by Lee Weeks
Totteridge Village bodies found.
‘Morning, my dear . . .’
Nikki de Lange followed his eyes to the TV screen. ‘I see you have heard the news?’
Digger nodded. His eyes were dark but a smile remained.
She looked at him anxiously, her eyes flashing towards the TV screen. She was chewing the inside of her lip like a child.
‘Now, now . . .’ He patted her hand. He looked at the aerial shot of the back garden, the patio and the white crime scene tent. ‘Don’t worry, my dear. Things will be alright. Are you feeling okay? You look pale.’
He was right. She felt nauseous; she had pains in her lower back. She followed Digger’s eyes as they moved from the TV screen to watching the children playing nearby.
‘I’ll be better soon, as soon as it’s over. I was in Sonny’s apartment when a man named Hart let himself in with Sonny’s keys.’
‘I’ve met Hart.’ Digger looked away from her back to the news on the screen. He pretended to watch it but she could see he was giving himself time to think. ‘We need to keep a close eye on Hart.’ He turned back to her. ‘I think he isn’t who he says he is. He walks like a Para. He smells like an ex-policeman. Oh, he covers it well enough with a backstory that reads like a Bond film but it’s not sitting right. I think we should err on the side of caution and kill him. What were your impressions?’
‘A man with ambition.’ She couldn’t hold Digger’s eye contact.
Digger smirked. ‘Do I detect a soft spot for the new man?’
‘I just don’t think we should kill him, yet. We could do with a shake-up. I’m thinking this is my time to break free with your help.’
Her hands were shaking as she lifted her cup to drink. Digger’s hands were rock steady as he sipped his coffee.
‘Yes, you are right, my dear.’ The sound of the children laughing in the play area filled the space between them. Digger’s eyes searched hers. ‘What do you want from me?’
She stared at him, unsure of his meaning and then she shook her head. ‘It’s all business, Digger. It has to be.’
‘You want me to keep an eye on him?’
‘I want you to give him what he needs to do the job we have to do and then I want out of it. I’m not going to stay with him after this trip. This trip will change everything for me.’
‘Of course. I will do anything you ask me to. You know that. You are my god-daughter and I am very fond of you. Back in the days when your father and I were friends we had such marvellous times.’ He looked across at her impassive face and sighed. ‘I remember—’ he began, but she cut him short.
‘No more memories, Digger.’ She smiled. She looked at her watch. ‘I have to go.’
An hour later Nikki de Lange was walking along an underground corridor; she looked up at the pipes above her head. The building above her creaked and hummed with the noise of trolleys and moving beds and nurses’ feet. She stopped at a room on the right and unlocked the door.
‘Hello, did you miss me? Have you been a good boy?’ She stopped just inside the door to cover her hands and arms with antibacterial gel and then walked across to the bed. The room had the smell of lavender. She sprayed it in a room mist. It helped him sleep. It helped him to stay asleep, just like her voice: calming, constant. It told his brain that he needn’t worry; he mustn’t fight it. Three weeks he had been in an induced coma. Nikki walked over to the bed and checked his chart. She flicked a switch controlling the drips into the boy’s neck and wrist and pressed buttons on the monitor at the head of the bed. The boy did not stir. The noise from the ventilator: the bellows breathing was a comforting sound. She bent down to check the catheter bag hooked to the underside of the bed then she peeled back the sheet and gently washed and dried around the electrodes that were stuck to his chest. She cleaned around the entry sites into his body: the neck, the wrist, into his mouth, his nose, his groin. She massaged the muscles in his legs. She looked at his face and sighed. He no longer looked like the boy he was. The drugs had bloated his face and the corrugated ventilating tube going into his mouth had distorted it.
She walked across to the chair, picked up his Arsenal shirt and folded it neatly.
Chapter 32
‘Arsenal shirt,’ said Carter to Ebony as she got back to her desk. ‘Large boy’s. This season. They changed fabric, changed manufacturers this year. Whoever he is he loves his football enough to pay over fifty quid for a shirt.’
‘Could it be Silvia’s?’
‘No, the DNA doesn’t match.’
Carter looked at her face as she sat down. ‘What is it?’ She was just about to tell Carter that she’d seen Carmichael when Robbo burst through the door of the ETO.
‘We got a phone call . . . anonymous tip-off about a body in the Thames. First officer at the scene said he recognized the body . . . it’s Sonny.’
The water was the same colour as the sky – steely grey. In contrast the bright red Ferrari being hoisted by a crane hung like a firework in the winter sky.
Ebony had invested in a sky-blue beanie hat which she pulled down over her ears. As they turned the corner the icy fog lay like a shroud over the water. Divers were getting changed after having fished Sonny’s waterlogged body out of the Thames.
‘Nice motor. Pity it didn’t float,’ said Carter.
Harding looked up from where she knelt on a piece of plastic sheeting next to the body. She looked pale with cold. She had the hangover from hell. She and Mathew had worked late and the inevitable had happened, and when she woke up and saw his face on the pillow she had hated herself marginally more than him.
Carter squatted beside her. ‘Yeah, this is definitely Sonny. This might answer why we couldn’t find him.’ He opened Sonny’s jacket and pulled out a wallet. He passed a driving licence to Ebony. ‘Run this through Robbo, Ebb, and give him the make and licence plate of car . . . see if he can come up with an address for the little mermaid here.’ He turned to Harding. ‘He doesn’t look the suicidal type. Were his keys in the car, do we know?’
‘They weren’t.’
‘Wasn’t robbery . . . plenty of money still in his wallet.’ Carter closed it up again and tucked it back into Sonny’s pocket. ‘How long’s he been in the water, Doc?’
‘About twenty-four hours max.’
‘It’s a dumb question, I know, but was he dead before he drowned?’
He helped her turn the body on its side then roll him onto his front as she lifted his jacket at the back and looked for signs of injury. ‘No obvious bullet or stab wounds.’ Carter helped her roll Sonny onto his back again and she turned his head to look at one side and the other. ‘It looks like he might have had a head injury going into the water. There’s bruising on the side of his head here. Could have banged his head in a panic trying to get out as the car filled up. The bruise hadn’t time to spread: it’s intense. It definitely occurred minutes before death and not hours. There’s a line of four dark circles decreasing in size. Looks a lot like a—’
‘Fist,’ said Carter. ‘So someone banged him unconscious with a hit to the head.’ Carter pointed to the pits and scrapes of missing flesh in Sonny’s face. ‘How did he get these other injuries, Doc?’
‘I would guess when the current dragged through the car. The windows were open. The water would have carried debris with it. The rest we can put down to the local river-life having a few meals on his face.’
The forensic photographer was done. He stood to one side viewing his work on his camera. He nodded to Harding. ‘Got what we need. You can move the body now.’
‘Sarge?’ Ebony had finished talking to Robbo. ‘Car’s traced to Sonny’s mother’s address. They’re sending someone round there now.’
Harding stood, peeled off her gloves. ‘Okay. That’s it for me. I’ll start the autopsy as soon as I get back to the hospital.’ She began walking back up towards her car.
‘Doctor?’ Ebony ran to catch her up. ‘Could we meet up again soon? I need your help with Rose Cotta
ge.’
‘Yes. But not now and not later this evening, I have plans. Come and find me tomorrow.’
Ebony waited for Carter to catch up. He was taking his time. He called her over to take a look at the Ferrari.
‘Interesting choice of slipway this, Ebb. Not many you could get down without a four by four. Not many people know about this one, not the general public anyway.’ They stood watching the red Ferrari as the crane held it a few feet over the slipway; a loader turned up ready to take it. Carter walked across to the man driving the crane.
‘Let’s make sure she’s not holding any more surprises. Set her down on the slipway for me before you load her.’
While they waited for the car to be lowered Ebony turned to Carter:
‘Sarge, I saw Carmichael.’
‘When?’
‘A few hours ago on my way back to the office. He stopped me when I came out of the Tube. Bridget must have told him I visited the farm.’
‘You should have told me straight away, Ebb. ‘
‘I was trying to get a chance, Sarge.’
Carter turned to face her and took a step closer to make sure that in the still damp air his voice didn’t carry as far as the officers around the car.
‘What did he say?’
‘He knows everything we do.’
‘Did he know about Sonny?’
She nodded. ‘He told me that he was a small part of it and not important.’
He gave a nod towards the Ferrari. ‘Obviously someone agreed with him.’
‘He’s going undercover. He says he can infiltrate Sonny’s organization.’
‘Like this? Dead men’s shoes, is it, Ebb? Was this Carmichael’s doing?’
She shook her head. ‘I don’t know, Sarge.’ She’d had a sick feeling that wouldn’t go away, ever since she heard of Sonny’s body being found.
Carter looked away to gather his thoughts. ‘You know if we tell Davidson that we have the slightest inkling this could be Carmichael’s work then he’ll arrest him.’ She nodded. ‘Did he say anything that might tell you what his plans are, where he’s staying?’ She shook her head. ‘After all this time he can get in undercover? Shit. I take my hat off to him, Ebb. He must have had some very clever help. Or he must be taking an incredible gamble.’ Carter looked across at her and smiled reassuringly. ‘Okay. The main thing is he trusts you, Ebb. There’s nothing to really tell Davidson. We didn’t learn anything from him that’s new. But we did get closer to him and that’s a good start and it will do for now. But next time you tell me as soon as something happens, okay?’
She nodded.
‘Start trusting, Ebb. You’re not a one-man band. We’re a team.’
Chapter 33
That evening Jo Harding waited for the young Irish barman from Cork to come back her way.
He’d stopped to chat with a couple of girls who were on a Friday night out. Harding tapped her new nails against the side of her glass. He glanced her way and then back at the girls, his elbow on the bar, his smile fixed. Even as he sauntered over he kept glancing back to the girls to make sure they were checking out his rear view.
Harding was irritated: who the fuck did he think he was, keeping her waiting? She pushed the glass towards him. ‘Same again.’ He smiled at her, not open-mouthed, not full like he did to the girls at the other end of the bar. He smirked almost. Fuck him . . . she would remember not to suck his cock the next time she took him home. She was aware of someone standing next to her. She turned to see the good-looking face of James Martingale.
‘Hello, beautiful . . . as lovely as ever.’ He leant in to kiss her.
‘Good to see you, James.’ Harding smiled. He was still the charmer. Seldom did she see the charm offensive aimed at her but now she felt its full impact.
Fucking men . . . how come they get better-looking as they get older? Martingale definitely had, she thought. He had that confidence that says, I will be great in the bedroom; I have studied every book written about how to bring a woman to orgasm.
The barman left the girls and came over. He looked suitably impressed by Martingale, who cut a very distinguished moneyed look.
‘Yes, sir?’
‘A Manhattan, and put my lovely companion’s on my tab.’
He turned to Harding. ‘Let’s move to a table.’ He picked up her drink and turned to the waiter: ‘Have my drink brought up.’ Then he led the way upstairs to the restaurant.
After they had ordered he sat back and smiled at her. ‘What’s it been – three years? You look younger than ever. You had some work I don’t know about? I need to know who the surgeon is if so. I need to congratulate him.’
‘That’s a backhanded compliment if ever I heard one but I think I should thank you. No work, and no chance I actually look as good as you’re implying.’
He smiled and reached over to touch her hand. ‘It’s good to see you. I hope it wasn’t a problem to tear yourself away tonight.’
‘How could I turn down an invite from the mighty James Martingale . . . I’m honoured.’
‘Please . . . and it’s not as if we don’t know one another.’
She laughed. ‘Is there something I don’t remember? I apologize if that’s so. Obviously I wasn’t that bad if you’ve come back for more, even if you did leave me waiting three years.’
Martingale laughed. ‘No, don’t worry. I am far too much of a gentleman to take advantage of a woman who has drunk too much. Plus . . . it’s too boring. I like the challenge of seduction. I like to know I’ve earned it.’
‘Is this what this is? A lesson in seduction?’
He sat back and allowed the waiter to unfold his napkin onto his lap. He smiled at the waiter, made eye contact. ‘Perhaps.’ He looked back at her. ‘You didn’t get married again? Last time I saw you were in the middle of a divorce.’
‘Yes . . . a bad place to be.’ She rolled her eyes.
‘Happens to us all. You didn’t remarry?’
‘You must be joking. I’ve tried it twice. Both times I’ve managed to screw it up.’
‘Never blame yourself . . . that’s always my motto. Besides, some of us aren’t meant to be monogamous.’
‘Faithful, you mean?’ She laughed.
‘Call it what you will. Did you stay friends with them?’
‘My last one I see sometimes for a drink. He’s a criminology lecturer here in London. I don’t see much of the first one, Simon, unless I see him at one of your dinners. He still works for the Mansfield Group, I take it?’
‘Yes. Simon is one of our originals. He’s got to be one of our highest paid surgeons. He’s the housewives’ favourite. Does all breast implants now.’
‘Always thought he was a tit. I should have had a better settlement.’
Martingale laughed. ‘You’re a funny lady. We’re the same types, you and I. We are demanding of ourselves and others. It’s not always easy to live with unless you’re the same type . . . cheers.’ They clinked freshly filled glasses. ‘On the subject of work . . . you will tell me if you are in need of any more equipment in your laboratory. You know I’m always happy to write off a bit more tax for a good cause. Also . . . I wanted to ask you whether you knew anything you could tell me about the new lead in my daughter’s case?’ Harding now knew why the dinner invite; why the sudden interest after three years of not so much as an email. ‘I had a visit from two police officers; they told me about the recent murders in Totteridge. They wouldn’t tell me much more than the fact they are somehow forensically linked to my daughter’s death. Is there anything more you can tell me? I don’t want to get my hopes up.’
‘I can tell you – it’s all in the early stages. Yes, we did find a link.’
‘The fingerprint? Sergeant Carter told me. It can’t have been my late wife Maria then? I always thought Maria could have done it . . . she went quite mad.’
Harding was nodding; she had her most sympathetic expression on her face. She felt awkward.
‘No . . . she can’t
have done it. Is that a relief?’
‘Yes it is. It really is. It’s haunted me all these years. How I might have contributed to her madness by rejecting her. How I should have tried for a better relationship with Chrissie. But . . . it leaves a massive question over the whole investigation, doesn’t it? What’s happening now?’
‘We’re looking into the case again, under a new light, new team. We’re hoping we solve this new case at Totteridge and then we’ll catch whoever murdered your daughter.’
‘After all this time?’
‘Yes. We don’t know why they’ve come back. Sorry. It still hurts: I can see. But there is a real chance of catching them this time.’
‘No need to apologize. Of course it still hurts. It will always hurt. In my darkest moments I feel somehow responsible: something I did, something I didn’t do. I failed my daughter, that’s for certain.’
‘Since her death you’ve given life and hope to so many people through her foundation.’
‘Yes. I hope so.’ He reached over and covered her hand with his. ‘I am hugely reassured that you are part of the new investigation. Please will you keep me informed.’
‘Of course.’
‘I just want to be kept up to date, discreetly; in private, without the world and his brother watching. I don’t want policemen knocking on my door. I don’t want the press hounding me. But I will never mind a late-night call from a beautiful pathologist to talk shop or sex or the state of the universe . . .’
He picked up his glass and drank his wine and poured them another. The bottle was nearly gone. He called the waiter over. ‘Another one.’
Five minutes later the waiter returned to apologize. ‘Sorry, sir, that was our last one.’
‘What? For Christ’s sake . . . what kind of service is that? Where’s the manager?’ The waiter hurried off. Martingale looked across and shook his head. ‘I’m sorry. It just pisses me off. Hate incompetence.’
The waiter returned, anxious to please. ‘Sorry, sir. I do apologize. We have another bottle, considered to be a superior vintage. I will bring you that one at the same charge.’
