by John Harvey
Helen grinned. 'Another bloody disaster! Men, the ones available, the ones you might fancy, they're either gay or they're married and looking for a bit on the side.'
'Like your DI?'
'Will?'
'The way you were talking about him before, I thought ...'
'Will's so married it runs through him like a stick of rock. Shame, sometimes, but there it is. Besides, screwing around on the job ... Disaster, like I said.'
Cordon smiled. 'There was this woman officer, she's moved on now. Dyer. Ann Dyer. Young but ambitious. Confident. It was obvious she'd be going places. Anyway, she said ... a number of times, she said, after work, when we were clocking off like, come for a drink, why don't you? And I'd find some excuse. Not sure why, but I did. But she kept on asking, so finally I said yes and it seemed fine, we got on pretty well, and as we were leaving I asked her, did she, you know, want to come back, back here, and she laughed. Laughed in my face. "A drink, sunshine," she said, "just means a bloody drink."'
'And that's supposed to make me feel sorry for you, I suppose?'
'Not at all.'
Leaning across, she kissed him on the mouth.
'What's that for?' he asked, surprised.
'Don't worry, I don't do sympathy. I wanted to do that outside the pub, but I didn't want to embarrass you in front of your friends.'
He grinned. 'I wish you had, I could've lived off it for months.'
'Tell them about this.' She kissed him harder this time, kissing till he kissed her back. Her arms going round him, his around her until they slid awkwardly sideways and he had to stretch a hand down to the floor to stop one or other of them tumbling off the settee altogether.
A few moments later, he eased himself away.
'What's the matter?'
'I don't know. I...'
'Look, I just want a nice, uncomplicated fuck, okay?
The hesitation was only slight. 'Okay.'
The dog padded away to the far end of the room and lay down facing the other way.
63
They were at the station early, the train already at the platform, Helen was standing just outside the entrance and having what would be her last cigarette before arriving in London and sipping from a cup of coffee from the station buffet. Cordon had been awake before her, up and out with the dog and back again before she'd made it to the shower; coffee then and toast and some music on the stereo she'd asked him to turn down or off and he'd opted for the latter.
'Force of habit. Either that or the bloody news and most days that's too depressing to want to listen to.'
She was looking at one of the photographs: a young man with sun-bleached hair, stripped to the waist, holding a surfboard high above his head and grinning at the camera.
'Your son?'
'Yes.'
'Not bad-looking. His mother's genes, obviously.'
'Fuck off.'
'You ever been out to see him?'
Cordon shook his head.
'Perhaps you should.'
The dog had come with them in the car and now mooched around the platform end, occasionally breaking away to chase seagulls from the station entrance.
'I'd better go,' Helen said, dropping the end of her cigarette down into the cup and closing it with the lid.
Cordon took it from her and dumped it in the nearby bin. 'If you get anything out of Efford ...'
'I'll let you know.'
'Otherwise...'
'As soon as the results come in from FSS, you'll be in touch?'
'First thing.'
Taking hold of his arm, she kissed him quickly on the cheek. 'Close cooperation between forces, something to be encouraged.'
'So they say.'
Midway down the platform, she turned to wave but Cordon and the dog had already gone.
Archway was a part of north London Helen didn't know. Small shops and workmen's cafés and youths in hoodies hanging round on corners, stirring themselves occasionally to spit on the pavement or readjust a low-slung crotch. Wan-faced men with ratty dogs sat close to ATM machines, begging. Four lanes of choked traffic going nowhere fast. Just a short way up the hill beyond the tube station entrance, Dick Whittington had heard Bow Bells summoning him back to become Lord Mayor of London: if he'd seen this lot, Helen thought, he'd have kept on going.
Alan Efford's flat was on the top floor above a kebab shop, the smell of slow-cooked slabs of meat and chilli sauce following Helen up the stairs.
The contrast to how Cordon lived couldn't have been greater. Cardboard food boxes from KFC and McDonald's in the corner beside the sink, empty cans of Carling Black Label and Magners cider, a plate with the remnants of the previous night's ready-cooked meal still on the table. Clothes, unironed and possibly unwashed, hung from the backs of chairs; others were still stuffed down into the bag from the launderette. Perched on top of the microwave, a small television was tuned to the horse racing, the commentary a low litany of runners and riders.
Helen did well not to wince away from the smell of stale air and hopelessness as Efford stepped back from the doorway to allow her in.
He was unshaven, hair akimbo, most probably, she thought, not long out of bed. What had once been a good denim shirt was now stained and coming adrift at one of the seams.
'Thanks for agreeing to see me,' Helen said.
Efford shrugged. 'When you rang me, out of the blue like that, I thought maybe you'd found out something new. You or what's that other copper called? Cordon? Something about what happened to Kelly's pal. But it's not that, is it?'
'Not exactly, no.'
'Yeah? What is it then?'
'You said we might have discovered something new—you don't think it was an accident, then?'
'Yeah, I do. I mean, you know, what else? But that Cordon, he wasn't havin' it, was he? An' you keep seeing it, don't you? Nowadays. On the telly. That programme—what is it?—New Tricks? Old Tricks?—one of those. Where these old geezers start rootin' around these old cases. Cold cases, that what they're called?'
Helen nodded.
'That what this is, then?'
'Sort of, yes.'
He looked at her for a moment, as if making up his mind. 'Look, you want to talk that's fine, but not here. Don't mind taking your life in your hands, there's this caff over on that sort of island by the pub. Quiet and they don't care how long you sit. Tea don't taste like piss, neither. I'll meet you there. Ten minutes. Okay?'
'Why can't we go together?'
Efford grinned and raised an arm, sniffing the air. 'I stink, right? Stink an' I look like shit.'
'That doesn't matter.'
'Does to me. Woman like you. Fit. Don't want be seen having breakfast with a dog like me.'
'It's already afternoon.'
'Still breakfast time. An' don't worry. I ain't gonna do a runner. Ten minutes, right?'
It was twenty and Helen was beginning to look at her watch anxiously when Efford finally walked in. The café itself was not quite what she'd expected, more like one of those little faded hippy places you found in the back streets of Cambridge, piss-poor paintings on the walls and students pecking at their laptops and sipping long-cold cups of cappuccino.
Lunch over, most of the mosaic tables were empty and Helen had chosen to sit near the window with the latte she'd ordered. A quick call to Will on her mobile was diverted, so she left a message, arranging, hopefully, to meet him later, if not first thing next morning.
When Alan Efford did arrive, grinning as he pushed open the door, there'd been something of a transformation. Newly shaved, hair gelled into place, he was wearing black cords and a white shirt, creased but clean, and Helen could see in his day he'd been a handsome man. Still was.
God, she thought, don't tell me I'm getting a thing for older men.
'Want another?' Efford asked, nodding towards her mug.
'Thanks, I'm fine. But you get what you want, I'll pay.'
He took her at her word. Scrambled eggs, bacon, tomatoes, mushrooms, toas
t. And tea.
Helen let him eat.
When the plate was half empty, she said, 'You heard about Ruth?'
'Heather's mum? No, what about her?'
'It was in all the papers, all over the TV. Her daughter from her second marriage, she disappeared. Almost a week ago. I'm amazed you didn't know.'
Astonishment was clear and unfeigned on Efford's face. 'I saw something, about a kid going missing. I never ...' He pushed his plate aside. 'Poor Ruth! That woman ... You can't imagine ...' He shook his head. 'I liked her. She was all right. A bit stuck up, of course. Didn't ever really approve of her Heather pallin' round with our Kelly. Never said, like, but you could tell. When it happened, it all come out. Not from her, but her old man. Simon? What a prick! Ain't got a degree an' a public school fuckin' education, in his book you ain't worth the time of day.' Efford drank some tea. 'He was right, of course, in his way. Not about all of that education malarkey, but right about it bein' my fault what happened.'
'You think so? Really?'
'Never should've let 'em go. Never should've trusted that son of mine to look after 'em. Which he should have done a sight better'n he did. Even so, my responsibility, not his. Should've been me gone out there with 'em or not at all.'
'You went out after, though. As soon as you realised what had happened.'
'Fat lot of good that did. Couldn't see a bleedin' thing.'
'The man who found Kelly later on, he heard you shouting.'
'Good on him. 'Cause they didn't, the girls. Like hollerin' into some blanket. Voice got swallowed up till you couldn't hear a bloody thing.'
'He said he heard two voices. Least he thought he did.'
'That'd be Lee then. He went out after me. Stayed till the police come, more or less.'
'He didn't see anything?'
'Fog was still thick as pig shit, wasn't it? Didn't start to clear for ages.'
Helen took a sip from what remained of her coffee, now lukewarm at best. 'There's nothing about the whole business you've thought of since? Something you might not have mentioned at the time?'
'Such as?'
A quick smile crossed Helen's face. 'I don't know.'
"Fraid not.'
'Eat up,' she said. 'Shame to let it go to waste.'
'Don't seem right,' Efford said, when he'd finished. 'Not being able to light up after a meal. Makes you feel like a bleedin' criminal.'
They went and stood outside, Efford bumming one of her cigarettes. The traffic, red buses prominent, was still making its gradual way around the patch of some dozen or so buildings on which they were marooned.
'Lee,' Helen said, 'you see much of him?'
'Now and then. Works not far from here. Paint shop down Holloway Road. Just serving, you know? Mixin' the colours when it's called for. Stuff like that.' He shrugged. 'It's a job.'
'And Kelly?'
'Married, i'n't she? Couple of kids already. Two different fathers, but that's the way it goes. Got a flat over by Camden. Any luck, this one might stick around. The dad. Not short a bob or two, either. Where he gets it, mind ...'
'You think she'd talk to me?'
'She might. Yeah, she might. I could give her a bell.'
'Okay, thanks. And Lee?'
'I don't know. With him I'd be less certain. I said something about it once, I remember, an' he shut me right off. Didn't want to know.'
'Still feeling guilty.'
'I s'pose so. Not that he should.'
'You'll phone Kelly?'
'I'll do it now.'
'I need to get back this evening, but I could talk to her tomorrow. Any time after around ten, ten-thirty.'
Efford already had his mobile in his hand.
Back in Cambridgeshire, Lorraine had collected Jake early from school, taking time off herself so as to take him to the dentist, early afternoon the only appointment she'd been able to get. Together then, they'd picked up Susie from nursery and walked her home, Jake kicking pebbles along the road, shouting every time he scored a make-believe goal.
Indoors, Lorraine settled him down in front of CBeebies and changed Susie before getting the pair of them something to drink and making up a snack plate they could share: grapes, pieces of cucumber, slices of carrot, some segments of a tangerine.
It was while she was doing this that she first saw the man in the field. Just standing there, hands in pockets, looking up towards the house, towards the window. When she looked again, he had gone.
64
That same morning that Helen was travelling up from Cornwall, Ellie Chapin, after consulting the Child Exploitation and Online Protection Centre the day before, made her preliminary report about the Internet sites Simon Pierce had been accessing. The majority, it seemed, were legitimate, either spreading the word about missing children across the World Wide Web, or offering help and support to parents whose children had either died or gone missing. But there were others, around the fringes, whose activities were more suspect. Instances, as yet anecdotal rather than proven, of sex offenders infiltrating groups, either to obtain images or gain information they might conceivably use for their own ends.
The site on which Pierce had met the go-between who'd sent the pictures of Beatrice to her mother, was called Little Angels, presumably after the term many parents used to describe their lost or missing children.
As far as Ellie had been able to discover, the site made available a host of images of young children, mostly, but not exclusively, girls, in addition to stories, some quite salacious and all purporting to be true, about what had befallen children who had either run away from home or been taken.
Attempts, through the server, to track down the owners of the site, had been met with a mixture of obfuscation and outright refusal, and emails sent to the address from which the photos of Beatrice had been sent had either bounced back or remained unanswered. Nothing in Pierce's involvement, however, suggested anything that transgressed legality; none of the images stored on his computer were sexually explicit or in any way improper.
His story as to how he came by the article of Beatrice's clothing stood up, as did his alibi, such as it was, for the evening she had disappeared; his car had been in a garage some miles away and there were no records—this had been scrupulously checked—of any of the local taxi firms picking up a fare at or near his address.
By eight o'clock that evening, thirty-six hours after he was arrested, Simon Pierce was released without charge.
Nowhere to go. No credible sightings, no new information. The continuing trawl of Vauxhall Corsa owners had yielded nothing other than a few false leads. When Will met Helen later, two dodgy coffees and a shared margherita pizza in a small café near the police station, Beatrice Lawson had been missing for almost exactly six days.
'Sorry,' Helen said, curling up a slice of pizza before bringing it to her mouth, 'but I'm starving.'
'You didn't eat?'
'I forgot.'
'How was it anyway?'
'Cornwall?'
'What else?'
'Windy. Beautiful in its way.'
'Not what I meant.'
'I know.' She severed another slice of pizza, ready for eating. 'The girl's death, in a way I think Cordon's right. More questions than answers. And I can understand the coroner delivering an open verdict. But that doesn't mean it has to be murder. I met the guy who was their prime suspect—a real fruitcake, but did he kill the girl? No, I doubt it. Not many other possible suspects, and those there are don't stack up. So, barring the chance there was some pervert out lost in the fog at the same time, accidental death is probably what it was. Slipped and fell. It happens.'
She caught at a string of cheese that had detached itself and wound it round her little finger. Will, more decorous or perhaps less greedy, used his knife and fork to cut off a bite-sized piece.
'Nothing you could see to tie it in with what happened here?'
'Aside from that poor mother? No.'
'Waste of a journey, then, really?'
Helen raised an eyebrow. 'I wouldn't say that.'
'Meaning?'
'Oh, you know ...' A smile playing round the corners of her mouth. 'It's always interesting, meeting people from other forces, seeing how they work. Just in case, this promotion, I have to look outside. And what happened—what might have happened—it's interesting enough. If it's okay by you, I was going to go back down to London tomorrow, talk to the friend of the girl who died. Family she was staying with. Maybe the brother.'
'You think it's worth the time?'
'I don't know. Possibly not. But if you don't need me here ... And I sort of said to Cordon that I would.'
'Beholden to him, are you?'
Helen stuck out her tongue. 'It'll cross a few Ts. After that, it's just a case of waiting for the DNA results to come through.' She tasted her coffee and spooned in more sugar. 'But you. What you told me about Pierce having his car serviced at the same garage where Mitchell Roberts worked—when you first heard that, you must have nearly wet yourself.'
A wry smile came to Will's face. 'You're right there. Though it did seem almost too good to be true. And of course, it was. No way Roberts was still around when Pierce's car was taken in for repair.' He shook his head. 'One of those coincidences that get the juices flowing but turn out to be nothing.'
By the time Will arrived home, Jake had taken himself off to bed in a sulk because Lorraine had refused him seconds of ice cream for pudding.
'I didn't think you liked it at the dentist?' she'd said.
'I didn't. I hated it. He was horrid. He hurt me.'
'Jake, he did not. He was very careful. But if you don't want to see him again soon, you're going to have to do what he said and cut out all the sweets and chocolate and eat less sugary things altogether. Which includes ice cream.'
If looks could kill, Lorraine would have been dead where she stood.
Added to which, Susie, as if absorbing the prevailing mood, had taken to grizzling and refusing whatever blandishments her mother could contrive.
All it needed was for Will to come home with a face like stone, which, of course, he duly did.
