TWO FACED
An Elaine Hope Mystery
A. R. Ashworth
For Anna, who is always there for me through thick, thin, and writer’s block
Acknowledgments
I would like to thank my critique partners—K. P. Gresham, Gogi Hale, Bill Woodburn, Jan Rider Newman, Dan Roessler, Connie Newton, Nona Farris, Linda Ritzen, and Martin Barkley—for their comments and suggestions.
I extend heartfelt gratitude to my old friend Nigel Powell, not only for sharing his deep knowledge of British nuance and habit, but also for his unwavering support through difficult times. We’ll soon share a pint or two of real ale in Seer Green or Padstow, or wherever we find ourselves. My shout.
Deb Rhodes of BetterBetaReads was indispensable for helping me untangle Elaine’s relationships with Peter and Fiona. Thanks again for your help, Deb!
As always, my appreciation goes out to my agent, Elizabeth Trupin-Pulli; my editor, Anne Brewer; and her assistant, Jenny Chen, for their guidance and support.
PROLOGUE
April, Hartland Point, Devon
I’m alone now.
Elaine stood in the front drive of her stone cottage and watched the red taillights of Peter’s car disappear behind the hedges at the end of the lane. The afternoon squall had cleared the air, and she turned her gaze out to sea. In the dusk, the steady mariners’ beacon at Hartland Point flashed in syncopation with South Point Light on the island of Lundy, both in counterpoint to the crash of surf on the rocks two hundred feet below.
“Excuse me, DCI Hope?” Police Constable Buntyn’s clear young voice startled Elaine. “Is there something I can get you, ma’am?”
Alone, except for Buntyn. She reminded herself not to think aloud. The uniformed officer stood at the door of her stone cottage. His shift would end soon, and another young officer would take his place. She turned to walk back to the cottage. “Still here, Buntyn?”
“Yes, ma’am. I was on my rounds until just now. PC Carter checked in. She’s passing Titchberry. Five minutes out.”
“Then you’ll be home soon. Good night. Have a nice evening with the family.”
Elaine had objected to having watchers because one constable, even if armed, wasn’t likely to stop a hit man. If her life were at risk from a gangster like Anton Srecko, he would be ruthless. Why endanger a nice young officer with a growing family? But her case officer had insisted, so young PCs from Bude and Bideford appeared every day, like clockwork.
Her cane sank into a deep patch of gravel, and she lurched to one side before catching herself. Buntyn moved to help her, but she held up her hand. “I’m all right. Damn low spot. Have to go slow.”
Elaine didn’t excel at going slow. Every day she damned her condition with a litany of curses that had grown too familiar.
Damn me for rushing into that brothel without backup.
Damn the Met for not getting backup to me in time.
Damn Anton Srecko for planning my murder.
Damn Nilo Srecko for beating me, shooting me, cutting me. Raping me.
I killed him. I took a life. Damn me.
The perverse ritual never brought her a step closer to peace.
Darkness had fallen. When she reached the thick wooden door, she took a last look at the ocean, nodded to Buntyn, and went inside. A cafetière and mugs cluttered the table between the two blue leather chairs in the sitting room. She could carry only one item at a time securely, so clearing up meant multiple trips back and forth to the kitchen. She wouldn’t bother. The cleaner would clear it away tomorrow.
Peter’s scent pervaded the room. She breathed deeply. His clothes always smelled like rosemary and citrus. He still loved her in spite of her scarred face, her hobbling, hesitant gait. This afternoon she had allowed him to take her in his arms and kiss her. He had held her for what seemed like hours, but when she finally had pushed him away, she saw it had been only a few minutes.
He was the first man she had ever considered making a life with. He was the only man she’d allowed to touch her since the rape. And she’d pushed him away. She felt so different now, about life, about purpose, about the future. She didn’t know when she would feel anchored enough, at peace enough, to see him again. When she would be able to give, when she would no longer rage.
Scratch’s insistent meow interrupted her thoughts. She poured a bit of kibble into his bowl and took her evening medications while the huge grey tabby crunched and purred. After he was done, she washed and put up the bowl, turned out the light, and together they went into the bedroom. She sat at the foot of her bed and scanned the photos she had taped to the wardrobe mirror.
If Peter had come in here, he’d think I’m mad. The cleaner and therapists all do.
Nilo Srecko’s macabre morgue picture—grey face, half-closed eyelids, slack mouth, the two-inch wide incision at the base of his throat where she’d plunged the knife. He’d put a bullet through her leg and sliced the same knife across her face.
In a recent session, Elaine scoffed when her therapist talked about how she shouldn’t actively remind herself of pain. Looking at the picture now, she reconsidered the advice and then asked herself why that bastard’s photo was still there when he was dead. Surely gone to Hell, if there was such a place. She pulled the picture from the whiteboard and ripped it to pieces. She would damn him forever, but he hadn’t devised the plot that had nearly killed her. Nilo was a young psychopath, too volatile to plan anything more than two steps ahead.
Elaine’s gut knotted as she stared at the other picture—Anton Srecko, his skin so pale, his eyes so cold, his photo might as well have been a morgue shot. He was the bastard who had set her up to be killed, and he was still alive. She left Anton’s picture where it was and lay back on her bed, staring at the ceiling.
She laughed, a deep-toned upwelling that began at her diaphragm and rolled through her throat and filled the room. Three men from her life. She killed one, wanted to kill another, and drove away the third.
Peter. Until today, the last time she had seen him was eight weeks ago at his house in London. They had made love. His heart had pounded against her chest, her heart against his. Separate heartbeats converged to synchrony as their bodies joined.
Would he ever kiss her like that again? Would she ever again shiver at his breath on her neck, his touch on her skin? She shook her head. Fool’s questions.
You’re not ready, Lainie. You’ll never let yourself feel that until you let go of the fear and the rage. And you can’t do that until you’ve delivered justice to Anton. You’ve got no proof, so find it.
Recover. Go back to duty. Build the case.
ONE
Monday, nine months later, Camberwell
The canary-yellow pom-pom on Joanna Christie’s woolen hat made following her ridiculously easy. The portly woman bounced as much as walked along the pavement. Periodically she entered a shop or greengrocer. When she emerged, the ball of yellow yarn atop her head again became a splash of colour bobbing in a stream of dark-coated women going about their daily London lives.
As Elaine watched, Joanna grappled with her fully laden shopping bag—Ms. Innocent Housewife on her errands. Safe and sane, business as usual. Elaine gritted her teeth at the thought, felt the rage rising in her at the sheer perversity that the woman in front of her still had her career, her life, her future.
Elaine took a deep breath, relaxed her shoulders, and focused on quieting the demon inside her. Despite her anger, she reminded herself she was a police officer, constrained by the constable’s oath she had taken the day she started the job sixteen years before, when she had sworn to accord “equal respect to all people.”
All people. Saints and sinners, cops and killers.
And who am I to judge Joanna? The woman was merely gett
ing on with her life—a widow, a receptionist who worked hard to keep food on the table and pay for her daughter’s education. The last time she had met Joanna, Elaine had threatened to charge her as an accessory to murder, which might have ruined her daughter’s chance to go to university. The tirade had been all bluster and empty threat on Elaine’s part, and Joanna had called her bluff.
So it wasn’t like the two of them were strangers, which was all the more reason to take care and pay attention to tradecraft. Elaine’s black hoodie, loose-fitting jeans, and boots offered reasonable street camouflage, but her six-foot height meant she towered above the mostly female shoppers around her.
Slump, Lainie, shorter steps, let the gap grow. The chill wind of January ruffled her hood and threatened to strip it back from her head. She pulled it closer around her cheeks and kept her eyes on the pom-pom. Her weak right leg slowed her down, but she usually could keep up with her marks.
The yellow pom-pom stopped at a shop window. Elaine veered left towards a pub entrance just as a trio of pierced twenty-something men burst out, jostling her and throwing her off balance. Her right leg buckled, and she instinctively clutched at the nearest man, falling against him, close enough to smell the whisky on his breath. Startled and defensive, the man took the front of her hoodie in both hands and swung her against the wall with a curse.
“No! Don’t touch me!” Elaine drove her fists upwards between his hands, gripped one of his wrists, and twisted him around. His friends began advancing towards her, so she shoved the man into them hard enough to force them to catch him.
As she did, the wind ripped her hood back, exposing her face. The men’s voices changed from growls of aggression to astonished exclamation. “Christ, what the fuck happened to her?”
Elaine squared her body, weight on the balls of her feet, willing herself to stay steady. “Whatever happened taught me how to deal with shits like you.”
A small crowd of spectators, mostly women, had gathered, forming a semicircle on the pavement. Snatches of their murmured conversation rose, loud enough for Elaine to hear.
“Did you see what she did…? Good on her … What happened to her face?”
The aggressive young man had slipped to his knees on the pavement, holding his arm tight to his body. “I think you broke my shoulder, bitch.” His blanched face contorted with pain and anger. “Jesus haitch—call the fucking rozzers, Eddie.”
Elaine held out her warrant card. “No need. Detective Chief Inspector Elaine Hope, at your bloody service. Or perhaps I should arrest you for assaulting a police officer.”
The man struggled to his feet, assisted by his friends. Some colour had returned to his face. “Oh yeah, right! I’m the one with the busted shoulder! How was I to know you was a copper?”
“Nothing snapped.” Elaine jerked her head towards a CCTV camera located above the pub entrance. “I think the video will show who attacked whom. Do you make it a habit to attack anyone who happens to jostle you?” She made eye contact with each of the men in turn. “Or were you looking for some rough?”
A police car pulled to the kerb. Two uniformed officers emerged and made their way through the gaggle of spectators. The older of the two uniforms acknowledged Elaine. “DCI Hope. Do you need assistance?” He appraised the man who was still holding his arm. “Or does he?”
Elaine shook her head. “I’m fine, Officer. I think it’s sorted. Unless one of these gents has something to say.”
The injured man spoke. “No, we sort of bumped each other and slipped down. Bit of a misunderstanding is all. If it’s alright, I need to get my arm checked.” The three men exchanged glances—sufficiently cowed for Elaine to nod in agreement.
“Right, then. Go get that arm tended,” the uniform said as the men walked off. “Do you need a ride to the station, Chief Inspector?”
In her mind, Elaine cursed her misfortune. Joanna Christie and her ridiculous pom-pom could be blocks away by now. But she had time to find her again.
“No thanks. I’m going the other way.” She watched the two uniforms get in their car and drive off.
A woman’s voice cried out behind her, shrill with anger. “You! Still a bully and getting away with it.”
Elaine spun around. On seeing Elaine’s face, Joanna’s tirade halted in mid-accusation, her mouth open, aghast. After a few moments she managed to stammer on.
“Jesus, I had no idea.” Joanna took a deep, wavering breath. “Was he the one? You know, who…” She fumbled with her bulging shopping bags, but she never took her eyes off Elaine. “To do that to you, I mean.”
Elaine smiled down at the flustered woman. A head of cabbage teetered on the lip of Joanna’s uppermost bag, threatening to dive to the concrete at any moment. Time to make a friend, Lainie.
“Here, let me help with that. Can’t have your supper smashed on the pavement, can we?” Elaine took hold of the bag, secured the cabbage, and nodded at the entrance to the pub. “You look like you could use some fortification. Tea? No, wine. My shout. Why don’t we find a nice private nook in here and have a chat?” She held open the door and stood aside. “After you.”
Joanna glanced at the spectators and at the shopping bag on Elaine’s arm. Without further words, she trundled through the open door. Elaine smiled to herself. In her career she had found bestowing a small kindness could force action and confirm another person’s character. Joanna Christie was not evil. She was, however, easily led.
The Cave of Bacchus was one of the hip, new drinking establishments that had sprung up across London in the last five years or so. Rather than traditional coziness, it featured smoked glass tables with formed plastic stools, designer beige and pastel decor, and sconce lighting in rose and blue hues.
Elaine saw no oak panelling, no overstuffed leather cushions, no dark wooden tables marred by decades of heavy cutlery. The bar sported no pump handles a competent barmaid could pull to deliver an honest pint. No yeasty smell of spilled ale. Christ, not a cask ale in sight. Instead, the Cave offered mostly white wines, a few reds, designer vodkas, and fruity liqueur miasmas, many of which were chilled with a spurt of liquid nitrogen.
Peter and I could never feel comfortable here. Nelson’s Glory is our pub, and it always will be. No, that’s wrong. It was our pub, once. Never mind that.
She shook Peter from her thoughts and focused on Joanna Christie, who said, “This used to be a nice pub. The Gander. Comfortable. My husband and I came here every now and then, before he died.” She looked around vaguely as if she were trying to find where they used to sit. “I’ve passed this place every week for fifteen years since, and I haven’t stopped in. Can’t tell you when it changed into … this. Why don’t they want people to just be comfortable anymore?”
“Let’s sit there.” Elaine pointed to a booth in the back corner. “Doesn’t look comfortable, but there’s room for your shopping.”
They decided on a moderately priced carafe of pinot noir. Elaine poured and they sat, gauging each other. Joanna shed her yellow wool hat and drained her glass. Elaine refilled it and spoke.
“First things first. I won’t apologize for what I said about your employer the last time we met. I know Anton’s just criminal scum underneath his slick suit.” Joanna started to speak, but Elaine held up her hand. “I hope you’re keeping well clear of their extracurricular activities. But I do apologize for including your daughter in that rant. I hope she made it to uni and that she’s doing well.”
“She went up for autumn term. Durham. Trev’s.”
Elaine raised her eyebrows. “She picked a good one. I was at Durham. Castle. That’s University College.”
“Mm-huh, right.” Joanna sat back and studied Elaine. “Good for you. You listen to me for a change. Mr. Anton’s a hard man, but he pays me well. You made an enemy there.”
Yep, she stays for the pay cheque. Elaine replied, “I’m a cop. If I go a week without making a new enemy, it’s a week lost. They dock my pay.” She poured herself a half glass of the wine. �
��I was serious. You’re in jeopardy there. The Crown Prosecutors could make it tough on you, even if they don’t charge you. You could be forced to testify.”
Joanna sneered. “Bollocks. I’m just the receptionist.”
“You don’t have to be directly involved. You keep the diaries of who he talks to, where he goes, and when he returns. Who visits him. If the Met suspects something, if they need to piece together a chain of events, they’ll look to you for answers. And you’ll have to supply what they want, best you can, or get charged with obstruction.” Elaine lowered her voice. “Mrs. Christie. Joanna. Didn’t you ever wonder what Nilo actually did for Anton? Didn’t you ever feel threatened by him?”
Joanna shifted in her seat and swirled her wine glass. “Nilo was a wild boy.”
Elaine spoke barely above a whisper. “Wild? Bloody hell, Joanna. He killed a fifteen-year-old girl because she wouldn’t have sex with him. Your daughter isn’t that much older.”
“You never proved that. And leave my daughter out of this.”
“It never went to court, but forensics eventually matched his DNA on her blouse. We have his DNA for Geri Harding too. The estate agent who worked for Anton. Nilo fucked her, broke her neck, and dumped her body in a bathtub of bleach.”
Joanna darted a look at Elaine’s face, then returned to studying her wine glass. The initial anger had drained from her face. She now appeared uncertain, wary.
“Be glad you didn’t see what he did to her.” Elaine took a sip of wine. “Oh, and there was that solicitor who was murdered, Greene. Granted, there’s no solid evidence, but my money is on Nilo for topping Greene. Do you think he would have done any of that without orders from Anton?”
“I’d rather not talk about this.” Joanna picked up her cap and started to gather her shopping bags.
“Please stay—I haven’t answered that question you could barely ask. Outside, before we came in here.”
Joanna froze, half out of the booth. Her eyes scanned Elaine’s face. When she relaxed back to her seat, Elaine continued.
Two Faced Page 1
