Mirror Man

by McIntosh, Fiona

  ‘What the hell?’ she finally murmured. ‘Killed!’ she spoke to the empty room with disbelief.

  DS Helm chose that moment to tap and open the door a chink. ‘How are you getting on, ma’am? Can I get you anything else?’

  ‘Does a DC Farrow still work out of this police station?’

  ‘Not to my knowledge. Could be before my time he worked here.’

  ‘It’s a she,’ Kate corrected gently. ‘What about someone called Phil Brown . . . the reception officer?’

  He looked pleased that he could assist. ‘Phil’s still here, ma’am. He’s on his break.’

  ‘Could you ask him to give me a minute when he gets a chance?’ She was glad she could still sound polite, because she wanted to growl at everyone in this police station. She was sensing a massive oversight. ‘I’ll wait, thank you.’

  He nodded and she reached for her mobile phone, dialling Jack without hesitation.

  ‘Hawskworth,’ he answered.

  ‘It’s me, sir.’ Horrible pause. ‘I’m . . . er, I’m at Hornsey Police Station.’

  She wondered if he was frowning but he immediately replied, reminding her he had a mind like an efficient filing cabinet when it came to cases. ‘Peggy Markham?’

  ‘Exactly. I’ve found something.’

  There was a pause and she let it hang. ‘Are you going to tell me it wasn’t suicide?’

  ‘There’s a witness statement here that attests to watching a murder take place in Finsbury Park.’

  ‘Bugger me!’ She heard Joan distantly claiming he owed a coin. ‘How come it . . . actually, don’t bother explaining now – you’ll need to brief us all shortly. What’s next?’

  ‘I’m going to talk to the officer who was on the desk that night and I also need to hunt down Detective Constable Lisa Farrow. She took the witness statement.’

  ‘I’ll sort that and have her call you.’

  She heard voices. ‘Sorry, am I interrupting?’

  ‘No, I’ve got a few of us at the North London Crown Court.’

  ‘Anything?’

  ‘Not yet, early days.’

  ‘Well, good luck. Oh and, er, Jack . . .’

  ‘It’s all right,’ he said, obviously guessing where her next words were headed.

  ‘No, it’s not. I was so far out of order, I’m disgusted with myself. I want to apologise on a personal level as a friend, but more importantly as a fellow officer. I had no business questioning your intent. I’m truly appalled. I can barely face coming back.’

  ‘We need you back,’ he said, and she was reminded of Geoff’s insight about Jack’s endless grace. ‘You’re forgiven,’ he said. ‘Talk soon.’ He clicked off before she could say more, his mellow voice with that slightly gritty hitch in it still echoing. Typical Jack. She couldn’t tell from that easy charm over the phone whether his forgiveness ran deep or whether the damage was permanent.

  There was a knock at the door again and this time it was an older officer. ‘I’m Phil Brown, the reception officer. Jim Helm said you wished to see me, ma’am?’

  She pushed through the warmest of smiles, needing this fellow to cooperate and not feel cornered. ‘Oh, thanks – I know you’re very busy.’ She stood. ‘DI Kate Carter . . . Kate,’ she offered as well as a handshake.

  His brow wrinkled. ‘Jim said something about the Peggy Markham case.’

  ‘Yes.’ Kate sighed and explained again about dotting i’s and crossing t’s, keeping it light, making it sound tedious again. ‘Do you mind if I get your take on that evening? I can see from the file that you were on reception that night.’

  ‘Not on the night of her death, I wasn’t,’ he said. ‘The only reason my name is in that file is because a local fellow, a rough sleeper called Bernie Beaton, staggered in one night on my shift and claimed to have witnessed her death a couple of days previously.’

  She nodded encouragingly. ‘His statement claims she was murdered.’

  He shook his head, looking weary. ‘Yeah, that’s Bernie. He was well known to us at Hornsey as a schizo and a druggie; barely knew what day it was.’

  ‘Ah,’ she said, understanding the police attitude now. ‘So he could have been lying, is that what you mean?’

  ‘Not lying. Bernie’s a nice enough fellow. Harmless. But he has episodes, you know? There are times when he’s been delusional, believes wholly in whatever Bernie’s World is showing him.’

  She frowned and nodded. ‘So where is Mr Beaton now?’

  Phil shrugged. ‘As far as I know he’s found some proper accommodation, but not around here. Er, hang on,’ he said, stopping another officer who was passing. ‘Hey, Bill, whatever happened to Bernie Beaton?’

  ‘Didn’t we hear he’d left London, gone south?’

  Phil looked back at Kate. ‘I’m sure we can find out more if . . .’

  ‘No, that’s okay, thank you. You’ve all been helpful.’

  ‘You can dot your i’s and cross your t’s now,’ he offered.

  ‘Hope so.’ She stood. ‘Thanks again for letting me look through this file.’

  ‘You’re welcome. Pleased to assist.’

  They shook hands, Phil with finality, and Kate, unbeknown to him, with a handshake that said I’m just getting started.

  18

  Jack clicked off from Kate. He wasn’t angry with her so much as disappointed . . . in both of them. She’d let him down by revealing that she hadn’t managed to stare down the monster who seemed to lurk in the corner each time they were together. After their dinner, he’d felt elated that maybe she had moved past whatever quirk lived within to keep some tiny light on in her heart for him. He had told her previously that they were colleagues and they were friends and he wanted it no other way, but he despised that being friendly with Kate only seemed to make it worse for her. She was a fine officer, destined for greater things within the Met, but no matter what he did it appeared he compromised her. He couldn’t have Kate feeling awkward around him.

  He put his phone away distractedly as Mal nudged him. ‘Here come two of the clerks of the court. They’re the ones available right now.’

  Jack nodded. As they arrived, he smiled and introduced the team to the clerks. ‘Detective Superintendent Hawksworth, Detective Inspector Khan, Detective Sergeant Jones and Constable Johnson. We’re sorry to interrupt your day.’

  The two clerks made pleasant sighing noises that this was not a problem.

  ‘I welcome the change,’ the thin middle-aged woman called Shirley Attlee said, smiling.

  Her colleague, Brian Jarvis, agreed. He was probably around the same age in his early fifties, with a genial smile that touched his eyes. ‘If you had to sit through the session that I did this morning, chatting with you gentlemen and ladies is a pleasure,’ he said. ‘Shirley, why don’t we go to the canteen?’

  ‘Ooh, yes. In fact’ — she checked her watch — ‘let’s have an early lunch, shall we? Do you mind, Superintendent Hawksworth, if we eat? We’ve both got long afternoons ahead.’

  ‘Not at all,’ he replied.

  ‘I can assure you they do a marvellous bacon sandwich here.’ Jack watched Brian look instantly horrified. ‘Oh, my apologies, DI Khan. I hope I haven’t offended you?’

  Mal laughed. ‘No, Mr Jarvis, I’m a lapsed everything. You have no need to fret on my behalf.’

  Brian placed a hand over his heart with relief and won a look of admonishment from Shirley. ‘Thank you. Here, it’s this way . . .’

  Jack brought up the rear, his thoughts still teasing at his waspish conversation with Kate; he hadn’t fully finalised his thoughts but his disappointment in himself still niggled. While Kate had no business saying what she had, she’d obviously hit on something to make him lose his cool. And he rarely lost his cool. The private truth was that there was something about Lauren that had got beneath his defences. He wanted to help her escape My Day; hated that someone clearly fun, talented and intelligent had fallen for someone who had treated her hideously. He imagined she’d
been on a sharp trajectory in her career, and to see her moving around in the gutter, having to trick her way through rebuilding it, was not right – not if a word in the right ear could help her. So, yes, Kate might not have read his intentions correctly, but she’d hit her mark that Jack was still playing Sir Lancelot to damsels in distress.

  Sarah cleared her throat.

  He blinked back to the present. ‘Sorry?’

  Shirley smiled. ‘I was wondering if our conversation might be confidential, in which case, I would suggest we sit in that far corner beneath the windows.’

  Jack nodded. ‘I agree. We probably should take precautions.’

  Jack had expected a swanky café for all these lawyers, but a canteen was truly the only way to describe it, he realised as he regarded the chequered lino floor with a curious wine red and faded black that now just looked blue-ish. This was teamed with strange charcoal and canary-yellow table arrangements of hard plastic and melamine with narrow timber tops. The weirdly high ceilings perhaps spoke of its original use as a Masonic Institute for schooling the young of Freemasons, especially with the heavy timber beams and the odd circular window at the apex that looked like a ship’s wheel. Adding to the confusion were cherub pink and white paper Chinese lanterns hanging six feet from the ceiling.

  ‘Over here?’ Shirley offered, oblivious to his offence.

  ‘That would be fine,’ he agreed. At least at one end of the room was a traditional canteen where chips and toasties, pots of steaming tea and terrible coffee were being made. Plenty of men and women from the legal fraternity, wigs off and at their sides, stared at phones or at laptops, unmoved by the room’s clashing horror, plus he noted all the men were eating bacon sandwiches. ‘And please, let Scotland Yard buy your lunch for giving us your time.’

  Brian and Shirley looked at each other, surprised. ‘Are you sure?’ Brian asked. ‘Shirley here can eat a lot.’

  She poked him. ‘Oh, you rogue! But Brian’s right; you don’t have to. We’re both very pleased to help, as any of the clerks here would be.’

  ‘It’s my pleasure. Make yourselves comfy.’ He withdrew a credit card and handed it to the constable. Sandwiches and tea were chosen from the sparse menu and PC Johnson left to place the order.

  ‘Before I forget,’ Brian said, ‘I believe the clerks of the court for numbers six and eleven will be available in about twenty minutes,’ he offered, glancing at his watch.

  Jack nodded. ‘Mal, take Ali and perhaps go and meet . . .’ He looked at his list. ‘Hugh Pettigrew shortly and . . .’

  ‘John Fraser,’ Shirley answered for him.

  Mal nodded and joined his constable at the counter, leaving the two clerks to return their attention to Jack and Sarah. Jack took their measure. They were like a sweet couple of opposites who had attracted. Shirley Attlee was rake thin, with glasses she could take on and off easily because they hung from a gold chain around her neck. She wore neatly applied mascara, eyeliner and rouge brushed lightly and high on her cheeks, with a rich red lipstick that younger women might think twice about applying.

  Her colleague was like a dormouse in comparison. He wore dun brown trousers and varying shades of beige to go with them. He was of average height, with a long body but short legs, and his garments seemed too big for him, as though he’d been much plumper at some stage and hadn’t updated his wardrobe. Smiling eyes looked back at Jack through owlish glasses that hooked behind equally large ears, where tufts of gingery hair needed a trim. Jack could see daylight through what was left of his once full head of hair. He wasn’t fooled by his mild appearance though; he knew only too well the power of these people once they were robed and managing their courtroom responsibilities.

  ‘Let me explain what this is all about,’ Jack began, realising they were used to being patient and listening. He told them everything he could – which wasn’t much – and watched their eyes grow bigger, their expressions more concerned and then their frowns deepen to straight-out shock when he finished with: ‘and we’ve narrowed down all the original crimes as being tried in North London Crown Court.’

  ‘Good grief,’ Brian exclaimed, glancing at Shirley, whose hand was now placed across her chest in surprise.

  ‘I understand this is a shock.’

  They both looked back at him, confused. It was Brian who led. ‘So you are talking to all of the clerks with a view to finding out . . . what? How can we help?’

  ‘Not just the clerks of the court, Mr Jarvis, but all the administrative people too. We’ve begun with the clerks because we respect your knowledge of your courts.’

  ‘Judges?’ Shirley asked, glancing again at Brian as though they were tiptoeing into hallowed territory. ‘That could be tricky.’

  ‘Leland’s the one to consider talking to first, perhaps?’ Brian mused.

  ‘Why do you say that?’ Jack asked.

  ‘Brian’s right,’ Shirley said. ‘Judge Leland is notoriously lenient. All very precise and within the letter of the law, mind.’

  ‘Just errs on the side of less rather than more,’ Brian explained.

  The first of the bacon sandwiches arrived and the smell distracted everyone.

  ‘DS Jones, I hope you don’t mind me mentioning this,’ Jarvis said, as he offered her the tomato ketchup, ‘but you remind me a lot of my daughter.’ He smiled.

  ‘Do I?’

  He nodded. ‘Uncannily so.’

  ‘What does your daughter do?’

  ‘Well, she used to be a psychologist but she gave that up to be a full-time mother. A very good one, I might add.’

  ‘How many grandchildren?’ Sarah asked.

  ‘She gave me two beauties.’ He grinned, and Jack noted the softly indulgent smile that Shirley passed his way. It briefly flickered in his mind that these two might be an item but that was of no concern to him.

  All munching happily, Jack led them back to the matter at hand. ‘In terms of the public gallery, are there any regulars?’

  ‘Yes,’ they both replied at the same time, laughing in a way that only close friends did. Jarvis dabbed at his lips politely with a paper serviette. ‘Mmm, we do. All the courts would have regulars.’

  ‘Really?’ Jack frowned.

  ‘It varies, of course,’ Shirley explained. ‘Some cases are more interesting than others and can attract media, some have more family members who attend each sitting . . .’ She shrugged.

  ‘And then there are those for whom the courtroom itself becomes a favourite, but I can’t tell you why. That’s the quirk of why they are the regulars,’ Jarvis remarked.

  ‘Can you give us an example, Mr Jarvis?’ Sarah asked.

  ‘Well, there’s a fellow called Horace Pickering . . . Horrie, we know him as. He’s about – oh, what would you say, Shirley?’

  She shook her head. ‘About seventy, wouldn’t you think?’

  ‘At least. Horrie’s been coming to my courtroom – that’s number seven – and number twelve for at least the last decade. Don’t ask me why just those two courts.’

  ‘So it’s not about the cases themselves?’

  ‘Well, yes, he’s very interested in them, but it wouldn’t matter to Horrie whether we were on trial for a murder or for embezzling funds. He’s interested in every case, but he’s mostly interested in sitting at the far end of the public gallery and woe betide anyone who gets to his seat before him.’

  ‘What happens if someone does?’ Sarah wondered, intrigued.

  ‘Well, the first time it occurred, there was shouting. The second time, about a year later, an actual scuffle broke out. Horrie’s older, wiser now, since we told him if he creates a problem for a third time he’ll be barred from both courtrooms.’

  ‘How would you describe Horrie’s disposition?’ Jack asked, although he didn’t think this fellow of seventy was their man.

  ‘I would say he is obsessive. He makes endless notes about cases he has no link to or knowledge about, and he has plenty of conspiracy theories he likes to share. I’ve never
seen him order anything in the café but a cheese and ham toastie plus Horlicks . . . always the same, no matter the season. And he reads the same book while he eats – the same book, cover to cover, and has done for years.’ Jarvis shrugged with a look of sympathy. ‘I think he’s single . . . Do I think he’s dangerous, though – I presume that’s where our conversation is headed?’

  Jack nodded.

  ‘No, he created the scuffle by trying to take the fellow’s place when he stood up to stretch during a break in proceedings. There were no punches flung around. I wouldn’t ever think of Horrie as violent, just intense and locked into his mind, his needs, his rituals.’

  ‘And what about you, Shirley?’

  ‘Oh, plenty of regulars but they’re all locals, seniors, coming in from the cold, nothing much better to do and a chance to catch up in the canteen.’

  ‘Anyone can come in here?’ Sarah wondered.

  ‘Yes, it’s open to the public,’ Brian said.

  ‘Any other regulars, Mr Jarvis, who might seem a little “off” to you?’

  ‘Off?’ he repeated, as if considering what that implied. ‘Well, I suppose there was one chappie who was coming regularly but I haven’t seen him for . . . ooh, now, it has to be six, maybe seven months. Much younger, not the sort coming in from the cold; he did pay attention and he was one of those people who never missed sentencing, I remember that.’

  Jack and Sarah sat forward. ‘Would you know his name, Mr Jarvis?’

  He shook his head. ‘No,’ he gusted, as though it were a silly question. ‘I have no contact with the public as such. I’m sure you’ve attended court and understand that the public gallery is like being at the theatre. The players are on the stage and seemingly oblivious to the audience.’ He made the sign of inverted commas in the air. ‘We try not to break the fourth wall.’

  ‘But you notice them, Mr Jarvis?’ Sarah asked.

  ‘I do. I’m sure Shirley and every other clerk of the court subconsciously makes a mental note of who is in the gallery.’

  Shirley nodded. ‘Yes, I’m aware who is in, of course, but I pay them no heed when the court is in session, just as Brian says. We simply can’t risk involving the public.’