by Parker Bilal
‘You’re a dancer.’
‘That’s right, I’m a dancer.’ She tilted her nose in the air. ‘My mother was a dancer. My aunts. Everyone in my family dances. I don’t ask people for favours. I only ask them to be fair.’ She pointed a finger at him. ‘Are you being fair?’
‘I’m trying.’
She looked into her glass before taking a long drink. It seemed to settle her. ‘There’s no future in this business. Not for me, not for you, not for anybody. Sooner or later the police are going to kick down the door and take him away.’
‘You think so?’
‘Either that, or someone will kill him.’ She formed her hand into a gun and pointed it. ‘One day. I am sure. I will be the first to spit on him.’
She was younger than Drake in years, but in terms of experience Zelda was a million years older than him.
‘Why don’t you get out?’
Zelda was still. ‘If Goran thought for one moment that I was trying to get out, he would kill me.’
‘Who was he, the man who hurt you?’
‘It doesn’t matter. He’s just a little prick. I don’t care about him.’
‘You don’t want to get him back?’
Her eyes lifted to fix on his. ‘Is that what this is about? You want to take revenge for me. Is this your game?’
‘I don’t have a game.’
‘Everyone has a game,’ said Zelda. She rattled the ice in her glass. ‘Why are you doing this?’
‘I’m just helping.’
‘No,’ she shook her head. ‘Not helping. Nobody is just helping.’
‘Supposing I said I could help you to get out.’
‘Then I would say you are bigger fool than you look.’ She got to her feet. ‘I have to go now.’
26
It was mid-morning, and Heather was extolling the virtues of her raw carrot cake when Crane had a call from Dryden Wheeler. The superintendent sounded weary, as though he was having a hard day.
‘This business at Clapham station, I take it you’ve heard about it.’
‘The severed head?’
‘Exactly. Well, we’re trying to make sense of it, but the general feeling is that we don’t have a lot to go on: no crime scene, no body.’ Wheeler broke off, as if to contemplate his words in more detail. ‘They are trying to kick this under the rug for the moment.’
‘For political reasons?’
‘That’s how it is these days, I’m afraid. Everything is about appearance. The optics, as they put it. Budget considerations and, of course, results. You can’t pour resources into a case if you don’t think there’s a reasonable chance of clearing it. We have to be seen to be acting.’
‘Acting being the operative word.’
There was a faint, uncomfortable ripple of laughter down the line. Wheeler would forgive Crane anything, or almost anything.
‘Perhaps we could discuss it further over lunch?’
Dryden Wheeler was an important ally. Crane knew she would need his help if she ever wanted to secure more work with the Met in future. More than that, she liked him. There was something honest about him. She also knew that he was not happy about the fact that she had withdrawn her name from the rostrum of active forensic psychologists. It was a temporary measure, but a necessary one. Crane was convinced that the future lay not in going through the motions of providing the Met with profiles and assessments, but in breaking away from routine and striking out in a new direction. It was more about her temperament. In that respect she wasn’t all that different from Drake. She preferred to be free, to be her own boss. Now, she found herself trying to break this news to Wheeler in as gentle a manner as was possible. As it happened he made it easier for her.
Wheeler chose a place he knew in Wimbledon. It was a bit of a hike for her but she didn’t mind. A gastropub with a view of the common. You could almost believe you were in a picturesque English village.
‘Your father, of course, was a great asset to the country in his time.’
‘You know my father?’ She could hear the steel creeping into her voice, but there was nothing she could do about it.
‘Not well. We met a couple of times, but I meant more by reputation.’
‘Of course.’
Wheeler leaned back, relaxed. Crane, on the other hand, was feeling decidedly itchy. Places like this, with their cut flowers and dark wood, did that to her. The walls were covered in paintings of trees and horses. It was like a three-dimensional still life. Like being trapped beneath a glass bell jar.
‘I genuinely believe in your contribution. We’re old-fashioned by nature. Breaking the mould is not easy, but we have to change things.’
Crane’s smile was as generous as she could spare. ‘I’m always happy to help, and I feel an obligation to live up to Julius’s legacy. He was always very committed to our forensic work.’
Mention of her former partner and mentor brought an emotional gulp from Wheeler.
‘He was a fine man, and sorely missed.’
‘Yes, he was.’
‘And how’s it working out with Cal?’
‘We’re getting there.’
‘He’s a fine officer and a first-rate detective. I’m still hoping that we’ll get him back one day.’
Don’t hold your breath, was Crane’s first thought, but she kept it to herself. The next few minutes were spent studying menus and deciding what to order. Wheeler was a traditionalist at heart and went for shepherd’s pie, while she chose a Waldorf salad. The waitress was a nervous woman with bad skin who spilled sparkling water on the tablecloth. When she finally left them alone, Wheeler cleared his throat as he turned to the subject he had come to discuss.
‘It’s a delicate matter. I’m not sure how much you know about the case, but I am concerned about the repercussions.’ Wheeler’s face took on a pained expression. ‘DCI Pryce is in charge of the Murder and Serious Crimes Unit these days and right now they have their hands full with current cases. No time to start looking back. We are in the midst of an epidemic of knife crime. Kids as young as twelve stabbing each other. It’s a terrible thing.’ He shook his head at the state of the world. ‘We simply can’t allocate the resources to something like this.’
‘It’s getting a lot of attention in the press.’
‘Well, exactly. A severed head on the Tube. It’s the stuff of nightmares. Pryce is right in the sense that clearing a case like this is not easy. The chances of success are low. But that is not the only consideration.’ Wheeler was silent for the moment. ‘If this is connected to that business with Goran Malevich, then we could end up dragging that whole case back into the spotlight.’
‘You’re uncomfortable with that?’
‘It’s not a matter of being uncomfortable. The point is that we don’t need more stories about corruption in the Met.’
‘You’re thinking about Cal.’
‘Among other things.’ Wheeler began spreading a thick layer of butter onto a piece of bread. ‘He got a rough deal out of that whole business. It was all I could do to stop him being dismissed from the force completely. He did his penance, but, if you ask me, he never really recovered. Dropping out of his own accord.’ Wheeler folded his hands together, bread and butter now forgotten.
‘You blame yourself?’
‘To some extent, yes, of course I do. I was his senior officer. I should have protected him better. But these undercover operations are always tricky. Too many unknowns.’
‘Cal knew what he was getting himself into.’
‘The problem with Cal is that you never know what he’s going to do. I used to say to him, Cal, if only you would commit, you could go as far as you like.’ He brought his gaze back to rest on Crane. ‘But I honestly never knew from one day to the next if he was going to show up.’
‘He has his own ways.’
‘Oh, I’m not saying he was unreliable. Once he got his teeth into a case he stuck with it, come hell or high water. But he’s an individualist, likes to beat his own tra
ck.’
‘I had noticed.’ Crane fell silent as the food arrived. The salad was a disappointment, although Wheeler appeared delighted with his pie.
‘So, tell me, how can I help?’ she said, after a while.
‘I’ve managed to convince the commissioners that what we should do is build up a case, without sacrificing manpower. Can you do a breakdown for us of the perpetrator?’
‘That sounds as if you are taking the case seriously.’
‘Well, I’m old-fashioned that way. I don’t want to upset Pryce, but I do want to have something in hand if this thing goes pear-shaped. These are strange times.’
‘You can say that again. Send over everything you’ve got and I’ll get cracking.’
‘Thank you.’
As they were getting ready to leave she turned to him. ‘Can I ask you one question?’
‘Of course, anything.’
‘You said you’d met my father. How would you describe him?’
‘Well,’ Wheeler shifted his weight from one foot to the other. ‘I remember him as a complex character. But also a man of great sadness. A very lonely man, I thought.’
Lonely was not how Crane would ever have described her father, but it gave her food for thought on the ride home. Back at the office she found Heather feeding the fish.
‘They always look a little grey around the gills this time of year.’
‘I feel the same way,’ said Crane, going behind her desk and sifting quickly through the pile of mail lying there. ‘Did you manage to get anything more on Foulkes?’
‘Ah, the mysterious Mr Foulkes.’ Heather set down the pot of fish food on Crane’s desk and picked up a notepad and pencil. ‘I have to come clean and confess that I was a bit starstruck when I heard he was coming in. I mean, there’s something rather debonair about him, don’t you think?’
‘Debonair?’
‘Not that I’m a big fan of his books.’ Heather’s expression soured. ‘I did some checking and it seems it’s a few years since he had a real success. Doesn’t really surprise me. I tried a couple of them. Too clever for me. I prefer a good old yarn.’
‘I’m afraid I’ve never read him either.’
Heather did a theatrical double take. ‘That’s a surprise. I thought with you and him being old sweethearts …’
Crane rolled her eyes. ‘We played together as children a couple of times, when I was very small. That’s as far as it went. He stole my tortoise and painted on its shell with his mother’s lipstick.’
‘Oh.’ Heather looked askance. ‘Sounds like a bit of a creep when you put it like that. Still, boys will be boys.’
‘So’ – Crane dropped into her chair, suddenly weary – ‘tell me what you found.’
Glancing down at her notepad, Heather said, ‘I did the usual background checks, credit ratings and so forth. More importantly, I managed to speak to a couple of people. One at his old bank. Not easy finding people who still work in banks. I mean, they’ve closed down all the branches. It’s all online now. Remember when you used to queue to deposit a cheque? Those days are long gone. Not that I miss them. Anyhow, according to her, and she wouldn’t give me a lot of detail, Mr Foulkes’ finances are in something of a precarious state.’ Heather looked over the top of her reading glasses. ‘Which is not what you expect with a bestselling author, is it?’
Crane disagreed but she wanted Heather to get to the point, so said nothing.
‘His outgoings are well over his incomings. In short, he’s in debt. Has an overdraft arranged and manages to stay just above water, as it were.’ She removed her glasses this time. ‘Of course, the reason they are so generous with overdrafts and suchlike is that he stands to inherit the family pile. Bit like you in that respect.’
Again, Crane let it go, even though she bristled inwardly at the comparison. She remembered the barn at the Foulkes estate, the old Rolls-Royce in mint condition and the dogs. Something about that scene stuck in her mind. The air of menace she had felt in that barn was palpable. It made the hair on the back of her neck stand up just remembering it. She would never have admitted it, but Cal’s instinct towards Foulkes was proving persistent.
‘Who’s your second source?’
‘A girl who used to captain our old lacrosse team at school.’
‘Lacrosse?’ It took effort to visualise Heather on a playing field of any kind, but Crane managed to summon a rather terrifying picture of a large, bony, hefty figure wielding a stick.
‘She’s a bigwig at one of those big financial services companies.’ Heather rolled her eyes. ‘Hard to believe. I mean she was never voted person most likely to succeed. Far from it. We used to call her Whinging Wendy. Always moaning about one thing or another. Now she’s very glamorous. I think she’s had some work, you know?’ Heather indicated cheeks and lips. ‘Anyway, she was very helpful. She says Foulkes has a lot of tricks up his sleeve, including offshore accounts.’
‘How does she know that?’
‘Well, she doesn’t, not really, but she can read profiles. She recognises the pattern. All of this was off the record, of course.’
‘Did you ask about Barnaby Nathanson?’
‘I did. She actually groaned when I mentioned the name. Mr Nathanson has something of a disreputable record. He has been involved in a lot of very underhand dealings with some very dodgy clients. We’re talking about second-rate oligarchs, so not the top rank but the sleazier crud that bubbles just under the surface. Nathanson has helped lots of these characters to invest in a number of hedge funds, shell companies, property consortiums and, of course, overseas tax havens.’
‘And he’s close to Marco Foulkes?’
‘They went to school together apparently. Old Carthusians.’
‘That’s Charterhouse School, right?’
‘Oh, well done,’ Heather beamed. ‘I didn’t know that until she told me.’
‘Okay, so they’re old school chums and they are doing each other favours. So far, so normal.’
‘Yes, except that it’s not.’ Heather raised a finger. ‘It seems that there is something of a cloud hanging over Nathanson. Wendy mentioned some rather unsavoury friends.’
‘Anything more specific?’
Heather tapped her pencil on the notepad she was holding. ‘When I pressed her, she got all vague and said these were just rumours. So, cold feet. She did mention one name, an offshore investment company called Novo Elysium.’
‘Okay. Well done, Heather.’
Heather was wringing her hands. ‘I have to confess, I’m a little confused. I thought he was our client. Why are we investigating him?’
‘Good question.’ Crane leaned back in her chair. ‘So far it’s just a feeling.’
‘Yours, or Mr Drake’s?’
‘Shouldn’t make a difference, Heather. We’re partners now.’
‘Yes, I know, but …’
‘What’s the problem, Heather?’
‘I don’t know, I just find it difficult. I find him difficult.’
‘Just give him time.’
‘If you say so.’ Heather didn’t sound entirely convinced. ‘What I suppose I’m saying is that I don’t see how investigating our client will help that poor girl.’
‘I understand that. But hopefully it will all come together.’
‘That’s the kind of thing he would say.’
Crane glanced up at Heather and wondered if she had a point. Maybe Cal’s influence was beginning to rub off. She ran an eye over the inbox on her phone and saw a message that had just come in. ‘There you go. Her uncle has confirmed that he’s happy to meet.’
‘So, onwards and upwards, as they say,’ said Heather heavily, as she headed for the door.
27
The sign over the narrow doorway spelled out Wet Wax Wonderama in twisted red and yellow neon letters. Lighted arrows on the staircase drew Drake down into a basement so low he had to duck his head. It was a long room with a short bar at the far end. There were booths with low tables and f
ake white leather upholstery. The kind of place you wouldn’t want to touch anything. There were lava lamps set in little niches and on the tables. Most of them were switched off. Congealed globs of wax in vials of coloured liquid took on the shape of alien lifeforms.
It was deserted if you disregarded the cobwebs. Drake stood for a moment to take stock of the place. He recalled it from the old days. Age hadn’t mellowed the sleazy feel. A door in the back squeaked open and shut to admit a man coming down the narrow corridor beside the bar. Thin, balding and doing up his pants, he wore an Arsenal shirt and a moustache so out of date it matched the wax lamps.
‘How can I help you?’ he asked, wiping his hands on his trousers.
‘Nice touch with the lamps,’ Drake gestured.
‘Yeah, nice.’ The man reached under the counter for a packet of cigarettes and a lighter. He blew smoke over Drake’s head. ‘You looking for something special?’
‘Just looking.’
The man said nothing, just stared, unable to decide what to make of him. Drake thought he could have been Arab, North African probably, Algerian possibly.
‘It’s early. Things don’t usually start to get busy until later. How about a drink?’
‘No, you’re fine.’
The man sniffed, clearly unhappy. He turned as a woman appeared out of the same rear door. Drake put her around her early forties. She wore a lot of make-up and a platinum blonde wig that wasn’t quite straight. The red satin dress might have fit her a couple of years ago but now it was less flattering than pleading for mercy. The slit up the side went as far as it could go in decent company. She fixed a smile on her face as she slid round to his side of the bar.
‘Hello there. What’s your name?’
‘Nash.’
Drake watched her face for any trace of recognition, but she turned away to lift a foot on the bar rail and reveal a little more thigh.
‘I’m Sonja,’ she said. The man did his part by producing a bottle of champagne.
‘A glass, on the house, what do you say?’
He shook water off a glass he’d fished out of a sink somewhere out of sight. Drake said nothing. He watched the man pour, aware that the woman’s eyes were on him.
