Two Faced

by A. R. Ashworth

  “It is neither, DCI Hope,” Delaney replied. “We are informally ascertaining the facts about two incidents that have been brought to our attention. One involves a member of the public, and the other involves another police officer.”

  She had wondered when Mehta would whinge about the abduction. “With all respect, sir, it seems formal to me. I have a right to know why I’m here and what might be the consequences of this informal fact-finding meeting.”

  The three senior officers exchanged glances.

  Collins scowled. “Now see here, Hope—”

  Hughes interjected. “If I may, sir.” He looked her directly in the eyes. “DCI Hope, among the three of us, I am probably the most familiar with your record of bravery and excellent results. DCS Cranwell has been your champion for years, ever since you were assigned to Benford’s team as a sergeant. We were all deeply saddened by your injuries. I have never known an officer to endure such a horrific assault and be able to return to duty so quickly.”

  She replied, “Thank you, sir. I’m not sure what to say.”

  Hughes continued. “We’re aware of the after-hours investigations you’ve been conducting. That in itself is cause for concern, but the incidents with the civilian and DI Mehta raised alarm bells. We’re concerned that you may have returned to duty too soon. You still have just over six months of compassionate leave available.”

  “Hold on, Hughes.” AC Collins’s gruff voice fit his hard eyes and bushy eyebrows. “We don’t need a lone wolf right now, Hope. Frankly, your behaviour appears a bit obsessive. We need to know how to deal with these incidents and prevent a recurrence.”

  Obsessive. The bastard. Doing it for the good of the force. The image of the Met demanded they find a reasonable way to sweep the complaints under the rug of compassion. It didn’t sound bad. Six more months without the constraint of showing up at the office every day might be what she needed. Freedom to move.

  She again gave him a polite smile. “I’m sure you consulted the police psychologists about what constitutes obsessive behaviour, sir. What you just said makes this either a fitness hearing or a Professional Standards tribunal.” Collins’s jaw muscles clenched. Elaine continued, “Which means I should have been warned to bring my Police Federation representative. Without my representative present, any results that I don’t agree with from this little party are moot.”

  “This little party? How dare—”

  Elaine interrupted. “Very well. I don’t know what to call it, but you’re correct, sir. It’s not a party. About the incident outside the Cave of Bacchus: I had a minor altercation with a man who was leaving the pub with some friends.”

  Collins waved the sheet of paper in his hand. “A bit more than that, wouldn’t you say? He’s threatened to file a complaint against you.” He referred to his notes. “He states that he merely jostled you while exiting the pub, but you attacked him, injured his shoulder, and threw him across the pavement.”

  The little scumbag had threatened to file a complaint, probably thinking he’d get a quick monetary settlement of some kind. He clearly didn’t know how the Met operated.

  “He’s a liar. I was provoked and acted in self-defence.” She looked directly at Collins, then scanned the other two officers. “He can file a complaint against me. I’ll file an assault charge against him. He’s correct that he jostled me. He knocked me off balance. He then took hold of my clothing and forcibly slammed me against a concrete wall, pinning me there with his weight. I merely broke his hold, got control of him, and pushed him away. I then identified myself as a police officer.”

  “So it’s your word against his.”

  “It sounds like you don’t believe me, sir. Perhaps the CCTV would change your mind, if you take the time to view it.”

  “Steady, DCI Hope. I have watched it several times. And in my opinion, it leaves much room for debate. You appear to be spoiling for a fight.”

  “You’ve never seen me fight, have you? I don’t believe I exceeded Principle Six, sir. I was under threat. You didn’t see the look on his face or smell the whisky on his breath. I used only enough force to defend myself from him and possibly his mates. And I stopped when order was restored.”

  “How dare you lecture me on Peel’s Principles. But since you brought them up, had you considered Principle Two—maintaining public approval of our actions? This bloke felt threatened too. He didn’t know you were a police officer. So you took him down in front of onlookers who watched you wrench his shoulder out of its socket. Only then did you identify yourself. That is what I’m concerned about. Police officers out of control. Look what’s happening in America these days. Violence by police officers is undermining their relationship with the communities they police. Police in Great Britain operate with consent of the public, not through fear. You appear to be right on the edge, DCI Hope. If you are unable to control violent impulses—”

  “Out of its socket? Control my violent impulses? What is this kangaroo court all about then?” She jumped to her feet. “He was drunk! You didn’t smell his breath, see his face, sir. You didn’t feel his hands on you. At that moment, he was ready to beat me. He wanted some rough, and he meant to dish it out.”

  She pointed her finger at Collins. “And you’re damn right I’m on the edge. I was on the goddamn edge of dying, and where the fuck was my backup? Who was it who decided I could wait? Wait for what? Do what? Sit on my fucking hands while someone was being assaulted? Murdered? Which lame excuse for a gold commander made that decision?” She spun around and strode to the back of the office, clenching and unclenching her hands. Oh, Jesus Christ, Lainie, you’ve lost it now. Get control, get control. She stopped and closed her eyes.

  Elaine gasped five or six deep breaths into her lungs, then faced the three shocked senior officers. She gripped the back of her chair to stop her hands from trembling, regaining just enough self-control to not shout. “But I would say I restrained myself adequately in this case. Ask yourself what you would have done.” She leaned forward and fixed her gaze on Collins. “I killed the previous man who touched me with violence. Have you ever killed anyone, sir?”

  She looked from face to face. Delaney and Hughes wouldn’t hold eye contact with her. Collins stared back at her, his eyes wide, his jaw working, clearly at a loss for words.

  They don’t know what to do with me, do they? That’s why I’m here. I’m a hero and a crazed, out-of-control bitch, and they don’t know how to deal with me.

  After a few seconds, Hughes’s calm voice broke the silence. “I cannot begin to comprehend your situation, DCI Hope. As a man, I have no basis, or right, to judge your response.”

  He closed the folder on the desk in front of him. “I don’t need to hear anything more. My opinion is that DCI Hope should be encouraged to take the rest of her leave, if she chooses to use it.”

  Collins jerked his gaze from Elaine and nodded. Delaney glanced at Hughes and also nodded.

  Tears welled in Elaine’s eyes. Her voice had calmed. “I’ll begin my leave tomorrow, if that’s acceptable, sir. Good day to you, gentlemen.”

  TWENTY-FOUR

  Monday afternoon, Kensington

  The woman who opened the door at La Veuve’s house was short, with the muscular physique of a gymnast. Her brown hair was bobbed just below her ears. She glanced at Costello’s warrant card, beckoned with two fingers for him to enter, then said, “Wait here while I see if Madame is ready to receive you.”

  Costello didn’t reply. He watched the woman disappear through a pair of stained-glass double doors. He estimated her age at forty. She had not offered her name.

  The entry hall of La Veuve’s house had seen better days. White paint peeled in the corners and along the edge of the ceiling. Like stone steps in an old castle, the marble tiles in the centre of the floor had worn more than those on the edge, creating a concavity. Cast iron tables, one on each side of the hall, were crammed with pots of aspidistra, spider plants, and dumb canes, plus twenty or thirty other plants
Costello couldn’t identify.

  The pots sat on newspapers that had been spread across the tables. Costello twisted his neck to read headlines. Le Minute Hebdo, a French newspaper, sported a headline that read, “Le complot de l’immigration pour masquer le crime d’etat parfait.” He translated it aloud, slowly. “The immigration—complot, that’s ‘conspiracy’—masks, hides, the perfect state crime.” He remembered now. Le Minute was a far-right-wing weekly newspaper that supported nationalist politicians and a multitude of anti-government conspiracy theories.

  The newspapers were wet. Pencil-thin tubes of a drip irrigation system ran along the baseboards and up the wall behind each table. Occasional hissing sounds and spurts of mist explained the humid fug of compost and mould that lent to the air of decay. Costello felt every breath required effort. He was about to step back outside into the fresh air when the woman returned. “Madame will see you now in the sitting room.” She stood aside to hold one of the doors open.

  As he passed, Costello asked, “What’s your name, mademoiselle?”

  “Mon nom n’est pas important.”

  French? Her English has a trace of Geordie. Two steps past the door, Costello stopped and turned so quickly the woman nearly ran into him. He held up his warrant card again. “This is a murder investigation. I decide what is important. Now…”

  The woman’s blue eyes flashed. “Lydia. Lydia Anstey.”

  “You’re British.”

  “So?” She shouldered past him. “This way.”

  La Veuve’s sitting room had the same humidity and odour of compost as the entry hall. Potted plants abounded, sitting atop almost every available surface. In the centre of the room, an elderly woman dressed in a black pants suit sat in a wheelchair. Her thick white hair swept back from her deeply lined forehead and curled elegantly behind each ear. Her only jewellery was a brooch pinned to the left breast of her jacket. It appeared to be a gold and enamel family crest. A small, brown, long-haired dog growled at Costello from her lap.

  Lydia Anstey indicated a chair, then moved to the side. A portable oxygen tank with a breathing mask stood on the floor next to her.

  The older woman regarded Costello sternly. “You are…?”

  “Detective Sergeant Costello, Metropolitan Police. For the record, what is your name?”

  “Madame Claudette Dubuisson-D’Anjou.” Her breathing seemed forced, with a definite wheeze. So she really had been ill, as she’d said.

  “Last Thursday you came to the station with a shoe you found. You stated that you found it behind a potted plant on your front stoop. When exactly did you find it?”

  “I included that in my affidavit.”

  “It’s procedure, Madame. We have to verify. When did you find it?”

  “We returned to the house from La France about three in the afternoon. We went outside to check the plants perhaps an hour later. That is when I found the shoe.” Her breath rattled, and she gave a wet cough.

  “I will try to get this over with as quickly as possible, Madame. When you checked the plants, did you notice any blood on the front porch or on the cast iron railings?”

  “No.”

  “What did you do with the shoe after you found it?”

  “It was dirty, so I gave it to Lydia to clean.”

  “And then?”

  Lydia interjected. “I noticed the blood. That’s about when we heard the news, the murder. Can we hurry this up? Madame isn’t well.”

  Costello nodded. “Madame. Do you know someone named Jean-Paul Duclerq?”

  La Veuve sat straighter. “I thought this was about the shoe.”

  “Please answer.”

  “I’ve known so many people. There are many men named Jean-Paul. Perhaps—” She stared past him. “I don’t know.”

  “Your family estate and the champagne caves are outside Reims, correct?”

  She gave a slight shrug and stared at the wall past Costello’s shoulder.

  “Madame, I know where your family home is located. Jean-Paul Duclerq lives on an estate not three miles from yours. Your families have been close for decades, if not centuries.”

  “Ah, my mind wanders sometimes.”

  “I accept that as yes, then. Do you know his son, René Duclerq?”

  “I have met so many people. J’ai oublié beaucoup d’entre eux.”

  “I appreciate that, but I ask again, do you know his son, René Duclerq?”

  “Didn’t he die?”

  “No, madame. He’s alive. Did he visit you recently?”

  “I’ve had no”—a coughing fit seized her—“visitors since my return.” She extended her hand towards Lydia. “Ma fille, oxygene.”

  Lydia fixed the oxygen mask over La Veuve’s face and turned a valve on the tank. The old woman closed her eyes and began taking deep breaths.

  Costello made a show of consulting his notebook. “Oh, my mistake. Do you know if he visited this house while you were in France?”

  Lydia advanced towards Costello, her face reddening with anger. “Can’t you see she’s ill? She’s nearly ninety years old, and she isn’t well. You need to go. Now! Leave this house!”

  “If your employer has respiratory problems, why does she live in London? Surely she can afford to live in a warm, dry climate? Provence perhaps?”

  “That’s none of your concern. Leave.” She took another step forward.

  Costello stood, calmly closed his notebook, and placed his pen in the inner pocket of his suit. He looked past Lydia at La Veuve, whose eyes were open, staring at him over the plastic mask, her breath rasping.

  “Madame, if you must live in such a cold, damp place, surely you should consider plants that don’t require mouldy compost and constant moisture. Cacti, perhaps?”

  Lydia advanced until her face was inches from Costello’s. She growled. “Get out now. You are not welcome here. If she takes a turn for the worse, I’ll definitely file a complaint.”

  Costello didn’t retreat. “Have you or Madame spoken to another policeman about the murder?”

  “No. Get out.”

  “Have you met with another policeman recently? Late last week perhaps?”

  She clenched and unclenched her fists. “Get out!”

  Costello smiled and moved to the door. “I can find my own way out, thanks.”

  Once on the pavement, he dialled Bull. “Met with La Veuve.”

  “Is she as formidable as you imagined?”

  “No. She tries to be, but she’s old and certainly ill, needs oxygen. She confirmed the affidavit, but when I pressed her on Duclerq, she said she couldn’t remember, claimed senility. Said the Duclerq kid was dead. My arse. I know bloody well he’s in London, or was.”

  “The Duclerq kid?”

  “Sorry. Son of the guy who owns the Peugeot.” He paused. “There’s more, but I don’t want to stand out here talking. Your place, tonight?”

  “Okay. Liz is on obs tonight, so I dunno when she’ll be in. I’ve got news too. Bring Chinese. Something with prawns.”

  “Right. Give me a shout when you get home. I’ve got a bit of research to do.”

  TWENTY-FIVE

  Monday afternoon, Brentford

  It took almost an hour for Elaine to drive home from New Scotland Yard. She stopped twice along the way when tears obscured her vision. By the time she had parked her car and climbed the stairs to her flat, her tears had stopped, and her hands had ceased trembling. She opened a pilsner and stretched on her sofa.

  Enough tears. Think of the positive, Lainie.

  What next? She still had her warrant card. Going “on the sick” didn’t suspend her powers as a police officer. Hughes had mentioned her after-hours investigation. All her days were now after-hours. She had freedom to do what she wanted, when she wanted. Freedom. A two-edged sword. She had been cut loose, with no hope of support from the Met or protection if she got herself into trouble.

  She closed her eyes. Everything comes with a price.

  She opened her eyes to a
dark room and the insistent warble of her mobile. How long had she been asleep? She fished her phone out of her pocket. The time showed 8:07 PM. Peter’s name was displayed. Christ. What could he want? She swiped the green button and answered. “Hope.”

  “You answered that very same way the first time I ever called you.” Peter’s voice was warm and positive.

  “Habit.” Shit, Lainie. Lighten up. “And how did you reply?”

  “That I was full of it. Was then, still am.”

  She shook her head. “An eternal optimist.”

  “About things that truly matter.”

  He still believes I truly matter? I’m so fucked up. “To what do I owe this call?”

  He was silent for several breaths. “Right to business, then. I’ve had something come up. I’m off the next two days, so I thought maybe tomorrow or Wednesday we could get together for a chat, if you’re free.”

  “And what subject warrants such mystery?”

  “Darts at Nelson’s Glory, loser buys the beer.”

  And an arm around my shoulder. In a crowd of people. “I’m not ready. You should know that.” As soon as she said it, she cursed herself. How could he know that? They hadn’t spoken in weeks. He’d always been respectful of limits, and now she’d cut his legs out from under him without knowing what he wanted. “Sorry, Peter. You didn’t deserve that.”

  “No, I didn’t.” His voice lost warmth. “And you should know I’ll behave. Like I said, something’s come up, and I want to talk it over with you face-to-face, not on the phone.”

  “It’s that important?” She didn’t need this distraction, not now. What could he possibly want that he couldn’t tell her over the phone? “It’s not a good time. Something’s come up at my end too, and I don’t know how busy I’ll be the rest of the week. Why can’t you tell me now?”