by John Harvey
‘The arresting officer,’ Kiley said, ‘that was him leaving the custody suite just before you this morning? Around forty, suit, bright blue tie?’
‘DS Sandon, yes, why?’
‘I saw him having a drink with Marshall last night; Marshall and the guy who trashed Jennie’s flat.’
‘No law against that.’
‘But more than a coincidence.’
‘Probably. But unless you had your Polaroid camera in your back pocket…’
‘I might be able to do better than that.’
‘How so?’
‘Marshall isn’t the only one with friends inside the Met.’
Seeing his expression, Margaret smiled.
At two thirty the following afternoon, they were both sitting in the fifth-floor office of Paul Bridge, Deputy Assistant Commissioner (CID). Margaret, feeling that Ghost might be deemed frivolous, had opted for a Donna Karan suit; Kiley had ironed his shirt.
Bridge was pretty much the same age as the pair of them, fast-tracking his way up the ladder, Deputy Commissioner well within his sights. He was clean-shaven, quietly spoken, two degrees and a nice family home out at Cheshunt, a golf handicap of three. He listened attentively while Margaret outlined the relationship between Sandon and Marshall, beginning when they were stationed together in Balham, DC and DS respectively. Drinking pals. Close friends. Still close now, some few years on, Sandon apparently at Marshall’s beck and call.
‘I’m not altogether clear,’ Bridge said, when he’d finished listening, ‘if misconduct is where we’re heading here.’
‘Given the evidence-’ Margaret began.
‘Entirely circumstantial.’
‘Given the evidence, it’s a distinct possibility.’
‘Depending,’ said Kiley.
Bridge readjusted his glasses.
‘Sandon’s not just been harassing Peter’s ex-partner, he was also the officer in charge of investigating the assault on Nicky Cavanagh.’
Almost imperceptibly, Bridge nodded.
‘Which was carried out, as almost everyone in Holloway knows, by four of Bob Nealy’s sons. And yet, questioning a few of the Nealys and their mates aside, nothing’s happened. No one’s been arrested, no one charged. And Nicky Cavanagh’s still in a wheelchair.’
Bridge sighed lightly and leaned back into his chair.
‘Marshall, Sandon, Nealy,’ Kiley said. ‘It’s a nice fit.’
‘One wonders,’ Margaret said, anxious not to let the Assistant Commissioner off the hook, ‘how a case like this, a serious assault of this nature, could have been allowed to lie dormant for so long.’
Bridge glanced past his visitors towards the window, a smear of cloud dirtying up the sky. ‘The lad Cavanagh,’ he said, ‘he should’ve been black. Asian or black. There’d have been pressure groups, demonstrations, more official inquiries than you could shake a stick at. Top brass, myself included, bending over backwards to show the investigation was fair and above board. But this poor sod, who gives a shit? Who cares? A few bunches of flowers in the street and a headline or two in the local press.’
Bridge removed his glasses and set them squarely on his desk.
‘I can make sure the investigation’s reopened, another officer in charge. As to the other business, the woman, I should think it will all fade away pretty fast.’
‘And Sandon?’ Kiley asked.
‘If you make moves to get the Police Complaints Authority involved,’ Bridge said, ‘that’s your decision, of course. On the other hand, were Sandon to receive an informal warning, be transferred to another station, you might, after due consideration of all the circumstances, think that sufficient.’
He stood and, smiling, held out his hand: the meeting was over.
Whenever Kiley bought wine, which wasn’t often, he automatically drew the line at anything over five pounds. Kate had no such scruples. So the bottle they were finishing, late that Friday evening, had been well worth drinking. Even Kiley could tell the difference.
‘I had a call today,’ he said. ‘Margaret Hamblin. She managed to sit Marshall and Jennie Calder down long enough to hammer out an agreement. He makes monthly payments for Alice, direct debit, Jennie signed an undertaking to stop harassing him in public.’
‘You think he’ll stick to it?’
‘As long as he has to.’
‘You did what you could,’ Kate said.
Kiley nodded.
There was perhaps half a glass left in the bottle and Kate shared it between them. ‘If you stayed over,’ she said, ‘we could have breakfast out. Go to that gallery off Canonbury Square.’
Kiley shot her a look, but held his tongue.
Almost a year after his first encounter with Dave Marshall, Kiley was in a taxi heading down Crouch End Hill. Mid-morning, but still the traffic was slow, little more than a crawl. Outside the massage parlour near the corner of Crescent Road, two women were standing close together, waiting for the key holder to arrive so they could go in and start work. Despite the fact that she’d changed her hair, had it cut almost brutally short, he recognised Jennie immediately, a cigarette in her hand, talking to someone who might have been Della. But it was probably Della’s turn to look after the kids.
‘Hang on a minute,’ Kiley called to the driver, thinking he’d jump out, say hello, how’s it all going, walk the rest of the way to his meeting near the clock tower. But then, when the driver, questioning, turned his head, Kiley sat back again in his seat. ‘No, it’s okay, never mind.’
When he looked back, a little further down the hill, the women had gone inside.
BILLIE’S BLUES
Angels, that was what he thought. The way she lay on her back, arms spread wide, as if making angels in the snow. The front of her coat tugged aside, feet bare, the centre of her dress stained dark, fingers curled. A few listless flakes settled momentarily on her face and hair. Porcelain skin. In those temperatures she could have been dead for hours or days. The pathologist would know.
Straightening, Resnick glanced at his watch. Three forty-five. Little over half an hour since the call had come through. Soon there would be arc lights, a generator, yellow tape, officers in coveralls searching the ground on hands and knees. As Anil Khan, crouching, shot off the first of many Polaroids, Resnick stepped aside. The broad expanse of the Forest rose behind them, broken by a ragged line of trees. The city’s orange glow.
‘The woman as called it in,’ Millington said, at his shoulder. ‘You’ll likely want a word.’
She was standing some thirty metres off, where the scrub of grass and the gravel of the parking area merged.
‘A wonder she stayed around,’ Resnick said.
Millington nodded and lit a cigarette.
She was tall, taller than average, dark hair that at closer range was reddish-brown, brown leather boots which stopped below the knee, a sheepskin coat she pulled across herself protectively as Resnick came near. A full mouth from which most of the lipstick had been worn away, eyes like seawater, bluey-green. The fingers holding her coat close were raw with cold.
Still Resnick did not recognise her until she had fumbled in her pockets for a pack of cigarettes, a lighter, the flame small yet sudden, flaring before her eyes.
‘Eileen? Terry’s Eileen?’
She looked at him then. ‘Not any more.’
It had been two years, almost to the day, since the last time he had seen her, trapped out in widow’s weeds. Since then, the seepage that had followed Terry Cooke’s funeral had submerged her from Resnick’s sight. Cooke, a medium-range chancer who had punched his weight but rarely more — aggravated burglary, the occasional lorry hijack, once a payroll robbery of almost splendid audacity — and who had ended his own life with a bullet through the brain, administered while Eileen lay in bed alongside him.
‘You found her.’ Resnick’s head nodded back in the direction of the corpse.
As a question, it didn’t require answer.
‘How come?’
&n
bsp; ‘She was there, wasn’t she? Lyin’ there. I almost fell over her.’
‘I mean, three in the morning, how come you were here? On the Forest?’
‘How d’you think?’
Resnick looked at her, waiting.
She gouged the heel of her boot into the frozen ground. ‘Business. What else?’
‘Christ, Eileen.’
‘I was here doin’ business.’
‘I didn’t know.’
‘Why should you?’ For the space of seconds, she looked back at him accusingly.
Resnick had talked to her several times in the weeks before Terry Cooke had died, Eileen seeking a way out of the relationship but too scared to make the move. And Resnick listening sympathetically, hoping she would give him an angle, a way of breaking through Cooke’s camouflage and alibis. Give him up, Eileen. Give us something we can use. Once he’s inside, he’ll not be able to reach you, do you any harm. In the end, Resnick had thought, the only harm Cooke had done had been to himself. Now, looking at Eileen, he was less sure.
‘I’m sorry,’ Resnick said.
‘Why the hell should you be sorry?’
He shrugged, heavy shouldered. If he knew why, he couldn’t explain. Behind, the sound of transport pulling off the road, reinforcements arriving.
‘When you first knew me, Terry too, I was stripping, right? This i’n’t so very different.’ They both knew that wasn’t so. ‘Besides, get to my age, those kind of jobs, prime ones, they can get few and far between.’
She was what, Resnick thought, twenty-six, twenty-seven? Shy of thirty, to be sure. ‘You’d best tell me what happened,’ he said.
Eileen lit a fresh cigarette from the butt of the last. ‘This punter, he said he weren’t going to use a condom, couldn’t understand why an extra twenty didn’t see it right. Chucked me out and drove off. I was walking up on to Forest Road, thought I might pick up a cab, go back into town. Which was when I saw her. Ducked through that first lot of bushes and there she was.’
‘You could have carried on walking,’ Resnick said. ‘Skirted round.’ At his back, he could hear Millington’s voice, organising the troops.
‘Not once I’d seen her.’
‘So you called it in.’
‘Had my mobile. Didn’t take but a minute.’
‘You could have left her then.’
‘No, I couldn’t.’ Her eyes fastened on his, challenging.
The pathologist was driving slowly across the pitted surface towards them, mindful of the paintwork on his new Volvo.
‘I’ll get someone to take you to the station,’ Resnick said. ‘Get a statement. No sense you freezing out here any more than you have to.’
Already he was turning away.
The dead woman was scarcely that: a girl, mid-teens. Below medium height and underweight; scars, some possibly self-inflicted, to her legs and arms; bruising across the buttocks and around the neck. The thin cotton of her dress was stuck to her chest with blood. Scratches to exposed parts of the body suggested that she could have been attacked elsewhere then dragged to the spot where she was found and dumped. No bag nor purse nor any other article she might have been carrying had been discovered so far. Preliminary examination suggested she had been dead not less than twenty-four hours, possibly more. Further tests on her body and clothing were being carried out.
Officers would be out on the streets around Hyson Green and the Forest with hastily reproduced photographs, talking to prostitutes plying their trade, stopping cars, knocking on doors. Others would be checking missing persons on the computer, contacting social services, those responsible for the care and custody of juveniles. If no one had come forward with an identification by the end of the day, public relations would release a picture to the press for the morning editions, push for the maximum publicity on local radio and TV.
In his office, Resnick eased a now lukewarm mug of coffee aside and reached again for the transcript of Lynn Kellogg’s interview with Eileen. As a document in a murder investigation it was unlikely to set the pulses racing; Eileen’s responses rarely rose above the monosyllabic, while Lynn’s questioning, for once, was little more than routine.
In the CID room, Lynn Kellogg’s head was just visible over the top of her VDU. Resnick waited until she had saved what was on the screen and dropped the transcript down on her desk.
‘You didn’t get on, you and Eileen.’
‘Were we supposed to?’
‘You didn’t like her.’
‘What was to like?’
A suggestion of a smile showed on Resnick’s face. ‘She dialled 999. Hung around. Agreed to make a statement.’
‘Which was next to useless.’
‘Agreed.’
Lynn touched her index finger to the keyboard and the image on the screen disappeared. ‘I’m sorry, sir, but what exactly’s your point?’
‘I’m just wondering if we’ve missed something, that’s all.’
‘You want me to talk to her again?’
‘Perhaps not.’
Lynn’s eyes narrowed perceptibly. ‘I see.’
‘I mean, if she sensed you didn’t like her…’
‘Whereas she might open up to you.’
‘It’s possible.’
With a slow shake of the head, Lynn flipped back through the pages of her notebook for the address and copied it onto a fresh sheet, which Resnick glanced at quickly before folding it down into the breast pocket of his suit.
‘She’s a tart, sir. A whore.’
If, on his way to the door, Resnick heard her, he gave no sign.
It was a two-up, two-down off the Hucknall Road, opening into the living room directly off the street: one of those old staples of inner-city living that are gradually being bulldozed from sight, some would say good riddance, to be replaced by mazes of neat little semis with miniature gardens and brightly painted doors.
Eileen answered the bell in jeans and a baggy sweatshirt, hair tied back, no trace of make-up on her face.
‘Lost?’ she asked caustically.
‘I hope not.’
She stood back and motioned him inside. The room was neat and comfortably furnished, a framed photograph of herself and Terry on the tiled mantelpiece, some sunny day in both their pasts. Set into the old fireplace, a gas fire was going full blast; the television playing soundlessly, racing from somewhere, Newmarket or Uttoxeter, hard going under leaden skies.
‘Nice,’ Resnick said, looking round.
‘But not what you’d’ve expected.’
‘How d’you mean?’
‘Terry, leaving me half of everything. You’d have reckoned something posh, Burton Joyce at least.’
‘Maybe.’
‘Yes, well, half of everything proved to be half of nothing much. Terry, bless him, all over. And by the time that family of his had come scrounging round, to say nothing of all his mates, Frankie Farmer and the rest, oh, Terry owed me this, Terry promised me that, I was lucky to get away with what I did.’
‘You could always have said no, turned them down.’
‘You think so?’ Eileen reached for her cigarettes, bent low and lit one from the fire. ‘Farmer and his like, no’s not a word they like to hear.’
‘They threatened you?’
Tilting back her head, she released a slow spiral of smoke towards the ceiling. ‘They didn’t have to.’
Nodding, Resnick began to unbutton his overcoat.
‘You’re stopping then?’ Almost despite herself, a smile along the curve of her mouth.
‘Long enough for a coffee, maybe.’
‘It’s instant.’
‘Tea then.’ Resnick grinned. ‘If that’s all right.’
With a short sigh, Eileen held out her hand. ‘Here. Give me your coat.’
She brought it through from the kitchen on a tray, the tea in mugs, sugar in a blue-and-white Tate amp; Lyle bag, three digestive biscuits, one of them chocolate-faced.
‘You did want milk?’
�
��Milk’s fine.’
Eileen sat opposite him in the second of matching chairs, stirred two sugars into her tea, leaned back and lit another cigarette.
‘The last thousand I had left-’ she began.
‘You don’t have to tell me,’ Resnick said.
‘What was I doing, out on the Forest, your question.’
‘You still don’t have-’
‘Maybe I do.’
Resnick sat back and listened.
‘The last thousand from what Terry left me — after I’d bought this place, I mean — this pal of mine — least, I’d reckoned her for a pal — she persuaded me to come in with her on this sauna she was opening, Mapperley Top. Money was for the deposit, first three months’ rent, tarting the place up — you know, a lick of paint and a few posters — buying towels and the like.’ She rested her cigarette on the edge of the tray and swallowed a mouthful of tea. ‘Vice Squad raided us five times in the first fortnight. Whether it was one of the girls refusing a freebie or something more — backhanders, you know the kind of thing — I never knew. Either way, a month after we opened we were closed and I was left sorting out the bills.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘So you keep saying.’
‘Maybe it’s true.’
‘And maybe it’s you.’
‘How d’you mean?’
She gave a little snort of derision. ‘It’s what you do. Your way of getting what you want. Kind word here, little smile there. All so bloody understanding. It’s all bollocks, Charlie. You told me to call you that, remember? When you were buttering me up before, trying to use me to get Terry locked away.’
Resnick held his tea in both hands, fingers laced around the mug, saying nothing.
‘Well, I didn’t. Wouldn’t. Never would. But Terry didn’t know that, did he? Saw you and me together and thought the worst. If you’d been screwing me, it wouldn’t’ve been so bad, he could have coped with that, I reckon, come to terms. But no, he thought I was grassing him up. And that was what he couldn’t live with. The thought that I was betraying him. So he topped himself.’
