With No One As Witness

by Elizabeth George

  In the kiosk, the officer waved him through, his mouth opening to speak. Lynley nodded to him and drove on, descending to the carpark, where he left the Bentley and stood for a moment in the dim light, trying to breathe because it felt to him as if he’d been holding air in his lungs since he’d left the hospital, left his sister, returned the accusing tabloid to her hands.

  He made for the lift. What was wanted was Tower Block, that aerie from which the sight of the trees in St. James’s Park marked the changing of the seasons. He made his way there. He saw faces emerge as if from a mist, and voices spoke, but he wasn’t able to make out the words.

  When he reached AC Hillier’s office, the assistant commissioner’s secretary blocked his path to the door. Judi MacIntosh said, “Superintendent…,” in her most officious voice and then apparently read something or understood something for the first time because she altered to, “Tommy, my dear,” in a tone so rich with compassion that he could hardly bear it. “You don’t belong here. Go back to the hospital.”

  “Is he in there?”

  “Yes. But—”

  “Then step aside please.”

  “Tommy, I don’t want to have to ring for anyone.”

  “Then don’t. Judi, step aside.”

  “Let me at least tell him.” She made a move for her desk when any sensible woman would have simply charged into Hillier’s office ahead of him. But she did things by the book, which was her downfall because with the path unblocked, he accessed the door and let himself in, shutting it behind him.

  Hillier was on the phone. He was saying, “…many so far?…Good. I want the stops pulled out…Bloody right it’s to be a special task force. No one strikes at a cop—” And then he saw Lynley. He said into the phone, “I’ll get back to you. Carry on.”

  He rang off and stood. He came round the desk. “How is she?”

  Lynley didn’t respond. He felt his heart slamming against his ribs.

  Hillier gestured to the phone. “That was Belgravia. They’re getting volunteers—these’re men off duty, on rota, whatever—from all over town. Asking to be assigned to the case. They’ve a task force in place. It’s top priority. They went into action late yesterday afternoon.”

  “It doesn’t matter.”

  “What? Sit down. Here. I’m getting you a drink. Have you slept? Eaten?” Hillier went for the phone. He punched in a number and said he wanted sandwiches, coffee, and no it didn’t matter what kind, just get it to his office as soon as possible. Fetch the coffee first. And to Lynley again, “How is she?”

  “She’s brain dead.” The first time he’d actually said the words. “Helen is brain dead. My wife is brain dead.”

  Hillier’s face went slack. “But I was told a chest wound…How is that possible?”

  Lynley recited the details, finding that he needed and wanted the pain of telling them one by one. “The wound was small. They didn’t see at first that—” No. There was a better way to say it all. “The bullet went through an artery. Then through parts of her heart. I don’t know the order, the actual path of it, but I expect you get the general idea.”

  “Don’t—”

  Oh, he would. He would. “But,” he said forcefully, “her heart was still beating at this point, so her chest began to fill with blood. But they didn’t know that in the ambulance, you see. Everything took them too long. So when they finally got her to hospital, she had no pulse, she had no blood pressure. They put a tube down her throat and they shoved another into her chest and that’s when the blood started coming out of her—pouring out—so they knew, you see, at that point they knew.” When he breathed, he could hear it grinding into his lungs and he knew Hillier could hear it as well. And he hated that fact for what it revealed, and for how it could be used against him.

  Hillier said, “Sit down. Please. You need to sit down.”

  Not that, he thought. Never that. He said, “I asked what they did for her in Casualty. Well, one would ask that, don’t you agree? They told me they opened her up right there and saw one of the holes the bullet had made. The doctor actually stuck his finger in it to stop the flow of blood, if you can picture that, and I wanted to be able to picture it because I had to know, you see. I had to understand because if she was breathing even shallowly…But they said the blood flow was inadequate to her brain. And by the time they controlled it…Oh, she’s breathing now on the machine and her heart’s back to beating, but her brain…Helen’s brain is dead.”

  “God in heaven.” Hillier went to the conference table. He pulled out a chair and indicated he meant Lynley to sit. “I’m so sorry, Thomas.”

  Not his name, he thought. He could not bear his name. He said, “He found us, you see. You understand that, yes? Her. Helen. He found her. He found her. You see that. You know how it happened, don’t you?”

  “What do you mean? What are you talking—”

  “I’m talking about the story, sir. I’m talking about your embedded journalist. I’m talking about putting lives into the hands—”

  “Don’t.” Hillier raised his voice. It didn’t seem like something done in anger, though, rather in desperation. A last-ditch effort to stem a tide he could not stop from rising.

  “He phoned me after that story appeared. He mentioned her. We gave him a key, a map, whatever, and he found my wife.”

  “That’s impossible,” Hillier said. “I read the story myself. There was no way he could have—”

  “There were a dozen ways.” His own voice was louder now, his anger fueled by the other’s denial. “The moment you started playing with the press, you created ways. Television, tabloids, radio, broadsheets. You and Deacon—the two of you—thought you could use the media like two crafty politicians, and see where it’s brought us. See where it’s brought us!”

  Hillier held up both his hands, palms out: the universal sign to stop. He said, “Thomas. Tommy. This isn’t—” He stopped. He looked towards the door and Lynley could almost read the question in his mind: Where is that bloody coffee? Where are the sandwiches? Where is a useful distraction, for God’s sake, because I have a madman in my office. He said, “I don’t want to argue with you. You need to be at the hospital. You need to be with your family. You need your family—”

  “I have no God damn family!” Finally the weir gave way. “She’s dead. And the baby…The baby…They want her on machines for at least two months. More if possible. Do you understand? Not alive, not dead, with the rest of us watching…And you…God damn you. You’ve brought us to this. And there is no way—”

  “Stop. Stop. You’re mad with grief. Don’t do and don’t say…Because you’ll regret—”

  “What the hell else do I have to regret?” His voice broke horribly and he hated the breaking and what it revealed about how he had been reduced. Man no longer, but something like an earthworm exposed to salt and to sun and writhing, writhing, because this was the end this was surely the end and he hadn’t expected…

  There was nothing for it but to lunge for Hillier. To reach him, to grab him, to force him…somewhere…

  Strong arms caught him. From behind, these were, so it wasn’t Hillier. He heard a voice in his ear.

  “Oh Jesus, man. You got to get away. You got to come with me. Easy, man. Easy.”

  Winston Nkata, he thought. Where had he come from? Had he been there all along, unnoticed?

  “Take him away.” It was Hillier speaking, Hillier with a handkerchief to his face, held by a hand that was shaking.

  Lynley looked at the detective sergeant. Nkata seemed to be behind a shimmering veil. But even then, Lynley could still see his face in the moment before his arms went round him.

  “Come with me, guv,” Winston murmured in his ear. “You come with me now.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  IT WAS LATE IN THE AFTERNOON BY THE TIME ULRIKE decided the next approach she wanted to take, having learned from her encounter in Bermondsey with Jack Veness’s aunt that prevarication wasn’t going to serve her purpose. She beg
an with the list of dates she’d got earlier from New Scotland Yard. She took this list and fashioned a multicolumn document from it, using the dates, the victims’ names, and the names of the police’s potential suspects as the columns and the rows. She allowed herself plenty of space to fill in any pertinent fact that came to light about everyone who looked questionable to her.

  10 September, she wrote first. Anton Reid.

  20 October came after that. Jared Salvatore.

  25 November was next. Dennis Butcher. And then more quickly,

  10 December, Kimmo Thorne.

  18 December, Sean Lavery.

  8 January, Davey Benton, who was—she thanked God—not one of theirs. Nor, if it came down to it, was the detective superintendent’s wife, and that had to mean something, didn’t it?

  But just supposing what it meant was a killer moving further afield because the heat was too much at Colossus. That was highly possible, and she couldn’t discount it because to discount it—to anyone—could be construed as an attempt to direct suspicion elsewhere. Which was what she wanted to do, of course. But not while looking as if she was doing it.

  She realised it had been completely ludicrous to pretend she was interviewing Mary Alice Atkins-Ward in order to see if Jack Veness was ready to be promoted to a more responsible position with Colossus. She couldn’t think how she’d actually come up with such a plan, and she certainly understood why Miss A-W had seen through it. So now she was going to opt for the direct approach, one that had to begin with Neil Greenham, the only individual who’d called in a solicitor, cavalrylike, with the Indians looming. She decided to accost Neil in his classroom, a glance at the clock telling her he’d still be there giving kids the individual help for which he was noted.

  He was having a tête-à-tête with a black boy whose name escaped her for the moment. She frowned as she watched and heard Neil say something about the boy’s attendance. Mark, he called him.

  Mark Connor, she thought. He’d come to them via Youth Offenders in Lambeth, perpetrator of a common street mugging gone wrong when he pushed an old lady and she fell, breaking her hip. Just the sort of kid Colossus was designed to save.

  Ulrike watched as Neil put a hand on the boy’s slender shoulder. She saw Mark flinch. She went immediately on the alert.

  She said, “Neil, could I have a word?,” and took note of how he then reacted. She was looking for any sign that she could interpret, but he appeared careful not to give her one.

  He said, “Let me finish up here. I’ll be along directly. Your office?”

  “That’s fine.” She’d have preferred to have him here in his own environment, but her office would do. She went on her way.

  He turned up exactly fifteen minutes later, cup of tea in hand. He said, “I didn’t think to ask you if you wanted…?” and gestured with the cup to indicate his offer.

  This seemed to signal a truce between them. She said, “That’s fine, Neil. I don’t want any. Thanks. Come in and sit down, won’t you?”

  As he sat, she got up and closed the door. When she returned to her desk, he lifted an eyebrow. “Special treatment?” he asked, with a soundless sip of Darjeeling or whatever it was. It would be soundless, naturally. Neil Greenham was not the sort of bloke who slurped. “Should I be flattered or warned by the sudden attention?”

  Ulrike ignored this. She’d thought about an entrée to the conversation she needed to have with Neil, and she decided she had to keep the goal in mind no matter where she began. That goal was cooperation. The time for stonewalling had long since passed.

  She said, “It’s time we talked, Neil. We’re getting close to the moment when we open the North London branch of Colossus. You know that, don’t you?”

  “Hard not to know it.” He looked at her steadily over the rim of his cup. His eyes were blue. There was a suggestion of ice about them that she had not noticed before.

  “We’ll be wanting someone who’s already in the organisation to head that branch. D’you know that as well?”

  He shrugged noncommittally. “That makes sense,” he said. “Not much learning curve involved for someone who already works here, right?”

  “There’s that, and it’s a compelling reason. But there’s loyalty as well.”

  “Loyalty.” Not a question, but a statement. He made it in a reflective tone.

  “Yes. Obviously, we’ll be looking for someone whose first loyalty is to Colossus. It has to be that way. We’ve enemies out there, and meeting them head-on requires not only perspicacity but the spirit of a warrior. You know what I mean, I daresay.”

  He took his time before replying, lifting his tea and having a thoughtful—and silent—sip. He said, “As it happens, I don’t.”

  “What?”

  “Know what you mean. Not that perspicacity’s beyond my ability to comprehend, mind you. It’s the spirit of a warrior bit that has me confused.”

  She gave a gentle laugh, of the self-directed kind. “Sorry. I was thinking of the image of the warrior leaving home—wife and kids behind him—and setting off to do battle. That willingness of the warrior to set the personal to one side when a battle has to be fought. The needs of Colossus in North London will have to come first to its director.”

  “And in South London?” Neil inquired.

  “What?”

  “What about the needs of Colossus in South London, Ulrike?”

  “The North London director isn’t going to be responsible—”

  “That’s not actually what I meant. I was just wondering if the way South London Colossus is being run is a model for how North London ought to work.”

  Ulrike gazed at him. He looked mild enough. Neil always had seemed a bit fuzzy round the edges, but now she had the distinct sensation of flint beneath the soft, boyish surface. And not just the flint of the anger problem that had cost him his erstwhile teaching job, but something else. She said, “Why don’t you speak a bit more directly?”

  “I didn’t know I wasn’t,” Neil said. “Sorry. I guess what I’m saying is that it seems a little hypocritical, all this.”

  “All what?”

  “All this talk about loyalty and Colossus first. I’m…” He hesitated, but Ulrike knew the pause was for effect. “In other circumstances I’d be delighted to be having this confab with you. I’d even flatter myself by concluding that you’re considering recommending me to head the North London branch when it opens.”

  “I thought I did imply—”

  “But the loyalty to Colossus bit rather gives you away. Your own loyalty hasn’t exactly been impeccable, has it?”

  She knew he was waiting for her to ask him to clarify his statement and she wasn’t about to give him that pleasure. She said, “Neil, everyone has a moment now and again when they’re distracted from their primary concern. No one at any level of administration expects anyone else to have tunnel vision in the loyalty department.”

  “Which is good for you, I expect. Your own secondary concerns being what they are.”

  “I beg your pardon?” She wanted to grab the question back the instant she said it, but it was too late because he snatched it up like a fisherman netting a hooked trout.

  “Discretion is as discretion does. Which is to say that sometimes discretion doesn’t at all. Doesn’t do, I mean. Or perhaps ‘doesn’t work’ is a better way of putting it. It’s one of those ‘best-laid plans of mice and men’ kind of things, if you know what I mean. Which in itself is to say that when there’s a plan to cast stones, it’s always a good idea that the thrower live in a house of bricks. Do you want me to be any more direct, Ulrike, or do you get my meaning? Where’s Griff, by the way? He’s been flying under the radar for a bit, hasn’t he? Is that on your advice?”

  So now they’d come to it, Ulrike thought. They were at a take-off-the-gloves moment. Perhaps it was time. Her personal life was none of his business, but he was going to be made to see that the reverse was not the case.

  She said, “Get rid of the solicitor, Neil
. I don’t know why you’ve hired him, and I don’t want to know. But I’m telling you to get rid of him straightaway and speak to the police.”

  Neil changed colour, but the way he adjusted his body told her he was not blushing with embarrassment or shame. He said, “Am I hearing you…?”

  “Yes. You are.”

  “What the hell… Ulrike, you can’t tell me…You of all people…”

  “I want you to cooperate with the police. I want you to tell them where you were for every date they question you about. If you’d like to make it easier on yourself, you can begin with telling me and I’ll convey the information to them.” She picked up her pen and held it poised above the paper on which she’d created her three-column data sheet. She said, “We’ll start with last September. The tenth, to be precise.”

  He stood. “Let me see that.” He reached for the paper. She put her arm across it. “Is your name on that as well?” he asked her. “Or is the bonking-Griff alibi going to serve as your answer to any question they ask you? And anyway, how does it all work, Ulrike, you fucking a suspect on the one hand and acting the role of copper’s nark on the other?”

  “My life—” she began, but he cut in.

  “Your life. Your life.” His voice was a scoff. “All Colossus all the time. That’s how it’s supposed to look, right? Butter wouldn’t melt, and in the meantime, you don’t even know when a kid goes missing. Have the cops cottoned on to that? Have the board of trustees? Because I think they’d be rather interested, don’t you?”

  “Are you threatening me?”

  “I’m stating a fact. Take it however you like. In the meantime, don’t tell me how to react when the cops start trawling through my life.”

  “Are you aware of how insubordinate—”

  “Bugger off.” He reached for the door. He jerked it open. He shouted, “Veness! Get in here, will you?”

  Ulrike stood then. Neil was crimson with fury and she knew she matched him colour for colour, but this was intolerable. She said, “Don’t you dare start ordering round other employees. If this is an example of how you take or don’t take direction from a superior, then believe me, it’s going to be noted. It’s already noted.”