by Roberta Kray
There was a short, gloomy silence, broken only by the persistent hiss of the coffee machine and the clatter of cutlery.
‘So you called the other girls,’ Jess eventually prompted gently.
Choi briefly closed his eyes, and when he opened them again, he had a more determined look on his face. ‘Yes. A few weeks after she died, Lynda’s mobile phone bill arrived. I went through it carefully and checked all the calls that she’d made that night. I thought … I thought that if she’d talked to someone, they might have an idea as to what it was that finally pushed her over the edge. I was just trying to get some answers, but the more I asked … I don’t know, it was like they were hiding something, that they were worried about what I might find out.’
‘What makes you say that?’ Harry asked.
‘Because they lied to me.’ His dark eyes suddenly flashed bright, his right hand clenching into a fist. ‘Apart from Sam Kendall, they all claimed that they hadn’t heard from her.’
Harry frowned, beginning to wish that he’d had this information before his visit to Kirsten Cope. ‘But the phone records said otherwise.’
Choi’s face twisted with anger and disgust. He reached into his pocket and took out a sheet of paper. ‘You see this,’ he said, placing it on the table and jabbing at it with a finger. ‘It shows that she made four calls, one to each of them.’
Harry pulled the phone bill towards him and he and Jess stared down at it. Choi had written the names next to the numbers in small neat print. The call to Sam was short, only a few minutes, and the one to Becky wasn’t much longer. But the call to Paige had lasted nine minutes and the one to Kirsten Cope, made just after eight o’clock, for forty-three.
Choi poked a finger towards the bill again. ‘You see. That Cope woman swore to me that she hadn’t talked to Lynda, but she must have. It’s there in black and white.’
‘So you confronted her?’ Jess said.
‘I found out where she lived and went to her flat, but she wouldn’t let me in. She said she’d call the police if I didn’t go away, that she’d have me arrested for harassment. She called me a stalker, but it wasn’t like that. I was only trying to find out the truth. I wasn’t—’
‘Hey, it’s okay,’ Harry said, seeing how distressed Choi was getting. He stretched out a hand and placed it gently on the younger man’s wrist. ‘It’s okay. We get it.’
Choi waited until Harry had removed his hand before speaking again. ‘And then, two days later, I was threatened by a man. He grabbed me on my way home from work and put a knife to my throat. He told me to lay off, to stop asking questions or he’d shut me up for good.’
‘Did you report it?’ Harry asked. An incredulous look appeared on Choi’s face. ‘I’ve got a wife,’ he said. ‘Two small kids. He swore it wouldn’t just be me he went after next time.’ A visible shudder ran through his body and his dark eyes widened. ‘What if he finds out that I’ve talked to you? What if—’
‘I don’t think he’ll come after you again,’ Harry said, hoping that he was right. ‘Things have moved on since you went to see Kirsten Cope. If anyone’s going to be in the firing line, it’s more likely to be me or Jess.’
Choi worried on his lower lip, his hands starting their restless dance again.
‘This guy – what did he look like?’ Harry asked.
‘It was after eleven, dark. I couldn’t see his face too well. He was wearing a hood.’
‘Tall, short, black, white? How old was he?’
‘White,’ Choi said. ‘About the same height as you.’ He paused and then added, ‘But much younger, I think.’
Harry heard Jess make a tiny noise in the back of her throat, probably the result of having to swallow one of her wisecracks. ‘And what about his voice? Was it local?’
‘Yes, I think so.’
‘And there was nothing distinctive about him?’
Choi began to shake his head but then stopped. ‘Only the rings,’ he said. ‘There were gold rings on his fingers, lots of them. Those coin ones.’
‘Sovereigns,’ Jess said.
Before any more questions could be asked, Choi rose abruptly to his feet. His face was drawn, his voice tight and strained. ‘I’m sorry, but I can’t tell you any more. I have to go now.’
‘Okay,’ Harry said. He touched the phone bill. ‘Is it all right if I hang on this?’
‘Sure.’
‘Thanks for coming to see us. We’ll let you know if—’
But Choi had already turned his back and was heading for the exit.
‘That’s one scared guy,’ Jess said.
‘Well, when some crazy goon puts a knife to your throat, it doesn’t do much for the nervous system.’
‘Some crazy young goon,’ Jess said with just the hint of a snigger.
Harry picked up the remains of his sandwich, decided that he wasn’t that hungry any more and put it back down. ‘One day you’ll be old and grey, Vaughan, and then you’ll regret your ageist attitudes.’
Jess laughed, but suddenly her face grew serious again. ‘You know, I reckon the guy who attacked David could have been Micky Higgs – Paige Fielding’s other half. He wears those rings on his fingers.’
‘Him and plenty of others.’
‘Yeah, but it makes sense, doesn’t it? Kirsten tells Paige that David Choi has been harassing her about that call, and Paige sends out her own personal storm trooper to scare him off.’ She lifted the cup to her lips and took a few fast gulps of the black coffee. ‘What the hell are they all so worried about?’
Harry idly drummed out a beat on the table with his fingertips. ‘I believe that’s what they call the million-dollar question.’
‘And why did Lynda Choi even have their numbers on her phone? It wasn’t as if she was friendly with them. She didn’t have anything to do with the others after the trial. Sam reckoned she was the only one Lynda kept in touch with.’ She paused and glared hard at his hand. ‘Do you have to keep doing that?’
Harry stopped his fingers mid-beat, his hand poised in the air. ‘What’s the matter? Is it aggravating your hangover?’
‘It’s aggravating every part of me.’
‘I never realised you were so highly strung.’
‘I’m not,’ she said. ‘But my head is.’ She carefully rubbed her temples and gave a low groan. ‘God, remind me never to go out and enjoy myself again.’
‘So what happened to the girl who could party until dawn?’
Jess narrowed her eyes and gave him one of her dry looks. ‘Hey, I can still do the partying – it’s just the day after I have the problem with.’
‘Okay,’ Harry said. ‘I’ve got a theory, if your addled brain can take it.’
‘Fire away.’
‘Right. We know that Lynda Choi made a call to Sam and that Sam’s phone was turned off. But there was obviously something on her mind, something that was bugging her about the day Minnie Bright died and which she felt the need to share. With Sam not around to talk to, who would she turn to next?’
Jess frowned while she thought about it. ‘Well, it wouldn’t be Paige. She was a bully back then and she hasn’t changed much now. And Becky was always the brainless sidekick, so I guess that leaves Kirsten Cope. Yeah, I suppose of the three, Kirsten was the one she would have disliked the least.’
‘But in order to get her number,’ Harry continued, ‘Lynda might have had to contact the other two.’ He slid the bill across the table so that it was sitting in front of Jess. ‘You see, she called Becky first – her number’s probably in the phone book so it wouldn’t have been difficult to get hold of – and got Paige’s number off her. Then, five minutes later, she rang Paige.’
‘But why call Paige at all? Wouldn’t Becky have had Kirsten’s number?’
Harry shook his head. ‘I don’t think so. Kirsten told me this morning that she occasionally hears from Paige, but I doubt she keeps in touch with Becky Hibbert. I get the distinct impression that Ms Cope, now that her naked body adorns the glossy
lads’ mags, has pretty much turned her back on all things Kellston.’
‘Naked?’ Jess said.
‘We detectives pride ourselves on our powers of observation.’
‘I can believe it.’
‘So what do you reckon? A feasible theory as regards the phone calls?’
‘Up to a point,’ Jess said. ‘But if Kirsten Cope doesn’t give out her number to all and sundry, surely Paige would be aware of that. Why would she give it to Lynda?’
‘Maybe she just wanted to get rid of her. Sam did say that Lynda sounded drunk, a bit rambling when she left the message. Or Paige could have realised that Lynda had cottoned on to something important about that day and the only way to find out was to let her talk to Kirsten.’
‘Okay,’ Jess said. ‘I’ll buy that. It’s not beyond the realms of possibility.’
Harry sat back, folding his arms across his chest. ‘Of course the girls could have had a perfectly innocent reason for lying to David Choi about the calls.’
‘Such as?’
‘Such as not wanting to be dragged into an inquiry about Lynda’s death. Perhaps they simply didn’t want to get involved.’
Jess huffed out a cynical breath. ‘Like you believe a word of that. Those girls are up to their necks in it and you know it.’
Harry did know it. He knew it with every bone in his body – but that didn’t mean he had to like it.
16
It was Monday morning and the call came shortly after nine o’clock. A package had arrived for him and was available to collect at reception. He went down in the lift, sharing it with a middle-aged couple in matching Pringle sweaters. Their eyes met briefly and nods were exchanged. There was a typically British silence and an awkward shuffling of feet as the lift descended to the ground floor.
The hotel, a high-rise warren of right-angle corridors, was white and sterile and about as devoid of character as any place could be. Hundreds of people came and went on a daily basis, there to see the city or make deals, to visit friends or simply be invisible for a while. He smiled vaguely at the receptionist, gave her his name, signed for the DHL package and immediately returned to the lift.
His room was on the sixteenth floor. He went back up in the lift alone and strolled along the corridor, the package held securely under his arm, until he came to the right number. He slipped the card in, opened the door, closed it again and then leaned back, taking a moment to absorb the cold anonymity of what lay before him. How many rooms had he slept in like this one? Too many. The carpet was utilitarian beige, with curtains to match. There was a double bed flanked by two small bedside tables with lamps, a closet, a dressing table with a mirror, a TV, a kettle, two cups and saucers and the usual array of tea bags, coffee sachets, sugar and UHT milk. To his left was a tiny bathroom with a shower, toilet and washbasin. Straight ahead lay a pair of doors that led out on to a skinny balcony with metal railings. He gazed out through the glass. From this height there was a good view; in the distance he could see the gleaming dome of St Paul’s Cathedral.
He shouldn’t be in London. He knew this with every atom, every nerve end of his body. But there was no going back now. A promise had been made, a promise that could not be broken. He found himself wondering what would happen if he were to drop down dead in this bleak, sterile room, if he were to suffer a sudden heart attack or stroke. The police would be called and they would check his identity and would find a man who did not exist.
And what would Anna do? In Cadiz, she would report a husband with another name who had not returned from a trip to Bonn. The Spanish police, if they ever got around to it, would check the flights and find no passenger bearing his name. Would the connection be made with the corpse in London? And if it was, would that be better or worse for her? A relief, he supposed, but a tainted one. She would struggle to understand what he was doing here in this cheap, anonymous hotel on the edge of Kellston. Perhaps she would suspect that he’d been conducting a sordid affair, a week-long fling with another woman. Why else would he have lied to her?
‘Jesus,’ he murmured softly.
Quickly he pushed the thoughts aside. They were morbid and distressing, not worth dwelling on. Stepping away from the door, he went over to the bed and sat down, laying the package carefully on the duvet next to him. It was an innocuous-looking parcel, wrapped in brown paper, with the name and address of a Munich bookshop stamped across the front. He cut through the tape with a penknife and opened the flaps. Inside was a thick hardback German dictionary.
Opening the book, he found, as expected, a hollowed-out centre. Nestled within this space were a .22 Ruger MKII, bullets and a silencer.
‘Thank you, Munich,’ he said grimly.
He took the gun out and weighed it gently in his palm. He gazed down at the bright red logo on the pistol grip, the symbol of a dragon with its wings outstretched. It looked rather like a phoenix rising from the flames. He took a moment to consider the appropriateness of the symbol, his lips sliding into a wry smile, before returning the gun to its hiding place. He wrapped the paper around the book, put the package in his suitcase, locked the suitcase and placed it in the back of the closet.
‘Soon,’ he said quietly to himself. ‘It will soon be over.’
As he walked back across the room, he caught sight of himself in the mirror. He looked tired, almost haggard. There were bags under his eyes and his skin was grey. For the last couple of nights he hadn’t slept well, and even when he had managed to drop off his dreams had been full of fear and panic, of being trapped, of turning into blind alleys where there was no escape.
‘Don’t go there,’ he whispered into the silence of the room. ‘Don’t even think about it.’
He pushed back his shoulders, shrugged on his jacket and picked up the car keys for the Peugeot rental. He would spend most of the day going over his route, checking out the back streets, the one-way systems, the traffic lights and CCTV cameras. With a job like this, you couldn’t afford to leave anything to chance.
But first he had something else to do.
Fifteen minutes later, he was driving through the wide cemetery gates. He went slowly up the main thoroughfare, swung a left by the majestic weeping willow and pulled the car neatly in to the side. He did not get out immediately, but sat hunched forward with his hands on the wheel. He looked from side to side and gave a small nod. Yes, it was all exactly as he remembered it.
He glanced automatically at his watch even though he had nowhere to be, at least nowhere to be in a hurry. The cemetery, so far as he could tell with so many trees and bushes in the way, was deserted. It was only him and the dead and a few grey squirrels. He got out of the car and shut the door quietly even though there was no one to disturb.
With his hands deep in his pockets, he strolled up the gentle slope and started to head across the grass. Here, in the older part of the cemetery, many of the graves were cracked and broken, tilted sideways, with weeds poking up through the gaps. Thin rays of morning sunshine broke through the clouds, warming the back of his neck. They were not strong enough, however, to prevent the growing chill in his bones.
When he came to the place he wanted, he stopped and quickly lit a cigarette. He drew the smoke deep into his lungs, as if it could provide some form of protection, a shield against his anger and disgust. Through the years he had trained himself to feel nothing, to create a barrier to the past that could not be breached. But now a slow, steady drip of rage was leaking down his spine.
He pondered on what it was that influenced a man the most. Nature or nurture? Had he been born as he was, his genes already programmed, or had he been moulded? Not that it really mattered. His eyes blazed with hatred and contempt as he stared down at the writing on the weathered grey headstone. Then, without another thought, he leaned forward and spat on the grave, before turning his back and striding away.
Job done.
As he drove back towards the gates, he noticed a bright red Mini parked on the main thoroughfare. Glancing over to h
is right, he saw a young woman in a faded denim jacket standing very still with a bunch of daffodils clutched to her breast. There was something about her stance that touched him. He only caught a fleeting glimpse, a snapshot of pale brown hair, of wide eyes, of curved and slightly parted lips. It wasn’t a beautiful face, but rather a pleasant, thoughtful one. It was the kind of face, he thought, that you would like a daughter to have.
Daughter. He rolled the word around in his mouth, savouring it, tasting it. But its sweetness had a sour edge too. He’d had a daughter once, but that had been a long time ago. She was gone. She was lost. At some point all the good things were taken away. It was only a matter of time.
17
Jess lifted her eyes as the Peugeot passed smoothly by, surprised to find that she was not alone. Usually at this hour of the day she had the cemetery to herself. She caught a glimpse of a grey-haired, middle-aged man wearing sunglasses behind the wheel. He was there and then gone, so she thought no more about him.
She sighed into the daffodils as she gazed down at Len Curzon’s grave. It was four years now since he’d been murdered whilst in pursuit of that great final scoop. She still thought about him, still missed him, despite all his dreadful habits. He’d been more than a mentor to her; he’d been a friend and an inspiration. Even though his glory days had been behind him, the good stories so thin on the ground as to be virtually invisible, he’d still had the old hack’s nose for a decent lead. He’d taught her to follow her hunches, to be relentless, to hit the trail like a sniffer dog until it led to the truth. And now here she was chasing another big exclusive.
‘So,’ she said out loud. ‘How am I doing? Am I on the right track?’
Kneeling down, she removed the papery dead flowers from the urn and laid them on the grass beside the headstone. There was no sign of anyone else having been there since her last visit at Christmas. Len’s wife Jean had predeceased him, and the two of them lay buried together. They’d had no kids to grieve for them, and she wondered if their childlessness had been a decision or a disappointment. Maybe Len had focused all his attention on the job instead. There were a lot of questions she hadn’t asked while he was alive, and now it was too late.
