by Parker Bilal
The creak of leather broke the ensuing silence as Foulkes leaned back in his chair, his hands folded together over his slight paunch. He looked over at Crane.
‘Perhaps this was a mistake.’
‘All my partner is saying is that we need to examine this from every angle.’
‘Which includes treating this as a joke? Dammit, I came here because I think she’s in danger.’
‘We appreciate that, Marco.’ The use of his first name was an offering. Ray was trying to roll it back. The truth was that she too was having trouble suppressing her real feelings. She had never really liked Marco Foulkes when they were growing up. She had stayed at what was then her grandfather’s family home quite often, whenever her parents were going through a bad patch, and later when she was alone with her father and he simply couldn’t cope. It had been a difficult time for her, and she still felt vulnerable talking about it.
The other problem was Drake. They would have to talk. He still carried the attitude of a police officer about him: the suspicion, the sense of authority, of power. If they were to make a success of this game he was going to have to brush up his personal skills.
‘You mentioned an uncle of hers.’
‘I mean, I don’t want to be judgemental.’ Another micro glance in Drake’s direction felt like a cautious feeler. A means of gauging whether he might be treading on sensitive ground. Drake was silent. ‘I just have a feeling about this guy.’
‘A feeling?’ Drake fought the urge to laugh. ‘Meaning you didn’t like the cut of his jib?’
‘The cut of his …?’ echoed Foulkes.
‘Do you have a name?’ Crane interjected quickly. ‘For the uncle?’
‘No, sorry.’ Foulkes shook his head. ‘I only met him once. He wasn’t happy for her to be around men. I got the feeling he was a little jealous. I mean, I think he wanted her for himself.’
‘He said this?’ said Crane.
‘No, he didn’t say it. But it was clear, in the subtext.’
‘The subtext?’ Drake exhaled slowly. ‘So, what you’re saying is that this nameless bearded male relative planned to throw her over his shoulder and cart her off to Arabialand?’
‘Are you taking the mickey?’ Foulkes was offended. ‘Look, I don’t have to put up with this.’ He appealed to Crane. ‘I actually thought I was doing you a favour coming here. You know, your father said …’
‘Hold on.’ Crane lifted a hand. ‘You spoke to my father about me?’
‘I came here partly because I felt sorry for him. He wasn’t doing well.’ Foulkes sighed as he got to his feet and headed for the door. ‘Obviously, that was a mistake.’
‘You seem to have trouble grasping the fact that we actually need clients,’ said Crane, when Foulkes had gone.
She had walked Foulkes to the door. Drake was standing by the window watching their lost client walking towards his car. A nice little two-door Porsche, white with a racing stripe down the middle. It looked like a later version of the 911, not as stylish as the original. The kind of car that screamed insecurity. Holding open the door, Foulkes paused to look straight up at Drake. It wasn’t a kind look.
‘In the Met you were paid whether you solved the crime or not. Out here in the real world, it’s a little different.’
‘Right.’ Drake leaned his weight on the window sill and folded his arms. ‘What exactly is your connection to this guy?’
‘We’ve been over this.’ Crane shooed him away as she went behind her desk. ‘Our families were friends, back in the days when I had family.’
Drake waited, expecting her to go on, but Crane was looking at her wristwatch.
‘Oh, what the hell. Is it too early to go for a drink?’
‘Not by my watch.’
3
The Moonstone was quiet at that hour. The only customers being a skinny, white-haired man in a cloth cap reading a well-creased newspaper and a postman furtively downing half a lager. Drake fetched a large white wine for Crane and a bottle of IPA for himself. They sat in the far corner.
‘What happened to your hand, by the way?’ she asked, indicating the bandage.
‘A mishap in the kitchen. Opening a tin, if you must know. Don’t let anyone tell you cooking is fun.’
‘I’ll try to remember that.’ Crane paused as she stared into her glass. ‘He’ll call back.’
‘What makes you so sure?’
‘The air of desperation about him.’
Drake wasn’t entirely convinced, but he let it go. He wasn’t sure he wanted to see Foulkes again. A ray of sunshine sneaked through the window, briefly lifting the tired air.
‘So, Sir Edmund? You kept that quiet.’
Crane swallowed two large gulps out of her glass.
‘It’s not the kind of thing that comes up in conversation.’
‘Right, but to be clear, we are talking about Edmund Crane? The Iraq War? The fake dossier?’
Crane winced. ‘No need to rub it in.’
Drake was surprised at how much the subject still angered him. It was a long time ago and Ray had nothing to do with it, but still. ‘Sorry,’ he managed to say, quite evenly. ‘I just never saw that coming.’
‘Family. What can I say?’
It was a little more than that. Three years ago, Drake had read the Chilcot report into the Iraq war. Not that he’d expected to find any answers. He’d been in the Met for long enough to have pretty low expectations when it came to bringing politicians to book. They lied and then they were forgiven, or forgotten. It was the name of the game. He never voted, for that same reason. There wasn’t a single one of them that he trusted.
Drake had seen the consequences of their actions. He’d lived through it. The roadside bombs, the men, women and children covered in ash and grey dust. The bodies of mates twisted into unrecognisable corpses in a split second. At a certain point it felt as if there was no enemy, just death. The hot metal of destruction thrust through blood and bone.
He’d read the report because he wanted to know who or what had sent them to their deaths. There wasn’t a day went by when he didn’t think what he would like to do to the people who had engineered the war. He wanted to understand, to come to terms with what he’d seen out there. Later on he realised that he never would, not fully.
One thing he had learned was the name Edmund Crane. One of the foremost architects of the intelligence dossier that linked Saddam Hussein to WMDs. The dossier was a sham, a piece of imaginative fantasy designed to dig into the fears of the nation, offering a forty-five-minute countdown before weapons of mass destruction could be launched. If there was one person in Drake’s eyes who deserved a long and slow death in the lowest depths of hell, it was Edmund Crane.
‘I haven’t seen him in over ten years,’ Crane said, adding, ‘Not after what he did to my mother.’
Drake was beginning to get a sense of how deep this ran with her. He watched her get up and walk over to the bar. He waited until she came back with two large whiskies. So far he’d barely touched his drink, but he sensed this wasn’t the moment to quibble.
‘When Blair decided to throw his lot in with Bush’s crusade to rid the Middle East of anyone willing to stand up to America, my father was the one who constructed the fake dossier.’
‘Tell me about it. I read the report.’
‘Let me ask you a question.’ Crane sipped her drink. ‘What made you join up?’
‘It seemed like a way out.’ Drake sighed. ‘I was trying to get away from something.’
‘You didn’t believe in the war?’
‘I didn’t believe in anything.’ Drake studied the golden colour in his glass before correcting himself. ‘Maybe I just needed a place to belong.’
Ray nodded. They were times when she thought she understood him, perhaps more than he realised.
‘I never figured out what brought my parents together,’ she said, going back into her own thoughts. Marco Foulkes had walked into the office and suddenly this. Everything she had spen
t so long getting away from. ‘The whole thing has always been a mystery to me. Why would two people so clearly unsuited to one another get together.’
‘Maybe it was just instant attraction. No logic to love.’
‘Of course not. Besides, this was the seventies. They were lost in some kind of late hippiedom. They thought they could do anything.’
‘I think drugs had something to do with that.’
‘In his case, for sure. He was a pot head for years.’
‘This would be before he went into the Secret Intelligence Services.’
‘His kind aren’t governed by the same rules. Privileged background, which he always denied, until he didn’t. When he decided to button down and follow the family tradition, the doors opened and he was whisked all the way to the top.’
‘Does this have anything to do with that guy you used to work for?’
‘Stewart Mason?’
‘That’s the one. What did you do for him exactly?’
Crane considered the question. What did she do for Stewart? A lot of things, was the answer to that one. Most of which she was not allowed to talk about.
‘Mostly I wrote assessments.’
‘About?’
‘Risk. Outlining possible outcomes, feasible scenarios. It’s not that complicated.’
‘So you say. Where does Foulkes come into the picture?’
‘Like I said, I spent a lot of time at my grandparents’ house.’ Crane stopped herself. ‘It’s kind of an estate, really.’
‘Fancy name for a castle, isn’t it?’
‘Not quite a castle, but it’s big.’
‘And Marco was across the street.’
‘In a manner of speaking.’ Crane took another belt of her whisky. ‘Marco comes from that background. He downplays it on television because it’s not too cool for his public image as a common or garden writer of the people.’
‘So, this is all just coincidence? He goes home to visit his mother. She takes him over to see your father and he happens to mention that you are running an investigations bureau?’
Crane frowned. ‘I’m not even sure how he would have known that. Like I said, I haven’t spoken to my father in years.’
‘So how did Foulkes find us?’
‘We’ll have to ask him, or rather, we could have asked him before you chased him away.’
‘What happened to the air of desperation that would bring him running back?
Crane smiled. ‘Are you having second thoughts?’
Drake slumped back with a sigh. ‘I’m not sure I’m cut out for this private sector gig.’
‘We’ve been over this. We both know you would never have lasted at the Met. You’re not the institution type. You hate authority, having it or submitting to it. It’s against your nature.’
‘I thought we were talking about the case, not analysing me.’
‘You don’t need me to tell you all this. You’d have got yourself suspended again. It was only a matter of time.’
Drake knew she was right. It was something he had known for years.
‘They scapegoated you, sacrificed you for the good of the force. You were never going to come back from that. They undermined your trust in the whole system.’
‘I made a mistake.’
‘We all make mistakes. You were doing your job within a corrupt institution.’
‘Explain how this conversation turned around from your father to me?’
‘It’s what I do,’ Crane said, lifting her glass in salute. ‘You’re not upset, are you?’
‘Not really. Just so long as I don’t have to go and apologise to Foulkes.’
‘No, I suppose I’ll have to do that.’ Crane gave a long sigh. ‘You shouldn’t have scared him off.’
‘Now you’re being mean.’
‘Sorry. You’re right. I’m a little edgy.’ Crane sat back. ‘I have a date tonight.’
‘Anyone I know?’
Crane threw him a wary look as she reached for her glass. Before she could speak her phone began to buzz. She glanced at the screen.
‘Please don’t say I told you so.’
‘Wouldn’t dream of it,’ said Crane.
4
Clapham Common station was cordoned off, fenced in by a flurry of flashing lights stirring the grey light. Police cars and ambulances were parked up on all sides. Motorcycle officers were directing traffic that was already backed up around the common. A line of disgruntled commuters stood urgently jabbing at their phones as they waited for shuttle buses to ferry them to the next station. DS Kelly Marsh slung her identity badge lanyard around her neck as she pushed her way through the crowd choking the entrance. Milo Kowalski was inside sheltering from the rain. He filled her in as they made their way down the escalators.
‘The head was wrapped in old rags and newspaper. It was placed in a blue nylon IKEA bag, the kind you buy there when you go shopping.’
‘Ah, the bag of choice for psychos. That’ll do wonders for their brand.’
Milo looked sceptical. ‘Not sure that’s going to be their first thought.’
‘What is it about my humour that you never seem to get?’ Kelly sighed. ‘Who found it?’
‘Nine-year-old Tyler. His mother Ruby Brown was with him, along with his baby sister.’ As usual, Milo had already committed the salient facts to memory. The notebook he held loosely was just a prop. ‘Parents split up but got back together a few months ago when Mrs Brown’s mother broke up with her boyfriend.’
‘I hear the makings of a soap opera in there somewhere.’
Milo ignored the remark. ‘That’s why they were on the train. They have to commute now.’
‘Fair enough. I know I’ve said this before, but you might have missed your calling. So, we’re talking about a human head, right?’
‘Yeah, when it’s an alien they call in the woman from The X-Files.’
‘Cute.’ Milo’s attempts at humour never failed to surprise Kelly. He saw the look on her face and shrugged apologetically.
‘Sorry.’
At the bottom of the escalators a collection of uniformed officers was interviewing passengers from the train. Kelly ran an eye over them all slowly, taking in the faces, the ages, the way they dressed. She was looking for oddities, elements that seemed incongruous or out of place. At this point everyone was a suspect. But looking at the tired faces she saw fear and impatience. People wanted to get out of here. Most didn’t care who the dead person was. Not because they were heartless but because it wasn’t their problem. Because in a city like London everyone has a problem and you can’t carry all of them. It was an inconvenience. A delay to their journey. They just wanted to get home, to call their loved ones and tell their story to someone who mattered to them, not to these faceless uniforms. Maybe that was the thing about getting murdered in this town; finding someone who cared enough to do something about it. And that, Kelly surmised, was her role.
By now they were on the platform where the train was still stalled. Up ahead, the stutter of a camera flash exploded in quick succession, lighting up the interior of a carriage at the far end. The platform was crowded with London Transport officials and paramedic crews. A woman in her sixties was being treated for shock, an oxygen mask over her face, her eyes wide.
‘Male, female, what are we talking about?’
‘Hard to tell. First impressions say female. Caucasian. Blonde. Dyed, if you ask me. Full set of teeth. Age, anywhere between thirty-five and fifty.’
Kelly was surprised. ‘You got all that from the CSO?’
‘No, those are my own observations.’
Milo’s confidence was daunting at the best of times. She had the sense that what awaited her inside that carriage was bigger than anything she had dealt with before.
‘Tell me again why I was the last person to hear about this.’
‘There was a mix-up in the list of duty officers. News of your promotion hadn’t come through, apparently. They still had the chief down. When they could
n’t reach him they called me. I just happened to be close by.’ Milo wagged his head in a kind of apology.
‘Why am I not surprised?’
Kelly was having a hard time getting used to her new rank, and not having Drake around to lean on weighed heavily. She knew she had to get past it.
‘Forensics are already going over the carriage, but the clock is ticking. They have to get the line running again. It’s causing all kinds of hell.’
‘Welcome to London. We climb over dead people to get you to work on time.’
‘Do I detect a note of cynicism there, chief?’ Milo grinned.
‘No, that’s just my natural cheery demeanour.’
They came to a halt as they were buttonholed by an irate station manager.
‘Who’s in charge here?’ Broad Yorkshire accent. Fifties, overweight, his shirt collar grubby and frayed, hair thinning.
‘That would be Detective Sergeant Marsh.’
‘Right, and where’s he when he’s needed?’
‘You’re looking at her.’ Kelly enjoyed the look of confusion on his bloated face.
‘Fair enough.’ He took a moment to size her up. ‘Do you have any idea how many people are affected by the fact that we have no service in either direction?’
‘We’re working as fast as we can.’ Marsh didn’t wait for the man to answer. Milo had to jog to keep up with her. ‘Try to keep him happy,’ she said without turning. ‘We don’t want him ringing up the chain of command.’
‘Gotcha, chief.’
Kelly and Milo were struggling to recalibrate their relationship to accommodate this change in their status. References to Drake notwithstanding, on the whole it was going well. Kelly hadn’t changed her style. She still dressed in dark, off-the-peg suits that provided anonymity and some degree of androgynous authority. She never wore make-up and her hair was still dyed jet black and cut in a clumsy, punkish style that recalled the sixteen-year-old anarchist she had once been.
Around the entrance to the carriage high-powered klieg lights had been set up. Cables and generators ran this way and that. Cases of equipment. Cooler boxes. High aluminium tool chests. Another burst of flash guns went off as the SOCO photographer circled, trying to cover all the angles. In the middle of this circus was a large man with greying hair held down by a blue cap that did its best to cut down the level of dandruff scattered on his shoulders. Archie Narayan was the Home Office chief pathologist. He glanced up as Marsh leaned in the doorway of the carriage.
