Geraldine was part of an extensive team questioning Pansy’s identified contacts. Her first subject was believed to work in a butcher’s shop in town. She glanced in the window on her way in, noting different kinds of sausages along with a variety of burgers and offal. The cuts of beef were mostly cheap strips, and the store was clearly not upmarket. Entering the shop, Geraldine called the number the police had registered for the person she wanted to question, and a spindly young man behind the counter pulled a ringing phone from his pocket and glanced at the unlisted number. As he answered the call, Geraldine stepped forward and approached him.
‘Nigel Waring? You can put your phone away.’
He looked at his phone, and then back at Geraldine, a puzzled expression on his face.
‘Hello,’ he replied, glancing at his colleague who was busy serving another customer. ‘Can I help you? Is there a problem?’ He frowned. ‘Do I know you? Was that you calling me just now? How do you know my number?’
Geraldine held up her identity card and he drew back in surprise.
‘I’d like a word with you please,’ she said.
‘I can’t, not now, I’m at work,’ he stammered, glancing at his colleague who had finished serving his customer and was now watching them with some interest.
Another customer came into the shop and the other man behind the counter reluctantly went to serve her.
‘Is there somewhere we can talk?’ Geraldine asked quietly. ‘We can do this in private if you prefer.’
‘In private?’ Nigel repeated, looking over at his colleague who was still busy with the customer. ‘What’s this about?’
‘I’d like to talk to you about a woman called Pansy.’
‘Pansy? I don’t know anyone called Pansy.’
‘You may have known her as Luscious. We have reason to believe you knew her intimately,’ Geraldine replied.
Nigel gave a guilty start on hearing the name and lowered his gaze. Geraldine had given him as clear a description of the relationship as he needed.
‘Is there somewhere we can talk without being overheard,’ Geraldine asked again, ‘or would you prefer to accompany me to the police station where we can have a chat?’
Nigel fidgeted nervously with his large heavy gold watch which was almost certainly fake. He shook his head and his greasy black combed-over hair fell forward over his face, to reveal a bald patch on top of his head.
‘This way,’ he muttered, leading Geraldine through a small door marked ‘Staff’.
Nigel’s pale face turned even pastier when she showed him a photograph of Pansy’s face, cleaned of mud but obviously dead, and explained the police were investigating the circumstances in which she had died.
‘I didn’t know she’d passed away,’ he muttered, refusing to meet Geraldine’s eye. ‘We didn’t have a relationship or anything like that. I don’t know anything about her. I mean, I guessed Luscious wasn’t her real name, but I only saw her the once and we didn’t even do anything,’ he added, with a surge of courage.
‘We both know that’s not true,’ Geraldine replied evenly. ‘We have you on CCTV meeting her, and if you hand me your phone, I think we’ll find you called her number on more than one occasion.’
Geraldine’s guess was rewarded when Nigel slipped his hand into his pocket as though seeking reassurance his phone was still there.
‘We can easily check your call history remotely if necessary,’ she added, holding out her hand.
Nigel seemed to sag. ‘Oh, very well, yes, I did see her. Not regularly, but from time to time. It suited us both. There was never any funny business, and she didn’t do anything she wasn’t comfortable with. And I didn’t harm her,’ he added, with a sudden flash of energy. ‘Why would I? She was – she helped me, you know. She was nice to me. She understood a man has his needs. Oh, I know she was a tart, but she suited me. She understood what I wanted. She let me pretend it was more than that, you know.’ He sighed. ‘I suppose it was the drugs. She knew they would get her in the end. I never hurt her,’ he assured Geraldine earnestly. ‘I wanted her to be happy.’
‘I’m sure you did,’ Geraldine said, taking care to keep her tone impassive.
Nigel claimed he had not seen Pansy for at least three weeks, and admitted he used to see her in his car.
‘I saw her once a month or so,’ he added. ‘There or thereabouts. I’d be about due for a visit now.’ He sighed. ‘What am I going to do without her?’
Geraldine didn’t retort that she couldn’t care less what he did, but she was convinced he hadn’t killed Pansy. All the same, she had his phone records checked to confirm when he had last spoken to Pansy to arrange a meeting.
Geraldine’s next interviewee was Pansy’s landlord. She found him at home in a tidy little house off Bootham. Monty Belmont was a corpulent middle-aged man with a jovial smile who could have been anything from thirty to fifty: his exact age difficult to determine on account of his size.
‘Yes, Pansy Banks is a tenant of mine,’ he wheezed, as he sat down in a wide red armchair opposite Geraldine. ‘She’s no problem, not like some, although she dresses like a slut.’
Appreciating the warmth of his home after the freezing temperature outside, Geraldine waited to hear what he would say next.
‘Not that I’m in any position to criticise what other people choose to do with their bodies,’ he added, ruefully patting his huge belly, ‘but she had tattoos you could see halfway up her arse, and a ring through her nose. Why do young women do that?’ he asked, a hint of outrage in his voice. ‘As though they want to look like animals. Still, like I said, I’m not one to criticise. Live and let live, that’s my motto. It’s still a free country. So what brings you here? If you’re looking for accommodation, I might just be able to help you, officer.’ He leaned forward slightly in his chair which creaked under his weight. ‘I had a police officer as a tenant once before and he was no trouble. No trouble at all. A real gent, he was. That’s all I want, a tenant who pays up when the rent is due and doesn’t cause any trouble.’
When Geraldine explained the purpose of her call, Monty sat back and gaped at her.
‘You mean she’s dead?’ he said. ‘But it’s nearly the end of the month. She owes me–’ He broke off, realising his outburst was inappropriate under the circumstances. ‘That is, I’m very sorry to hear the poor girl has died, but I don’t suppose anyone’s going to pay me for the three weeks rent she never paid, are they? She never did set up a direct debit. I had to phone her to remind her every month to let her know the rent was due. Can you believe it? And she was often late with her payments. And now this.’ He shook his head, looking vexed. ‘Gone, without any notice.’
A quick check of Pansy’s phone records seemed to bear out what her landlord had said.
‘You don’t suppose it was all an elaborate charade to put you off the scent?’ Ariadne asked when Geraldine reported her findings.
‘He certainly made it sound as though he was only interested in getting his rent, and he seemed genuinely irked by losing her as a tenant near the end of the month,’ Geraldine replied. ‘Unless he’s a very good actor, I really don’t think he’s our murderer.’
The rest of the team had drawn similar blanks. Having questioned more than twenty people who had been in close contact with the dead woman, they were no closer to finding her killer.
15
A week had passed since the white envelope had been posted through his door. As soon as he read the message, ‘I saw what you did’, Thomas had known exactly what it meant. He still shivered with fear at the thought that Emily might have opened it. They were both pretty careful not to open each other’s mail, but mistakes did happen occasionally. In a way, he supposed the cryptic nature of the message was reassuring. The writer of the note had not wanted to reveal Thomas’s secret to anyone else. If Emily had chanced to open the envelope by mistake, she might
well have been intrigued, but she wouldn’t have had any idea what the message meant. At least he hadn’t faced the problem of trying to explain it to her.
The use of his first name suggested it had been written by someone he knew, but anyone could have looked up his address online and done enough research to discover his name from the electoral role, or even paid a private investigator to find it. With a thrill of fear, it occurred to him that his unknown blackmailer might even be a police officer. He hesitated over destroying the note but, under the circumstances, he could hardly take it to the police. He had hidden the note at the bottom of his toolbox. After some deliberation, he concluded there was only one thing to do. It was the work of a moment to tear the note to shreds, hide the scraps of paper in an empty cereal box in the rubbish bag in the kitchen, and dispose of the bag in the bin outside. No one would find it there.
Before long, the slip of paper would be shredded by the refuse collection lorry, along with the rest of the household waste. The note would be completely obliterated, but there remained the question of who had sent it, and what they had seen. A neighbour peering out of an upstairs window or an unseen passer-by could have witnessed his struggle to drag the body into the back of the van. The anonymous witness had evidently not gone to the police. Not yet. Unless they were planning to blackmail him, he could not imagine the reason for the note, which made no demands and issued no explicit threat. The writer had simply advised him that he had been seen. It was intensely frustrating not being able to confront the writer of the note to find out what they intended to do. He couldn’t even be sure that this was about his guilty secret. In many ways it would be a relief to discover what lay behind the note, and end this uncertainty. In the meantime, he could do nothing but wait.
He assumed he was dealing with a blackmailer. However he thought about it, nothing else made sense. Yet still the writer of the note remained silent. Whoever was behind the message wanted Thomas to speculate about what was going to happen. Presumably once his antagonist was confident that Thomas was in such a state of trepidation that he would agree to absolutely anything, the blackmail would begin. The threat of bankruptcy was less terrifying than the fear of exposure. Agitated though he was, being ignorant of his enemy’s identity rendered him powerless to resist or fight back. He grew increasingly desperate to discover who was behind it.
‘Are you sure you’re all right?’ Emily asked, when she was about to leave for her book club that evening, as she did every Monday. She gazed earnestly at him, her blue eyes solemn. ‘You look a bit pale. I don’t have to go out, you know. I can call Maisie and tell her I’m not going tonight.’
In the week that had passed since the note had been posted through the door, Thomas had been doing his best to conceal his growing anxiety from his wife, but it was difficult. In addition to the need to hide his anxiety, there was the question of money. When the blackmailer issued his demand, Thomas had to have enough cash available to pay his enemy off. Whatever else happened, there must be no trail that could link him to his blackmailer. But he was proceeding in the dark. He didn’t even know whether he would be faced with a demand for money. He tried not to think about what might happen if the blackmailer asked for more than he could afford, although that was quite likely. He wondered how much a stranger might consider it would be worth to him, to keep his guilt a secret. Perhaps he would be expected to sell his house to pay the blackmailer off, and how would he explain that to his wife? He tried to hope for the best, but worry plagued him and he couldn’t sleep. Although he didn’t think he was eating any less, and he was certainly drinking more, his trousers were becoming loose. He was sure Emily had noticed.
Fortunately, he had a pension fund which was worth about ten thousand pounds. He thought he would be able to redeem that without anyone else knowing. One day Emily might learn what he had done, but he would deal with that problem when it arose, if it ever did. For now it seemed to be his only chance of getting his hands on some money swiftly and discreetly. He was sure blackmail was a crime, but he could hardly go to the police, and nor could he afford to ignore what was happening. If only his blackmailer would show himself, or herself, Thomas might be able to convince them that he simply didn’t have any ready money. Admittedly he had a house, but that was already mortgaged to the limit of what he could afford. He would have to persuade his blackmailer that he was asset rich and cash poor. For now, his only course of action was to wait until he was contacted again and then insist that he could only manage to hand over a small amount of cash each month, a sum that Emily wouldn’t even notice. Somehow he was going to have to convince the blackmailer that he couldn’t stump up a significant amount in one payment.
The more he thought about it, the angrier he became, and the firmer his resolve grew not to touch his pension fund. There was no way his blackmailer could know about that, and Thomas was going to make sure things stayed that way. He had worked hard for what little he had and the thought of having to hand it over to a vile stranger made him feel as though he was suffocating. It was so unjust. The prostitute’s death had been an accident. He didn’t deserve to be punished like this. He almost regretted not having gone to the police as soon as the woman had kicked the bucket. He might have been able to convince Emily that her presence in their house was completely innocent. Even if she hadn’t believed that, and he had been forced to come clean, she might have forgiven him eventually, if he had been sufficiently contrite.
‘It was the first time,’ he could have told her. ‘It was awful. We didn’t even do anything. I’ll never be that stupid again.’
But it was too late for that now. A prostitute had died in his house, with no witnesses to confirm what had really happened, and he had been seen moving her body. No one was going to believe he hadn’t killed her now he had covered up the truth.
‘Are you sure you’re all right?’ Emily asked again, still staring at him.
‘Yes, yes, stop pestering me, will you?’ he snapped.
He immediately regretted his outburst. None of this was Emily’s fault. But it wasn’t his fault either. If he had suspected for an instant that stupid tart was going to collapse and die in his hall, he would never have brought her back to the house. Now he was in serious trouble just because of one silly mistake – no more than an error of judgement.
‘Have a good time,’ he told his wife, forcing himself to look and sound relaxed about her outing. ‘What are you reading this time?’
She told him the title and he nodded, not really paying attention as she trotted out a summary of the story. He was wondering which of his neighbours’ windows overlooked his drive at the correct angle for someone looking out to have seen him behind the van, where he had thought he was hidden from view. Another thought struck him. He might have been spotted in the woods as he carried the body through the trees to the clearing. He had wanted to leave it hidden among the trees, ideally propped up in a sitting position against a trunk, but the body had been too difficult to manoeuvre. He had been forced to let it drop to the ground in an open space in the woods.
Frantically he tried to remember whether he had checked carefully to make sure no one was around to observe what he was doing, but he was afraid he had been too wrapped up in the challenge of moving the corpse to be vigilant. He hadn’t been aware of another vehicle following him home from the woods, but he was unused to driving the van and that, combined with his exhaustion and shock, meant he had not been looking out to check if he was being followed. The truth was, a complete stranger might have seen him in the woods, and followed him home to find out where he lived. The note could have been written and delivered by anyone at all, and Thomas had no way of finding out who he was up against. All he knew was that, one way or another, he had to put an end to the situation before anyone else discovered the truth.
16
Once again Ian emptied his pockets of personal possessions before picking up a worn leather wallet containing Archie White�
��s credit card and driving licence which he slipped in his pocket, along with a false set of house keys and a rigged mobile phone, a cheap lighter, a packet of cigarette papers, and a small quantity of weed. He made sure he carried no clues to his real identity apart from a minute tracking device concealed in the waistband of his jeans, and an emergency button on his phone which was programmed to alert his colleagues at the police station if he needed rescuing.
‘Remember to call in every evening so we know you’re still alive,’ Jack said with a lame attempt at sounding lighthearted. ‘And don’t forget to delete the call history straight away. And whatever you do, don’t lose that phone because if we don’t hear from you, we’ll have to come and get you. Good luck.’
Ian took the train to Camden where he strolled along the crowded high street and on through the busy market. He stopped frequently, ostensibly at first to look in shop windows and then to view the wares on display at the stalls: leather boots, T-shirts with skulls and other cult designs, studded bags, Gothic jewellery, and all manner of commercial bric-a-brac purporting to be alternative. In reality, his interest in the goods was as sham as they were. He was stopping only to check that he wasn’t being followed. The market was bustling with people, mostly young, many with tattoos and piercings and coloured hair, shoppers mingling with tourists.
As he walked, Ian kept his hand on his waistband, comforted by his invisible tracker, although if anything kicked off he would have to deal with the danger alone, at least until his colleagues arrived. Having walked around the market a few times and reassured himself that he was not being tailed, he made his way to the club. It was a pleasant walk. The sun was shining and he felt curiously uplifted as he strode along the street, convinced he was embarking on a worthwhile mission. Confident in his own mental and physical agility, he felt like a warrior in days gone by, risking his life to fight for his country and protect the woman he loved. If he succeeded, Geraldine would be able to see her twin sister again, and he and Geraldine would be reconciled.
Deep Cover Page 8
