“Note for the record that we’re showing the prisoner a mobile phone, classed as exhibit A.” Quinn turned to Kaufman. “This was found in your prison cell.”
Kaufman glanced at the table. He shook his head.
“Prisoners aren’t allowed phones. You should know that.”
“Don’t be a smart arse!” Quinn snapped. “Are you telling me you don’t recognize the phone?”
Kaufman cracked his knuckles and glared at Quinn. “No I bloody don’t! I don’t care if you try to stitch me up! I have a right to know if that Loughborough grass is dead meat.”
Quinn paused, considering how keenly Kaufman was pressing to know about Griffin’s status. If he had been hired by the Loughboroughs what could they offer him in exchange for killing Griffin? There was no way his prison sentence could be reduced.
Remembering Kaufman’s reaction when he mentioned his wife and daughters, Quinn believed they were the cornerstone. In exchange for Griffin’s death, had the Loughboroughs offered to protect and look after his family? But only if he succeeded in killing Griffin!
“I’m not answering any of your questions unless you answer mine, Mr Kaufman.”
“Then you can get stuffed! I have nothing more to say.”
“When you’re prepared to help me, Mr Kaufman, let me know. In the meantime, I’m ending this interview at 6:26 p.m,” Quinn snapped.
Chapter 10
Silke Carson’s apartment, Tuesday, April 3
Silke Carson’s apartment was in a mid-nineteenth century building consisting of wonderful old lines and gothic Victorian touches, like the gargoyles perched on the roofline. Inside, the three-bedroom flat was furnished with eclectic taste. Silke redecorated on a regular five-year cycle, totally revamping the interiors. Her latest projects included remodeling the bathroom to include a free standing spa bath with Terrazzo floor tiles and installing a “statement” ceiling in her kitchen, redecorating it in earthy neutral tones.
The apartment was much like his mother herself, Idris thought, always reinventing herself so she didn’t date. In her mid-sixties, Silke had last year retired from a demanding job as a biological science technician to concentrate on volunteer projects.
She spent her spare hours as a fundraiser for two local theater companies, as a mentor for a disabled student and as an unpaid consultant for a conservation and environmental group as well as babysitting his nieces.
Night had taken serious hold by the time Idris stood at his mother’s boldly painted front door. Traffic sounds sloshed upwards from the busy street below.
“Idris, darling, it’s lovely to see you, but I’ve got a late dinner date in half an hour.”
“I’m sorry I didn’t call ahead.”
She gave him a keen glance and pulled him inside.
“You’ve been drinking, Idris. What’s wrong? Is it a case at work?”
He paced up and down her living room until he noticed how twitchy she was that he was going to knock one of her antique Wedgwood vases. He contained himself to a corner, jamming ham-fisted hands into his pockets.
“I’ll call Simone and tell her I can’t make dinner,” she said.
He kept his hands in his pockets, not dissuading her.
When she got off the phone she said, “Tea or something stronger?”
“Trending News wants to dig skeletons out of Sawyer Starling’s cupboard,” Idris announced.
He placed his phone on the coffee table and Aislinn’s recorded conversation floated out.
Aislinn, Ron’s expecting you to put your usual spin on the news and come up with a spicy angle.
Of course he does! If anyone can dig up a juicy angle on Sawyer Starling it’s me. I don’t believe anyone in show business stays happily married for twenty-five years without a few skeletons in the cupboard. Come on, Troy, let’s find some dirty laundry to hang out.
Idris stared into his mother’s coal-dark eyes through the reflective layer of her spectacles. Skin deeper than coffee, with fine lines radiating from her eyes, she cut a fine figure of a woman. She wore a pale aqua chiffon dress with a deep blue turban covering her head, the bright cloth tied in an intricate knot.
Silke did not dip her eyes from his as she responded, “Rum and coke it is.”
He kept his eyes trained on her upright posture as she busied herself at the bar. She brought two heavy-bottomed glasses back, placing one on the table in front of Idris.
“Who is this woman?”
“Aislinn Scully. She’s one of the main talking heads of Trending News. They distribute via social media, but have been known to be picked up by the traditional TV channels on particularly newsworthy pieces.”
Silke sipped thoughtfully.
“It doesn’t sound as though she knows anything.”
“Not yet,” Idris said morosely. He gulped down his own drink. “From what I know of Aislinn Scully she won’t stop until she breaks this story.”
“Sawyer Starling may have any number of skeletons locked away in his cupboard,” Silke said. “None of which have anything to do with you. After all he’s had thirty odd years to collect them.”
“Something juicier than me? Unless Sawyer’s hiding a gay lover or a stolen Bafta I think I’m going to be Trending News’s juicy morsel.”
Silke walked past the table to place her arms around him. She nearly reached his shoulder and laid her head against his solid frame.
“I’m sorry, Idris. Perhaps I should’ve handled the situation differently. I know it’s hard to understand nowadays, but there was a different moral code thirty years ago.”
“I don’t blame you, mum. You did what you thought was best at the time.”
She sighed. “In the scheme of things does illegitimacy matter any more?” Her tone was hopeful. “If the news comes out, maybe it’ll even be for the best. That way you can openly claim your connection to your father.”
“He’s never been a father to me! Visiting us in secret once or twice a year doesn’t make him my dad!” Idris spat out the words.
Silke stepped back and gave him a stern glance.
“That’s not fair, Idris. Once he got his big break joining The Lord Chamberlain Troupe he always supported us well, and you know it. You can’t blame him for keeping you secret, it was my decision to keep your birth under wraps. Once he was a rising star I didn’t want people to think I just wanted to make your presence public because of his money.” She took another sip of her drink. “You’d better tell Tali, so she’s prepared as well.”
Idris shook his head. “No, it’s not her problem.”
“She’s your sister, so she is involved. Anything that happens to one of us involves all of us. We’re family, and you need to remember that. Especially if times get hard.”
She pushed his phone back towards him and stood to take their glasses into the kitchen. Reluctantly Idris dialed his sister’s number.
“You’ve reached Dr. Natalie Carson. I’m unable to take your call right now, so–Hello?” a warm voice broke into the recorded message.
“Tali, it’s Idris.”
“What’s up, little bro?”
“A reporter is about to start digging into Sawyer Starling’s dark secrets and I can’t promise that she won’t discover his connection to us. I just wanted to warn you so you can be prepared. I know it’s not fair, but some of the fallout may come down on you and Joe and your girls.”
Tali, who had been a confirmed feminist for as long as Idris could remember, had married three years ago at the age of forty-four and produced twin girls as a result of IVF treatment.
There was such a length of silence on the other end of the line that Idris wondered if he’d been cut off.
“Tali?”
“I’m here. You just took me by surprise. Are you saying this reporter knows that Sawyer Starling’s your father?”
“No. Not yet at least. But she’s promised to see what dirt she can dig up on him. It won’t be too difficult to connect Starling to his real name on my birth cert
ificate. I guess it depends on how easily she can obtain a copy of the certificate.”
Sawyer had been Edward Schmeer before an enterprising agent saw the potential in a client with a sexier monicker. Edward Schmeer and Silke Carson were listed as his parents.
“Or what Sawyer tells her. Idris, do you think you should contact him? Warn him what this woman is up to so maybe he can use some influence to stop her digging?”
“You know I can’t do that, Tali.”
“No, Idris, I know that you choose not to contact him. But it’s an option you shouldn’t dismiss if you want to keep this information out of the news!” Her voice took on a sharp edge before softening. “In all these years you’ve never had a father. You need to think about whether you want one now.”
“I’m not going to contact him, Tali. Hell will freeze over first.”
Chapter 11
New Scotland Yard, Wednesday, April 4
Beyond the rows of grouped desks filled with busy-looking police officers discussing life and death matters in seriously quiet tones, the bank of floor to ceiling windows offered a stunning view over the city. As she stared out the window, Remy Knight caught a flash of green cloud moving past the whirling circle of the London Eye. Through the reinforced glass of New Scotland Yard, she couldn’t hear their shrieking cries but she was familiar enough with the small green parakeets to know how noisy they were. Considered a pest by many and a danger to England’s natural birdlife, she couldn’t resist thinking how beautiful and free they seemed, wheeling across the pewter colored sky.
She was startled from her reverie by the approach of a tall, lean woman with short hair swept back into the nape of her neck, so pale a blonde it looked almost white. The eyes that met hers were remarkable, like glittering silver disks. Something in their depths reminded Remy of a wounded animal, and she made a mental note to treat her carefully. Hurt animals liked to be left alone to lick their wounds.
The woman held out her hand.
“Detective Sergeant Remy Knight? I’m Acting Superintendent Rebecca Wynter,” she said.
Her American accent sounded distinct and out of place against the burble of English voices in the background. Remy found it disconcerting, as though she was facing a Hollywood movie star.
She rose and shook the proffered hand, discovering a warm palm and strong grip. So much better than the normal limp fish handshakes presented by most women and some men she met.
“Quite the view, isn’t it? I remember my first day here. I thought it was something special. Come through to, um, to, um, my office.”
Remy noted the stumble over the possessive pronoun, deducing that Bex Wynter didn’t feel totally comfortable in the office she currently claimed. Remy had done her homework and knew that Bex was only acting in the role after Dresden’s departure left the police rumor mill in overdrive.
As she followed Bex into the office, her eyes automatically measured the office space, judging it to be no more than three meters by three meters. Remy was glad the glass partitions stopped the feeling the walls were closing in. No doubt with the current climate of hot desking and office mobility, Bex was lucky to have any office at all.
Bex crossed behind her desk and Remy seated herself opposite. She waited patiently while Bex consulted a slim folder on her desk, most likely her personnel file.
“Thanks for coming into New Scotland Yard before heading out to Bridesmead. I just wanted to welcome you to the Youth Crimes Team,” Bex said.
Remy had been told her direct supervisor was Quinn Standing, so she had expected any welcome to come from him. For a superintendent to take an interest in her appointment to the team made her curious.
“Your superior at Barking gave you a glowing recommendation for this assignment. When did you join the service?”
Remy schooled her expression to dampen her sarcasm. Bex could easily have checked that detail in her folder.
“I’ve been in the job three years,” she answered. “I’m a direct entry detective.”
“And you joined the job straight after finalizing your masters’ degree in philosophy at the University of London? That’s an interesting career choice for a philosophy student.”
Remy offered a polite smile, knowing the statement was really a question. She had fielded this issue at her initial interview to enter the police service. She gave Bex the answer she had given that interviewer, the answer that was expected of her.
“Studying philosophy teaches critical thinking and logical analysis. Those are good skills for police officers I should think.”
She was happy she had selected philosophy. If she had picked something more popular like business or legal studies, the chances were she would bump into another officer who had also studied those courses. Since the degree and transcripts she had provided were all fake, fabricated to cover a period of her life for which she didn’t want to provide an explanation, bumping into someone who had supposedly taken the same course would make her life awkward.
Those intense, silvery eyes still probed, so Remy rolled out another homily gleaned from the Internet.
“As Socrates said, ‘An unexamined life is a life not worth living.’ Do you enjoy philosophical discussion, Superintendent Wynter?”
She had discovered that question, accompanied by an enigmatic smile, usually moved the conversation to different topics.
“Perhaps when there’s more time,” Bex said. “I hope you’re prepared to hit the ground running on this case. I must warn you it’s going to attract high profile media attention.”
Remy’s heartbeat accelerated and she reminded herself that the attention wouldn’t be directed at her.
“Absolutely. Can you tell me what we’re investigating?”
“Have you heard of the Loughborough family?”
Remy gasped.
Bex nodded.
“I take your response to mean that you have. As a criminal organization the family is well established within London. No doubt you’re aware of next week’s court case against Jack Loughborough in which Griffin Loughborough is to give evidence?”
Barely able to breathe, Remy merely nodded.
“We’re investigating Griffin’s shooting yesterday at Coldmarsh Prison.”
“Griffin’s dead?” she blurted.
Shock sent Remy’s thoughts reeling. Poor little Griffin Loughborough, dead before his eighteenth birthday. That could have been me eight years ago.
Remy shivered.
“His death is something I can’t confirm.”
Remy searched Bex’s face for a few seconds, but her deadpan expression gave nothing away.
“Is Jack Loughborough responsible?”
“That’s what the Youth Crimes Team needs to determine. Acting DCI Quinn Standing is in charge of the team but I’ll be closely overseeing this particular case because of its extreme sensitivity. Obviously you’ll be reporting to DCI Standing, but I wanted to stress the importance of confidentiality in this case.”
The intensity of her words, the laser focus of her eyes, reinforced for Remy the significance of this case to the superintendent. Was Bex personally invested in the outcome? Or was solving this case simply a means to prevent a black mark against her name with the upper echelons? And was Remy’s participation merely a coincidence, or fate throwing karma back in her face?
She interlocked her cold, trembling fingers, squeezing them until they were rigid. No matter what, she was in for a difficult time.
“That’s all, Sergeant.”
Remy felt intense relief at the dismissal and rose with alacrity. Then paused at the doorway, wondering if her hasty exit would arouse suspicion. What could she say that would sound sensible and natural?
“I hope I don’t disappoint.”
Bex’s eyes bore into hers as though trying to rip her secrets out by the roots.
“I hope you don’t either,” she said dryly.
Chapter 12
Bridesmead, Wednesday, April 4
Remy’s welcome to t
he Youth Crimes Team office in Bridesmead on Little King Lane, just a stone’s throw from New Scotland Yard, was so rushed as to be non-existent.
Sent one floor upstairs by a uniformed officer on the ground floor, when Remy opened the Youth Crimes Team office door she bumped into an older officer exiting. Brown liquid splashed over the brim of an enormous mug, emblazoned with the logo “Keep calm and call a policeman” on one side. Both of them jerked backwards.
“Bloody lucky that didn’t land on us! It would’ve scorched a hole straight through to China!”
She quickly assessed the man in front of her: mid-forties, with short grizzled hair atop a face that had a number of years on it. He wore a shirt that was misbuttoned so the material bulged over his belt and his tie was askew, listing strongly to the left of center.
She thrust out a hand.
“Detective Sergent Remy Knight.”
“Oh, you’re Reuben’s replacement.” Eli released one hand gingerly from his mug to shake hers. “Eli Morgan. Glad to have you on board to bolster our dwindling numbers. Better come with me, our current esteemed leader doesn’t like to be kept waiting.”
As Eli led her through the open plan office to the investigation room, Remy fought the urge to shade her eyes from the lurid yellow painted walls. Whoever approved that color must’ve been flying high as a kite, Remy thought.
They found Quinn perched on the edge of a desk, immersed in a low-toned conversation on his phone and Eli gave her a quick wink, slouching down into the closest seat.
Remy released a tentative smile in Eli’s direction before stepping backwards to slip into a seat where she had a better chance to take in the entire scene. Ahead of her, Eli sat to one side, nursing his mug. A lumberjack of a man sat in the middle. His pale gray suit highlighted his bulging shoulders and dark umber skin, just as his tight weave of hair emphasized a well-shaped head and strong jaw. Detective Sergeant Idris Carson’s head swung in her direction and he gave her a nod of acknowledgement.
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