘We’ll catch you.’ He was wearing a quilted jacket in navy blue with a brown corduroy collar, and dark jeans. He wasn’t my idea of handsome, but this was exactly how Nicola had described her ex-husband.
‘Mr Grant? Alan Grant?’
He turned at the sound of his name, almost as if he’d been waiting for this moment.
‘I’m DI Rahman. Could I speak to you for a moment, please?’ I didn’t want to mention Patrick Ryan by name, or the murder.
‘Er, sure. Hold on.’ He faced the teenager. ‘Mand, honey, can you look after your sister for a few minutes? Maybe take her on the swings.’ He waited ’til the young girl was down from the slide and watched Amanda install her sister safely on the seat.
I led him over to the trampoline where we could talk without being overheard. ‘I’m leading the investigation into Patrick Ryan’s death. My sergeant is talking to Nicola. Did you see much of Patrick?’
‘Every couple of weeks. He would pick Amanda up from the flat when it was his turn to have her. Before that, he was often at the Saturday Soup thing that Nicola helps with, for the homeless. I usually drop her off there and collect her, especially when it’s cold. Saw him there several times.’
‘How were things between you and Patrick?’
He shrugged, and scratched his chin while he collected his thoughts. ‘It wasn’t an easy situation for any of us, but he was a decent bloke and we aren’t the only ones to have a blended family.’ He gave a sad shrug. ‘You just have to get on with it.’ He gestured in the direction of the girls on the swings. ‘He never missed his turn to have Amanda, and she adores him. Which is all that matters, I guess.’
I sensed a but. ‘Any niggles? Rows?’
‘I may as well be frank. It did annoy me that he and Nicola were so close, and I suppose I felt a bit jealous.’ He gathered his thoughts. ‘She said it was over between them but I could see he still loved her.’ He sat down beside me. ‘And I loved her too, so I put up with it. The poor guy had been through hell, so I wasn’t about to start making life more difficult for him.’ He fiddled with a button on his jacket. ‘But it’s quite hard knowing you’re the consolation prize.’
I nodded. Unless he was a good actor, his mixed feelings seemed genuine. But feeling sorry for a person didn’t stop someone from killing them if there were other motivating factors. ‘When did you last see Patrick?’
‘Last weekend. He had Amanda.’
‘Did your wife have any spats with him recently?’
He faced me. Pulled his hand through his hair while he considered the question. ‘Not that I’m aware of. But he wasn’t our favourite subject so you’re best off asking her.’ His gaze slipped back to the swings, and melancholy seemed to consume him. ‘As far as I saw, they all got on really well.’ He let out a sigh. ‘Even Sally adored him.’ The resentment in his voice was unmistakeable.
I couldn’t help wondering whether Alan Grant might have wanted Patrick out of the way. And if he had, why on earth would he go to such lengths to link his death to the arson on Brick Lane?
Dan, 2.30 p.m.
It was early afternoon by the time Maya and Dan arrived in Kilburn to interview Patrick Ryan’s parents. Sunday traffic had caught them at Old Street roundabout, Euston and Maida Vale. The journey had given him the chance to ask Maya if he could take some leave once the case was over, and despite the frostiness that lingered between them over Ali, she’d agreed. He was relieved – he desperately wanted to go home to Sydney and spend some time with Aroona and the girls, to see if they could sort out a way forward that would work for them all. The girls were best off with their mum, there was no doubt about that, so, much as he was tempted, he hadn’t suggested that they come to the UK and live with him. He missed Aroona terribly. Her wise soul, her kindness and the way she kept him grounded. He missed being a husband, but more than anything, he wanted to be a dad again.
Gabriel and Sinead Ryan had a ground-floor flat in an ugly concrete block set back from the main road. The woman who opened the front door was barely an inch over five feet tall. She had hair the colour of sand, cut into a neat bob around what was still a pretty face. A baggy cardigan hung on her petite frame.
Dan showed his warrant. ‘DS Maguire and DI Rahman. Could we speak to you about your son, please?’
Sinead wrapped the cardigan tighter about herself. ‘Come in,’ she said, clearly flustered. ‘Nicola rang and told us about Patrick.’ She padded along the hall in socks, and led Dan and Maya into a spacious lounge where they’d been vegging out in front of th
e telly.
In the middle of the room, an archway opened onto a kitchen. At the other end, two black leather sofas lay opposite each other, with drinks tables dotted round the room. The floral wallpaper felt almost cheerful, but Dan got the impression that fun and laughter were commodities which were in short supply in the Ryan household. Gabriel was sitting, rock-still, in an armchair. His shirt wasn’t tucked in and he hadn’t shaved for days. Beside him, a small table was littered with medication packets, inhalers and tablets.
‘Nicola didn’t say much on the phone but then she rarely does.’ Sinead’s dull eyes conveyed a combination of frustration and resignation. ‘My poor boy. What happened to him?’
The room echoed with the ghosts of dissatisfaction and Dan found it hard not to feel sorry for her. ‘Our investigations are still ongoing. Nicola told us about some of the difficulties your son’s had in the last few years. Can you give us your take on these?’ He smiled at her, trying to be friendly. He was aware that they’d rocked up and begun asking questions, and he had no idea how much they knew about Patrick’s lifestyle and addictions.
Sinead slid onto the other sofa and tucked her legs underneath her. ‘Paddy was a good boy but that job at the bank turned his head. The money they earned, it was like toy money. We’re retired now but, growing up, he’s always seen his father and me struggle to get by, struggle to make ends meet. Oh, he was very generous – but it sent him dizzy. He went from being skint to earning thousands of pounds a week. He could afford anything. They were all drinking champagne and eating oysters. And then there were the drugs. He denied it of course but we knew. Nicola covered up for him for several years. I always said the drugs would get him, didn’t I, Gabriel?’ She glanced over at her husband who seemed to be in his own world. ‘When he came here to visit, he’d be off his head. Wild-eyed and sniffing, all twitchy and jumpy, saying that he’d got a cold or a bit of flu. And either snappy or deliriously happy.’
