by Ian Mayfield
‘So what’s up?’ he said, as she settled into his arms.
‘I’m just a bit sad.’
He turned his head and looked down into her face. It wasn’t much more than an oval blur, but it pleased him anyway.
‘Brought it home to me this morning,’ she said, ‘all that stuff with my leaving do. I’m actually going.’
‘You’ve only been on the team six months. You can’t be that attached to us.’
‘Special Crime’s the best job I’ve ever had,’ she said earnestly. ‘I must be mad to leave. Still, a promotion...’
‘You said it.’ He squeezed her shoulder. ‘Besides, Film Unit, a lot of PR, just like most of what we do.’
‘I suppose.’ She sighed. ‘But it’s been like a family.’
‘The Met’s a family,’ Zoltan said. ‘And you’ve still got me.’
She said nothing for a while, content to nestle in his embrace. Then suddenly she asked, ‘Why don’t you move in?’
‘Move...?’
‘No reason why not, now, is there?’
‘No.’
‘I love you.’
‘And I love you.’
‘Two good reasons.’ She waited, studying the expression on his face. She decided she didn’t like it. She said, ‘What’re you looking like that for?’
‘Looking like what?’
‘Like you’re expecting something horrible to happen.’
‘Was I?’
‘Yes.’ She poked him in the stomach with a finger.
‘Force of habit, I suppose,’ he admitted. ‘I’m Jewish. It’s in the genes.’
‘Bollocks,’ Anne said succinctly.
Zoltan, with no ready answer to this, sighed.
‘Give me a day or two,’ he suggested.
‘To work out whether the only reason I asked you is to cling onto the team?’ she said, only half joking.
‘To work out,’ he said, ‘whether I can fit all my stuff in your cupboards.’
‘Pig,’ she said.
‘Please.’ He made a face. ‘Something kosher.’
‘Another thing about Jews,’ Anne said.
‘Mm-hmm?’
‘Well, one particular Jew anyway.’ She ran her fingernails across his chest.
‘What’s that?’ He felt himself stir.
‘He’s got such an awfully sexy body.’
Zoltan considered himself with mock puzzlement. ‘Are you sure that’s not bollocks as well?’
‘Not all of it,’ she breathed, caressing the items under debate, her hair brushing his nipples as she kissed his shoulders. ‘Who did you think I meant?’
‘Oh, someone I reckon you’ve been seeing rather a lot of lately.’
‘It’s a lie.’
‘Someone,’ he said, ‘who’s rather good at doing this, for instance?’ He ran his hands down her neck, down to the small of her back and along the cleft of her buttocks, a technique of which she was very fond.
‘Ah,’ she whispered. ‘Oh, him. That policeman.’
‘Got a thing for policemen, have you?’
‘Only one particular policeman.’
‘You know, that’s an astonishing coincidence.’
‘Why?’
‘Because I find a certain policewoman of my acquaintance,’ he said, still caressing, ‘makes me feel like doing certain things that definitely aren’t incorporated in the constable’s oath.’
‘Certain things like what?’
‘Show you,’ he said.
‘Oh, officer...’
They slid deeper under the covers.
Friday
‘Mum?’
‘Mmm?’
‘Would it be all right, d’you think, if I moved into Julia’s room?’
‘Would you like some more toast?’
‘Would it?’
‘What is wrong with yours?’
‘Nothing, I just don’t... It’s a bit small.’
‘I don’t know. Supposing - ’
‘Julia’s not coming back, Mum. She’s married now... Well, good as.’
‘That is the point.’
‘Oh, Jesus.’
‘Don’t blaspheme, child.’
‘Sorry. Look, I just need a bit more space, that’s all.’
‘Then get yourself husband, your own place.’
‘Mum...’
‘Look at you, you are twenty-two years old, you are beautiful. It is only matter of time. You will go to all the trouble of changing rooms and then you will find someone and move out.’
‘Just because Julia moved out when she was nineteen, that doesn’t - ’
‘In fact I don’t understand you at all. You are gorgeous girl, yet you don’t have boyfriend, you hardly see your friends. It is not natural. I’m frightened for you. You will grow into lonely old maid.’
‘Fine one to talk.’
‘What?’
‘Nothing. Look, I’m a copper. It’s not the greatest job if you want a social life.’
‘Then get new job.’
‘I don’t want to. I love what I do and besides, I’ve only just started with this new posting. Some of us have a career to plan, you know.’
‘Career, career! Look at you, Larissa, so tired. It doesn’t suit you.’
‘Oh, yeah? Four years in the Job and you’ve only just noticed? ...Oh, look, I’m sorry. Actually it’s better in Special Crime; the hours are almost normal. You might even get to see me occasionally.’
‘Ha.’
‘Mum?’
‘Very well. You may have Julia’s room. I think it’s just waste of time, though.’
‘Thanks. Really.’
‘But if Julia comes home ever...’
‘’Course, Mum. Thanks.’
‘You know what I think.’
‘I’d better get going.’
‘Do I have a kiss?’
‘Sure.’
‘What is this? A hug?’
‘I’m not going anywhere, Mum. Not now.’
Debbie Clarke’s debit card had been used at nine-thirty the previous evening to withdraw £100 from a Santander cash machine in Mare Street, Hackney E8. Less than twelve hours later Kim Oliver and Marie Kirtland were knocking on the door of a flat two minutes away in Paragon Road. They were here to look for one Philip Meredith. Luke Benton had given this name as that of one of the militants who’d infiltrated the Justice for Mark Watkins pressure group and had cultivated Debbie. A PNC check revealed that a person of that name was currently the subject of a community order for shoplifting. According to his probation officer, he had missed his last two scheduled appointments; this was his current residence.
They knocked, not expecting an answer. These were hardly the most salubrious surroundings in which to wait. They were on the third floor of a massive block of 1950s flats, on the edge of an ugly, sprawling estate of similar buildings. Most of the lights were smashed on the walkways, gang tags covered the brickwork, and the fetid smell of stale piss clung to everything. Across the street stood a row of Victorian terraced houses that had somehow escaped the Luftwaffe and post-war urban redevelopment, but not the harsh economic realities of the new century. Now they were smoke-blackened, boarded up, condemned. Beyond lay more of the same, grimy concrete tenements in every direction, the odd high rise or factory chimney thrusting up between them like giant weeds. Away to the west, half-hidden in the haze, the glass and steel prosperity of the City shimmered smugly on the decay it had helped to precipitate; to the south, the gleaming blue obelisk of Canary Wharf marked where Docklands was rubbing salt in the wound.
It was the sort of place you could kick over a pile of litter and be surprised not to find a syringe underneath.
Marie was peering through the letterbox. ‘Nobody in. Well,’ she sighed phlegmatically, ‘it got us out of the office.’
‘No, wait a minute.’ Kim was in a stubborn mood. ‘We ain’t come all this way for nothing.’
They stood aside to let an elderly black man pass. He spared them not
a glance, eyes fixed on his feet as he shuffled by, as though they didn’t exist. In this neighbourhood, two strangers knocking on a door could only mean bailiffs or the law. Paying them heed was putting yourself in line for trouble.
Marie took another cursory peep and said, ‘Well, we can’t search the place: we haven’t got a warrant and we won’t get one, not on conjecture.’ She straightened up again. ‘Hang about, though. If this is a squat - ’
‘Still gotta have reasonable grounds and besides, it’s civil law, not criminal.’
‘Maybe we don’t need a warrant,’ Marie persisted. ‘This bloke, he’s got previous, right?’
‘Am I blacker than Michael Jackson?’ Kim said, laughing without mirth. ‘All piddling stuff, though. Mostly begging, petty theft, bit of public order, one or two for Class A possession.’
‘So we could go in there right now, if we ask Hackney for - ’
Kim frowned, shaking her head. ‘Wouldn’t wanna risk it.’
‘Come on, Kim, where’s your bottle all of a sudden?’ Marie looked both ways along the desolate walkway. ‘Look, if we’re going to wait,’ she said, ‘couldn’t we talk to some of the neighbours? Least make it look as if we’ve got business here.’
‘We can ask.’ Kim gazed towards the old man, who was just disappearing into the stairwell. ‘Not sure what answers we’ll get.’
‘Oh, I reckon on a few,’ Marie said wryly.
The occupant of the adjacent flat had probably been following developments with an ear to her front door, for she opened it almost as soon as they knocked. She was a small, stout woman in her eighties, with fine, permed white hair like candy floss. Kim unfurled a toothy smile and held out her warrant card.
‘Hello, madam. Detective Sergeant Oliver; this is DC Kirtland.’
‘This about them next door?’
‘We’re looking for Philip Meredith,’ Kim said. ‘We were given next door as his address.’
The woman frowned. ‘Was you now?’
‘We know it’s a squat,’ Kim confided. ‘But that’s by the by. We’re looking for a missing girl, and we think Mr Meredith may know where she is.’
‘Yeah, well,’ the woman said. ‘They may be squatters but they’re still me neighbours. Counts for summink in my book.’
‘I wish more people felt the same,’ Kim agreed. ‘Make our job a lot easier.’
The woman craned out of her doorway and looked around. ‘You best come in. Ain’t wise to be seen talking to the law round here.’
They followed her through to a small, old-fashioned, crumbling but tidy kitchen diner at the back. The woman, who introduced herself as Mrs Brownlie, offered them tea. They accepted.
‘Detectives, eh?’
‘That’s right.’
‘I lived in Hackney all me life,’ Mrs Brownlie said, pursuing her theme. ‘Time was, before the war - before they put these flats up - a detective turning up round here’d be front page news. Only copper we ever seen was the local bobby. We was poor, but we was honest.’
‘You had community spirit in those days,’ Marie said. ‘I think the war did for that.’
‘The Blitz.’ Mrs Brownlie nodded. ‘We was hit hard here, ‘cause of the docks. Course I was only a girl at the time, but I do remember everyone pulling together; we had to. Folk as still had homes took in them what didn’t. Then after the war everybody had to be rehoused, and all the council could afford was cheap rubbish like this.’ She gestured out of the window. ‘Can’t build no community when you’re all stacked up like battery hens. Milk, sugar?’
Kim and Marie supplied their requirements.
‘I ain’t saying everybody on the estate’s bad. Them next door, for instance. Squatters or not, they’re nice people, got time for you. Take me washing down the launderette when I’m bad with me arthritis, stuff like that, bless ’em.’
‘So you know them quite well?’ Kim said.
‘Well as you gets to know anybody these days.’ She took from a cupboard three teacups on saucers which rattled delicately as she balanced them. Best china for visitors, Kim guessed; her mother observed the same custom. Laboriously she filled the kettle from the sink, plugged it in and switched it on.
‘Is one of them called Philip Meredith?’ Marie asked.
‘Phil, yeah. Didn’t know his last name till you told me. Him’s what went down the launderette for me.’
‘Is he in at the moment, d’you know?’
‘Dunno.’ She shrugged. ‘Ain’t seen him for a day or two. Always disappearing off, he is, then popping up again. Trouble with you lot, though he won’t own to it. No idea where he goes.’
‘Like I said, Mrs Brownlie, it’s not actually him we’re after,’ Kim said. ‘We’re looking for a girl; she might possibly’ve come here.’
‘Oh, yeah?’
Kim took the picture of Debbie Clarke from her bag and passed it to Mrs Brownlie. ‘Have you seen her?’
‘The one on the news. The fire in Croydon. Yeah.’ She handed it back. ‘Yeah, I seen her.’ Her visitors looked sharply at one another, not believing their luck. Mrs Brownlie, enjoying their reaction, said, ‘Law after her and all?’
Kim decided to evade a bit. ‘She’s a key witness, but she’s gone missing.’
‘Well, young lady, you’re in luck. So happens she turned up next door - must’ve been Tuesday evening, at that. Banging on the door, crying, making a shocking racket, that’s how come I looked out the window and seen her. Mind you, the rest of ‘em... I dunno - they was around yesterday afternoon, come to think of it. But not since then. I thought there must be summink up.’
‘How d’you mean?’
‘’Cause you two ain’t the first has come asking.’
There was a pause while they digested this. ‘Excuse me?’ Marie said.
‘I assumed he was Old Bill, like you. Right nosey parker, he was.’
Kim asked, ‘When was this, Mrs Brownlie?’
‘Yesterday evening, round sevenish.’ She poured hot water from the kettle into the pot. ‘I come back from the senior centre and there he was hanging around outside next door. When he clocked me he started asking if I seen the girl.’
‘The girl?’ Marie leaned forward.
‘Yeah. Described her very precise like. Didn’t have no photo like you do, mind.’
‘What did you tell him?’
‘Nuffink. Well, I couldn’t, could I? Then later on when I watched the news I realized that was the girl he was talking about. He didn’t leave no phone number so I couldn’t call him back to tell him. Probably wouldn’t’ve anyway. Didn’t like the bugger.’
‘Can you describe him for us?’
‘Let’s see now...’ She poured tea carefully through a strainer. ‘He was medium height.’
‘How so? About my height? Smaller? Larger?’
Mrs Brownlie frowned at Marie. ‘Ain’t easy to tell when you’re sitting down. Bit taller than the both of you, I’d say.’
‘Five ten?’
‘’Bout that.’
Kim wrote it down, with a question mark. ‘Go on, Mrs Brownlie.’
‘Ooh, right. Er, brown hair - light brown. Going a bit on top. Blue eyes. Quite slim.’ She put milk in the tea.
‘Age?’
She thought about this while she transported the tea tray over to the table and sat down. ‘Thirties?’ she ventured. ‘I dunno, everybody looks young to me nowadays.’
Kim smiled.
‘His eyes.’ Mrs Brownlie seemed to tighten up. ‘Didn’t like ‘em. They was... whatchamacallem, cruel.’ She handed them their tea. ‘Help yourselves to sugar.’
‘OK, and what was he wearing? Was he casually dressed or more formal?’
‘Oh, casual. Brown sort of sports jacket, definitely, and... jeans, I think.’
‘Blue jeans?’
‘Yeah, but smart ones, not full of holes and pulled down halfway to your knees like all them kids have ‘em. And a white button-through shirt.’ She watched Kim scribbling all this down. ‘I
think that’s about all I can give you.’
Kim said, ‘I know you said his eyes, but did you notice anything particular, anything strange or unusual? I mean like scars, or tattoos?’
‘No, nuffink like that. Like I say, just that feeling.’
‘Would you recognise him if you saw him again?’
Mrs Brownlie hesitated. ‘Yeah,’ she answered, clearly not liking the implication of a further police encounter. ‘Yeah, I reckon. I can fix him in me mind, yeah.’
‘You’ve been very helpful, Mrs Brownlie, thank you.’ Kim, smiling, put down her pocket book and picked up her tea.
‘Look, I’ll let you have me number. Probably best you ring, rather than come round again. Never know who might wanna smash me windows for talking to the law.’
‘Mrs Brownlie,’ Kim said two cups of tea later, as they took their leave, ‘many thanks for all your help and your time. We’ll be in touch if we need you.’
‘You’ll let me know if you find her, won’t you?’
Kim said, ‘I’ll give you a call. And thanks again.’
‘You’re welcome,’ Mrs Brownlie said, straight-faced, and closed the door behind them.
They wandered a few yards down the walkway.
‘That has to have been Edward Porter,’ Marie said, in tones that dared Kim to disagree. ‘I just wish we’d fucking brought a photo.’
‘Lemme tell you what this looks like to me,’ Kim said, serious, gazing at the squat and then turning to lean over the balustrade. Marie joined her. ‘It looks like Debbie came here looking for a bolthole. Now if that was Porter Mrs Brownlie talked to, means he’s found out where Debbie was before we did. He could already’ve got to her by now.’
‘Bloody hell.’ Marie, frowning, reached inside her bag for a cigarette. ‘If you’re right, God help her if he has.’
‘Let’s go see about that warrant,’ Kim said.
Nina Tyminski signed herself out at five and went quickly down to the locker room. Her turn on obbo again tonight, and by rights she should be home changing, eating and, if possible, catching an hour or two’s sleep. But the prospect held no appeal. Too many things at home depressed her just now and the Job could be depressing enough on its own without that, thank you. Twenty minutes freshening up, then she’d go down to the canteen or Wagamama or somewhere for a bite and be back by seven to drive over to Ballards Way.
