by Parker Bilal
There was nobody he could remember.
‘What about you?’ Marsh said. ‘I mean, you and her?’
‘No. I knew that would be a bad idea.’
‘But …’ Marsh set down her mug. ‘You were stringing her along, right? I mean, you let her think that when all of this was over there was a chance?’
‘She was unhappy, Kelly. She’d spent most of her life in a sewer. This was her chance to get out. She knew the risks. She’d seen what happened to people who snitched.’
‘Look,’ Marsh pushed a hand through her short hair, ‘I’m just wondering. The more I hear about this, the more I worry that perhaps it’s not such a great idea for you to be looking into this.’
‘You’re worried about Pryce? You think I won’t be able to get past what he did to me?’
‘You worked the case together. He filed corruption charges.’
‘It was my word against his.’
‘You were demoted, he was promoted. Where did they send you again?’
‘Matlock.’
‘Which most people couldn’t find on a map.’
‘Nowadays most people wouldn’t know one end of a map from the other.’
‘The point is, you would have been drummed out of the force if not for Wheeler.’
Drake was silent. He knew she was right.
‘So?’
‘So what?’
‘So, can I ask?’
‘Sounds like you already are.’
Kelly looked him in the eye. ‘Were you taking money from anyone?’
‘Do I really need to answer that?’
‘Right now it would help. Right now anything would help.’
‘Kelly, this is it. This is the moment to put it all to rest. There won’t be a better time.’
‘Maybe. Tell me about Pryce.’
‘We worked the case together. He was on the outside, I was on the inside.’
‘You trusted him?’
Drake tilted his head. ‘I had doubts. But nothing’s ever perfect, right? When you go undercover you have no choice. You have to hope that whoever is out there has got you covered.’
‘Did you have any reason to suspect him of being on the take?’
Nothing solid was the answer to that. Hints, inconsistencies. Pryce has always had one eye on the career ladder, and bringing in Goran would have been a feather in both of their caps.
‘There was a certain amount of rivalry between us. Nothing wrong with that. Look, Kelly, maybe you shouldn’t be hearing all this. You have a career to think about.’
‘Maybe I’m the best judge of that.’
‘Pryce takes things personally. If he gets the idea you’re siding with me he could get nasty.’
‘Okay, then consider me duly warned. Now tell me why anyone would hold on to her head for so long?’
It was the question that had been going through Drake’s head since this thing first broke. He was still no closer to an answer.
‘Whoever is behind this has been planning it for a long time.’
‘But what for?’
‘Could be for blackmail, or an insurance policy.’
‘Meaning, maybe the people who killed her didn’t trust each other?’
‘Maybe we’re not seeing the big picture. We’re so focused on the idea that it’s about Goran we can’t see anything else.’
‘You’re saying someone else could have been involved back then? Someone nobody could see?’
‘A third party.’ Drake had considered the idea long and hard. ‘The obvious candidate is Adonis Apostolis. He used Goran’s death to move in on his operations. He did very well out of it.’
‘You’ve never taken him down.’
‘Donny is a tricky one. I’ve tried, but he moves around, keeps his nose clean.’
‘You and him are tight.’
Drake glanced sharply at her. ‘Where did you hear that?’
‘I read Pryce’s report. He claimed that Donny killed Goran. Lured him to Brighton, telling him that he had found his witness there, living in hiding.’
‘Gunning down Goran in a car park in Brighton is not Donny’s style.’
‘Maybe it was the only chance he had.’
‘It was a textbook killing, if your textbook was written by Hollywood mobsters.’ Drake shook his head. ‘Donny is a lot more subtle than that. He doesn’t like to draw attention to himself. He’s been trying to go straight for years.’
‘So, what? Somebody was trying to make it look like Donny?’
‘I don’t know,’ Drake admitted. ‘But if you wanted to throw shade onto the obvious suspect, that’s how you would do it. Even if that was the case, it still doesn’t point to Donny killing Zelda.’
‘Goran wouldn’t have gone to Brighton if he’d known she was already dead.’
‘Everything points to a third party.’
Marsh said, ‘So we’re talking about someone in the shadows. Someone nobody thought about at the time.’
‘Someone who was on the inside but kept his head down. A lieutenant, or a foot soldier with ambitions.’
‘No names spring to mind?’
‘None, but we’re making progress.’
Drake felt as though he had been going round and round on a funfair ride with no way of getting off, until now.
‘How do you think Pryce fits into all this?’
Drake glanced round to be sure there was no one within earshot. ‘I think DCI Pryce has a lot of secrets and he’s probably shaken up by this. He’ll try to sit on the case for as long as is humanly possible.’
Marsh tapped her fingernails on the rim of her mug. ‘I get why you turned your back on us.’
‘It wasn’t about you,’ he said, looking over at her. ‘It was about me.’
‘Sure.’ Marsh sat back in her chair and contemplated him. ‘Look, we’re still catching up with last month. Break ins, assaults, burglar-ies, you name it. We’re just treading water, and in this day and age that means the bad guys are way ahead of us. Especially when it comes to in-depth investigations, organised crime.’
‘What are you saying?’
‘I’m saying that if you want to run with it, this thing is yours, unofficially. Nobody’s going to bother you. I can give you as much support as possible, mainly in the form of Milo dredging through the IT stuff.’
‘Can you handle Pryce?’
‘What he doesn’t know can’t hurt him. If he changes his mind and decides he wants to go for it then all bets are off. Until then, you’re welcome to dig around. Unless you’re too busy with all your wealthy clients.’ She raised an eyebrow. ‘That reminds me, the minicab you were interested in? Milo dug up a summary of his movements.’ She reached into her jacket for a sheet of paper, which she handed over.
‘Minicab? So, not Uber?’
‘Puntland Private Cars.’ Marsh spoke as Drake read. ‘Driver’s name given as Lal Ferit.’
Drake ran a finger down the list until he found what he was looking for: Kingsland Road to Pimlico. He looked up.
‘Thanks for this, Kelly.’
‘Just use it wisely.’
Drake folded the paper again and put it away. ‘I let her down, Kelly. I promised I would keep her safe, and I didn’t.’
‘You couldn’t.’
‘Same thing, isn’t it, at the end of the day?’
‘Chief, I hate to break this to you, but you’re a cop, private or otherwise. It’s in your DNA. Your job was to get the bad guys, to use whatever means necessary to get the job done. Goran was the target. He did a lot of bad things, remember?’
‘I remember.’ Drake got to his feet. Kelly put out a hand to touch his arm.
‘Cal, don’t forget you’re not alone on this.’
‘Thanks, I won’t. Just let me know if Pryce decides to change course.’
As she watched him through the window walking away, Kelly couldn’t help wondering if she had made a mistake letting him get involved.
11
The big iron g
ate down at the road stood half open, which was not how Crane remembered things. In itself it was unremarkable, but it felt like a portent of what she could expect to find. Steering the bike through the gap, she twisted the throttle to send the Triumph shooting up the track that wound its way gently up the crest of the hill. To her left was a broad hillside dotted with trees. The grass a deep green. To her right a wall gave way to a high fence that ran alongside the unsurfaced track, separating empty fields from a more densely wooded area.
The sun broke through the indigo clouds as she reached the top and circled in front of the big house. Sunlight glinted off the high windows and painted the honey-coloured sandstone of the big house a rich amber. The driveway was empty but for a battered old white Range Rover that was parked over to one side. Crane climbed off the bike and looked up at the house. Her grandfather always used to tell the story that back in Cromwell’s day a party of his Roundheads had commandeered the house as they headed north to do battle with the Royalists. Stories. This house was full of them. The last time she had been here was more than a decade ago, the day of her grandmother’s funeral. Nothing else would have brought her back.
The front steps were worn and chipped. The original parts of the house were four hundred years old and it had received a few knocks in its time. The front door gave onto a wide vestibule with a chequered black-and-white tile floor. To her left light poured in through the high windows at the far end on the south side of the house. To her right a reception area and beyond that a dining room with views over the hillside down towards the hawthorns and yew trees that shrouded the river.
The only response to her shouted greeting was a heavy sigh that came from her left. She walked through into the drawing room, where a dappled grey mare was chomping contentedly on the stuffing coming out of an antique divan. The horse swung her head round to look at Crane and then carried on eating.
She wandered through the house, making a complete circuit of the ground floor and finding nothing but disorder. Overturned chairs and tables, the remains of what looked like weeks’ worth of discarded food wrappings, empty bottles, whisky, gin and enough wine to sink a caravel. She lifted a bottle up to the light and saw sediment that had dried against the glass. She surprised two mice on the dining table.
A couple of geese were waddling along the upstairs landing. They paused here and there to tug free tufts of wool from the carpet. Her father was in what used to be called the library, although by the looks of it most of the books had been removed. Wearing a dressing gown, he was slumped over the big desk by the window, his long white hair in disarray. Her heart skipped a beat as it occurred to her that he might actually be dead. Then she saw his hand move, crawling across the polished teak towards a glass that had tipped its contents over the desk and onto the floor. Crane walked over and pushed open the windows to let some air in. Her father gave a shudder and sat up with a start.
‘What are you trying to do?’ he asked, squinting at her. ‘Kill me?’
‘If it was that easy, I’d have done it years ago,’ she said, unzipping her jacket and throwing herself down in an armchair. He scrabbled around for his glasses and managed to put them on.
‘What are you doing here?’
‘I came to check whether you were still alive.’
‘You always were the sentimental type.’ He leaned back in his chair and yawned. ‘What day is it?’
‘Does it make a difference?’
‘If you’ve come here to trade insults I’m not in the mood.’
‘What’s going on, Dad?’
‘What do you mean?’ He seemed baffled, as if he had no idea what she was talking about.
‘I mean, look around you.’
‘Look around? Don’t you understand, I’ve been very busy.’
‘I heard you were having problems.’
‘What kind of problems? Look at me.’ He thumped his chest. ‘Sound of mind and body.’
‘I’m not sure that qualifies as an expert opinion.’
Edmund Crane hung his head. ‘You were always a contrary child. Never wanting to do anything you were told. You drove your mother mad.’
‘Please. Don’t bring my mother into it.’
The old man’s lip trembled. ‘Ungrateful and resentful, that’s you. I mean, all of this will pass to you some day.’
Crane threw a glance about her. ‘I hardly think so.’
‘What are you going to do, give it to some socialist charity?’
‘I can’t think of a charity that would take it, other than an animal sanctuary. Are you expecting a flood or something?’
‘Always so cynical. Why are you here anyway?’
‘I heard you were in trouble.’
Edmund Crane was dismissive. ‘Trouble? Nonsense. Where would you hear a thing like that?’
‘Marco Foulkes.’
‘Oh, that fool.’ Edmund Crane’s eyes sought refuge in the window. ‘I tried to borrow money from him. He’s got so much of it, I thought he wouldn’t miss it. All those starry-eyed women buying his shoddy books. I mean, what has the world come to when you can peddle such rubbish as literature?’
‘It’s all gone downhill since Thomas Hardy.’
‘Don’t patronise me. I can’t believe you’re defending him.’
‘I’m not. I certainly didn’t come to talk about his writing. I want to know what he’s been selling you.’
Edmund Crane groaned, putting his hands to his head. ‘I asked him for a loan, just to tide me over. I have money coming in. It’s just tied up in legal issues.’
‘You mean the bank won’t let you remortgage this place again?’
‘When did you become a financial expert?’
‘Why don’t you get your old friends in the Foreign Office to help you? Oh, yes.’ Crane smiled. ‘That would be too humiliating. Asking for help.’
Edmund Crane grumbled to himself as he got to his feet. Stumbling across the room, he began pulling books off the shelves. Whole swathes of them tumbled to the floor until he found what he was looking for.
‘Aha!’ he said triumphantly, holding up a half bottle of Napoleon brandy.
With a sigh, Crane got to her feet and headed for the door, where she paused to look back.
‘Why don’t you get someone to help?’
‘But I have someone.’ The brandy had brought a smile to Edmund Crane’s face. ‘I have Hilda. You should say hello to her on the way out.’
Hilda? It took Crane a moment to remember Marco Foulkes’ divorced mother’s first name. She had been in pursuit of Edmund Crane for years. She vaguely recalled some story about them having been childhood sweethearts or something. The woman she found downstairs in the kitchen had mousey hair, the colour and texture of damp straw. She was wearing yellow rubber gloves and green wellies.
‘He’s not himself,’ she confided.
‘Clearly he can’t manage. I mean, look at the place. He needs help.’
‘Well, that’s why I’m here.’ Her smile was well meant, but shaky.
‘All due respect, Mrs Foulkes, but you can’t be expected to take care of him by yourself. You have your own life. He needs to hire somebody.’
‘Well, he let them all go. The groundsmen, the housekeepers.’ She lowered her voice. ‘He doesn’t like to talk about it, but it’s his finances.’
‘What’s the matter with his finances?’
‘Well, you didn’t hear it from me, but …’ Hilda’s eyes lifted to the ceiling. ‘I understand he made some unwise investments.’
Crane recalled Hilda Foulkes as eccentric and not particularly generous. A vain and rather self-absorbed woman with a fondness for wacky diets and health fads, all of which indicated a fragile grasp of reality. Perhaps Mrs Foulkes had finally taken leave of her senses.
‘Marco explained it all to me. Most unfortunate. Your father put his money into a property company. Shares. Then the company was taken over by Russians, or something like that.’ She paused to frown fiercely at the floor. ‘European
s in any case, or perhaps they weren’t from Europe at all but somewhere in the east.’
Crane’s patience was rapidly running out. It felt like a wasted trip.
‘I can have a word with his solicitors, see if they can shed any light.’
‘Yes, you should.’ Hilda Foulkes’ face lit up like a lantern. ‘I understand you’re helping Marco. He was always very fond of you.’
‘That was a long time ago, Mrs Foulkes.’
‘Hilda, please. We’re practically family.’
Crane resisted the impulse to respond, deciding that compassion might be in order.
‘Well, it’s good he’s got somebody to keep an eye on things.’
‘I’m always here. I mean, I’m just across the way. You should come by some time.’
‘I’ll do that,’ said Crane, with a smile so convincing she almost believed it herself.
12
Tuesday nights at Papa Zemba’s could, generally speaking, be relied on to be quiet. They were playing Gregory Isaacs’ ‘Mr Cop’. On the elevated runway that ran down the central aisle within the U-shaped bar two women were gyrating around vertical poles, their skin glistening with oil and glitter. Behind the bar Zazie stood out like a shining beacon amongst all that darkness. She was standing in for her father. Usually she was a guarantee of a mellow mood. Her father came in early when the strippers were usually on, or later when trouble showed up. Tonight, however, Drake was surprised to find that things were a little more rowdy than normal.
‘Private party.’ As she spoke, Zazie rolled her eyes towards the far corner.
A group of about eight men were drinking hard. On the table at the centre of their booth they had a private dancer, who was doing her best to look as though she was enjoying herself while waving her behind at the men who were clapping and whistling like teenagers. They were young, in their twenties and thirties. One of the men stood up, took a swig of champagne from his glass and spat it all over the dancer. The woman didn’t look too thrilled about this, but the men whooped, stamped their feet and showered her with twenty pound notes, which must have gone some way to easing her annoyance. The man holding the bottle of champagne took a bow.
‘Who is that?’ Drake asked.
‘Zephyr. His friends call him Zef. He’s Donny Apostolis’ nephew.’
