‘And so, what do you do, Daniel?’
Florence calls me Daniel and I smile because no one calls me that, not since Mum died anyway. Even the old man calls me Dan, or Danny when he’s been at the whiskey and gets sentimental, which isn’t often. Leaning onto her elbows on the table, she takes a swig of her Captain Morgan and coke. She’s confident, but not to the degree that it spills into arrogance, and she’s incredibly pretty. I reckon she could hold her own with the lads down at the station. Something about her face seems familiar, even though we’ve never met before. I’m taking this to be a good sign.
‘I work in architecture, run my own business, it’s not nearly as exciting as acting,’ I say. I don’t know why I lie but I do – I mean, architecture! Jesus, I can’t even build a Lego model. I just don’t want to run the risk of ruining anything because once I pull the copper card with a woman the atmosphere nearly always changes. I’m no longer Dan Riley, I’m DI Dan Riley, the copper, and then the questions come; cases I’ve worked on; grizzly details of murders and rapists. I don’t want to talk about the job; I want to talk about her and myself a little. I want to be judged on the man I am, not the job I do, at least not yet. Rachel never asked me much about my work, she let me speak when or if I was ready and wanted to. It wasn’t that she wasn’t interested but she knew there was more to me, to us, than my job catching criminals. Even on difficult cases, the ones where you become emotionally involved, she wouldn’t push for details, but she always knew when something got to me. She could sense my unease, it would be in her touch, a gentle stroke of the arm or face, she’d make a favourite meal, or put on a favourite CD or movie without saying a word. I loved her for that. For everything really.
‘A city slicker eh?’
‘Hardly.’ I grin and she grins back.
‘Are you into films?’
‘Do bear’s sh— do their business in the woods? My girlfriend used to say I was a walking encyclopaedia on them… bit of a nerd, you know, trivia and—’
‘Your girlfriend?’
She’s still smiling as she says it and I suddenly realise what I’ve said, how it must’ve sounded. I hadn’t meant to tell her about Rachel. I’d not mentioned it to any of the others, not least on a first date, but I’ve slipped up now so feel I have to explain myself.
‘I’m sorry,’ I apologise, taking a sip of my Jack and coke; a single, I’m still officially on duty. ‘That’s not how it sounded, how it was meant to sound.’ I’m digging a bigger hole for myself and she’s watching me squirm with a mix of pity and humour. ‘I don’t have a girlfriend, hence why I’m sitting here talking to you…’ I shift in my seat. ‘Although obviously I have had girlfriends,’ I add, ‘you know, before… you’re not the first,’ I laugh, ‘not that I’m saying you’re my girlfriend,’ I’m blathering. I feel tongue-tied around this girl and it’s freaking me out a little. I mean, I ask questions for a living; I know how to talk to people, it’s a big part of my job and I’m pretty good at it. I should be – I’ve had enough practice, yet I’m struggling here and I can feel myself beginning to blush like a complete dickhead.
She starts laughing and I join in, laughing at myself.
‘I was engaged… I was with a woman for a long time, seven years, but she died. Two years ago. Motorbike accident.’
Well, that certainly killed the laughter.
‘Jesus, I’m sorry,’ she touches my hand with her fingers and I feel something. It’s not sexual exactly but I’m guessing it’s along those lines. ‘What was her name?’
‘Rachel,’ I say.
‘How old was she, when she… when she died?’
‘Thirty-three, she would’ve turned thirty-four the month after she was killed.’
‘Gosh, that’s no age at all… Have you had any relationships since she… since she passed? Sorry,’ she apologises, ‘tell me to shut up if you think I’m prying, I… I just…’
‘It’s fine,’ I smile at her warmly. People never know what to say when you talk about dead people, lost loved ones. Invariably they always feel they’ve said the wrong thing. But it’s worse when they say nothing at all.
‘Actually, you’re the first person, the first person I’ve met on that website anyway, who I’ve told. It’s not exactly a pleasant icebreaker, bringing up your dead girlfriend is it?’
She smiles at me a little sadly and now I feel like I’m fishing for sympathy, which I’m not really. I’ve had more than my fair share of that. I don’t want pity, certainly not from a pretty stranger. She probably thinks I’m after a sympathy shag. Good God, this is going from bad to worse.
‘And to answer your question, no… no I haven’t. I haven’t been looking to meet anyone really.’
She nods.
‘So why now?’
It’s a direct question yet I can’t really give her a direct response because I don’t exactly know myself. It should be easy to answer, but it’s complicated in my head and I’m not sure I can articulate my feelings so I say, ‘I’m lonely, I guess,’ which makes me sound like a loser. But at least I’ve told the truth about one thing. ‘I miss her, of course. But I miss company and conversation, listening to music with someone, catching a film, going to dinner, travelling, talking, laughing… you know the simple, everyday stuff…’ I glance up at Florence and look down with a smile. She’s silent so I look back up at her again.
‘Touching,’ she says, looking directly into my eyes, ‘do you miss that?’
I swallow loudly. I’d not expected that but we’re both adults so I suppose it’s a fair-enough question.
‘Yes,’ I say, ‘I miss that too.’
She holds my gaze for a few seconds and then my phone rings.
‘Shit,’ I say and cover my hand with my mouth and we both laugh nervously. ‘Sorry.’ I answer it. ‘Shit,’ I repeat. ‘Touchy… Jesus,’ I glance at my watch, ‘it slipped my mind… I’m on my way,’ I say, standing to leave.
She looks up at me and disappointment flashes across her face. This makes me feel pleased because I’m guessing it means she doesn’t want me to go.
‘Florence, I’m really sorry,’ I say, ‘I totally forgot that I have to meet a colleague… I was supposed to be at… at a business meeting,’ I explain, badly. ‘It’s really important. Please forgive me? Can we do this again? Another time? Perhaps I can take you out for dinner to make up for it?’
She nods her understanding.
‘Guess it’s busy in the world of architecture.’ She smiles and her face lights up again. She has a megawatt smile. ‘Dinner would be lovely…’ She reaches into her handbag and pulls out a pen before writing her digits down on the back of a receipt and handing it to me. Her fingers lightly touch mine.
‘Great,’ I say, ‘it’s a date… well, a date meaning it’s… well, you know what I mean…’ I wish I had my gun on me because I’d use it on myself right about now. It’s safe to say that I’m woefully out of practice around women I’m attracted to.
‘I’ll be in touch,’ I say, which makes me sound like even more of a prat, like she’s at an audition or something and so I make to leave before I reach the point of no return. I’m guessing she’s thinking the same thing because she says, ‘don’t call us, we’ll call you, eh?’ albeit humorously.
‘Seriously, I am sorry,’ I say, ‘I was enjoying our chat. I’d really like to see you again, if you’d like to that is?’
She downs the rest of her rum and coke and meets me with those eyes again.
‘Yes Daniel,’ she says with a faint smile, ‘I would like that very much.’
Chapter Nineteen
‘I took the liberty of ordering for you.’ Touchy greets me with a wan smile and a Jack and coke. Another one.
‘I’m on duty, Fiona,’ I say, ‘and I’ve had one already today.’
‘Boozing on the job, Dan?’ she smiles, ‘that’s not like you.’
‘This has better be good. I cut a date short to meet you.’
She raises her brows. ‘A date?’<
br />
I shake my head as she stands to greet me.
‘Yeah, I am now officially one of those online singles statistics, dipping my toes in the lottery that is internet dating, answers to the name of Sad Sack.’ I don’t know why I’m being so candid with her; I haven’t seen the woman in years and she’s a journalist. But it feels oddly cathartic to tell someone.
She laughs wryly. ‘Welcome to my world.’
‘Ah, you too, eh?’
She shrugs.
‘How else is a single mum who works practically 24/7 supposed to meet anyone these days? So, any good? The date I mean?’
‘Well, because of you I now owe her dinner, so like I say, this had better be worth it.’
She smiles. ‘It’s good to see you, Dan.’
‘It’s good to see you too, Fi.’ It is, actually. I give her a hug. She smells good. She looks good too. In fact, I’d forgotten how attractive she is. It’s been a little over fifteen months since I saw her last, at the trial. ‘And just for the record, there’s been no one since Rachel. Not like that anyway.’
She releases herself from my embrace gently.
‘You don’t need to explain,’ she says, almost shyly, ‘I understand. And hey, I’m pleased for you Dan, you deserve happiness.’
‘Well, let’s not jump the gun eh? She seems nice, she’s local and she could string a sentence together, so I guess there’s potential there.’
We stand uncomfortably for a few seconds, it feels like longer and I smile at her awkwardly as we sit.
‘So, how’s tricks then? Still snouting for the Gazette? I thought you’d have been snapped up by the nationals long ago… or The Sun at least.’ I’m ribbing her, albeit without any real malice because she’s a good journo really, a decent crime reporter, and I suppose I saw bigger things for her future than the local gazette. Besides, I only take the piss out of people I like.
‘Same shit, different day,’ she sighs, sipping her drink.
She’s a red wine woman. I can only drink red wine with a meal and even then it never really goes down well. A connoisseur I am not. But thanks to the old man I can order a bottle in a restaurant without looking like a total chump. He’s a wine buff, bangs on about the stuff like it genuinely matters. I guess it does to him anyway, or at least it has since Mum went, ‘passes the time, Danny Boy,’ he says, though frankly I think it’s just an excuse for him to get pissed.
‘You know what it’s like, Dan, you’re so busy doing the job there’s not much time to look elsewhere. Anyway, it suits me for now, if I went to the nationals then I’d never see Cody; I’d have to hire a proper nanny and then I could kiss goodbye to the extra money I might earn anyway; swings and roundabouts, you know?’
I’d completely forgotten that Fi had a young son but now she’s mentioned him it comes back to me. She’d spoken about him during the trial, he must only have been a babe in arms at the time. I think I recall her saying the dad had done the off before he was born, decent bloke. I feel a little ashamed that I’d forgotten this; forgotten that other people were going through difficult times of their own back then.
‘How is the little man?’ I ask.
‘Not so little any more,’ she raises a neat arched brow. ‘He’s at preschool now. A right handful.’
I laugh, imagining his face and wondering if he has his mother’s eyes.
‘Jesus,’ I say, ‘time… it stops for no one eh, Touchy?’
She snorts softly. ‘Ain’t that the truth. And then one day you find ten years have got behind you…’
‘… no one told you when to run, you missed the starting gun – Pink Floyd, “Dark Side of the Moon”.’
Fi laughs.
‘You haven’t changed,’ she says. But we both know I have.
‘So,’ I say, ‘you wanted to see me… I’m guessing this is about the Nigel Baxter case.’
‘Partly.’ I hear caution in her voice. Makes me edgy.
‘What can I tell you, Fi?’ I ask. ‘It’s like I explained, there’s not much so far, though your source might be able to shed some light… You think you can get her to contact me? Give me a name, something…? If Baxter is involved in a dogging ring, he clearly had more going on than a round of golf.’ I decide to lay my cards on the table. Seeing Fiona in the flesh again has reminded me that I do actually trust her, or at least that I’m prepared to.
‘Truth is Fi, we’ve got nothing. Look, off the record, all we’ve got is a platinum-blonde female on CCTV who was seen going into his penthouse suite, a brunette we can’t identify leaving the hotel… a teddy-bear calling card, or at least that’s what I think it was, a murder made to look like suicide and no motive. I’ve also got a sad, destroyed, middle-aged woman and two teenage kids without a father, who on top of their trauma are about to find out their dad was into dogging, which I’m sure will go down a treat with their mates at school. What do you reckon?’
She looks down at her lap.
‘You know it’s my job,’ she says.
It’s my turn to sigh.
‘I hope this source is legit.’
Fi nods. ‘She says Baxter and this blonde girl were only up at the site twice, or twice that she recalls anyway, and she’s a regular, you know. She recognised his picture from the paper and got in touch. She’s a brass, specialises in that kind of kinky stuff, got some very high-profile clients, politicians, celebrities, judges; she’s got more shit on people in the spotlight than Armitage Shanks sees in a year. She could bring a lot of people down with her if she wanted to.’
‘Hmm, I’ll bet, saving it for her pension plan no doubt. Anyway, we’re tracing the IP addresses and phone records,’ I say, ‘so I’m banking on a decent lead from there. If we get a name for this blonde, then the least we can do is rule her out.’
‘Did he leave a note, a suicide note?’ she asks and I ponder over whether I should answer the question and tell the truth, to a journalist.
I nod, leaning back against the bench.
‘This is off the record, Touchy,’ I’m using her nickname but my voice is earnest.
‘“My darling, I’m sorry for everything, please forgive me.” It was signed, “Daddy Bear”.’
She blinks at me. ‘You mentioned teddy bears earlier…’
‘Yeah, but the wife never referred to him as Daddy Bear, or anything remotely like it by all accounts; she looked at me blankly when I mentioned the name… I don’t think the letter was even written for her, although I think it was supposed to look like it was.’ I’m shaking my head as if somehow all the jumbled-up pieces might fall into place with a bit of reshuffling. ‘All very rudimentary, a half-arsed job, you know.’
‘Why make a murder look like suicide if you wanted it to be discovered as a murder anyway?’
I open my palms. ‘That’s the six-million-dollar question, Touchy – and also what I’m getting paid for.’ I cross my legs and tap my fingers on the table. ‘A message maybe, fuck, I don’t know. She wanted it to look like suicide for a reason though, staged it well enough to make sure it appeared to be at first, but even the untrained eye would’ve seen through it with a more thorough glance.’ I tell her about the crime scene, the hotel room, the teddy bear, the towel behind Nigel Baxter’s fleshy back, the absent flannel and the missing bath oil.
She’s listening intently, but there’s something bothering her, the way her almond-shaped eyes keep darting back and forth and avoiding my own, I can tell. Body language. It’s as good as a confession sometimes.
‘Blackmail?’ she says, ‘money?’
‘S and M.’ I snort. ‘Sex and money, the two greatest motives for murder.’ I lean forward again, ‘Only I don’t think it was for either, not in this case.’
Fiona looks at me; she has a little red wine residue around the upper corners of her mouth. Rach used to call it a ‘tinto tasch.’ I contemplate telling her but decide against it.
‘So what then?’
I pause. ‘I think we’re dealing with a serial killer.’ I’ve g
one and done an Ed Sheeran: thinking out loud.
She goes to take a sip of her wine, but my revelation has stopped her in her tracks and she places it back on the table. I have this effect on women.
‘Serial Killer? What makes you say that?’
I run my hands through my hair, grateful I still have some. ‘This is off the record, Fi, you understand me? Print this and I’ll come after you personally.’
Her eyes are shining like glass beads. ‘Promises, promises.’
‘I’m being serious,’ I say, which oddly never sounds serious when you say it, but I really mean it. ‘The girl, the blonde, who I’m suspecting is the same blonde your brass pal saw with Baxter up on Hampstead Heath, well, they met on some sugar daddy hook-up site. Called herself Goldilocks.’
‘Okay…’
I look at the Jack and coke in front of me. Tempting. Fiona is staring at me blankly.
‘C’mon Touchy, surely you know the fairy tale? You must’ve told it to Cody before?’
‘Yeah, course, but I don’t understand… Oh, hang on.’ I can visibly see the penny dropping by her expression. ‘Goldilocks and the Three Bears!’
‘Yup,’ I say, refraining from giving her a round of applause. ‘The three bears.’
She finally takes a slug of wine. ‘Oh Jesus, but that means… well, there was Daddy Bear… Mummy Bear and…’
‘… Baby bear. Yeah, I know.’
Her face contorts. ‘Fuck Dan…’
‘Look, it’s just a theory right now – something I’m thinking about. But we’ve got no obvious motive, not yet anyway. I don’t think this was about money. There was cash in his wallet, and his Rolex was still there on the bedside table. This was no robbery.’
Black Heart: A totally gripping serial-killer thriller Page 9
