by Tania Carver
‘At least I doubt we’ll see anyone else from the station,’ said Imani.
‘That’s the idea.’
Imani sipped her flat white. Just the right ratio of sweet milk to bitter coffee. Good.
‘You come here often?’ She hadn’t meant it as a joke but a serious enquiry.
‘When we’re out shopping on a weekend. Hannah and I often pop in. It’s a nice place.’
Something almost defensive yet apologetic behind his words. Imani didn’t probe further. She felt Matthews was feeling he had opened up enough about himself and his private life for one day.
‘So,’ she said, leaning forward, ‘what did you want to talk to me about?’
He gave a furtive look around as if he was a bad spy in an even worse spy movie. But still he didn’t speak. She suspected she knew what he wanted to say, or rather who he wanted to voice his concerns about, and it didn’t come easily to a man like him. A rank and file follower. Even for the greater good.
She decided to nudge him along. ‘It’s about Beresford, isn’t it?’
He looked at his coffee. Nodded.
‘About the way he’s running this investigation?’
Another nod towards the coffee. A sigh, struggling to allow the words out.
‘Well,’ said Imani, realising she was going to have to start, ‘I don’t think our CIO is running this investigation very effectively. Do you agree?’
‘Yes,’ he said, the word tumbling out like a great weight had been lifted from his shoulders.
‘The way he treated the information you discovered, the work we did yesterday, the way he dismissed what to do next, it’s like he doesn’t want this case to go anywhere. Is he always like this?’
‘No,’ said Matthews, eventually finding his voice, ‘he’s usually good. You know, on the ball, taking decisions, good on intuition too. Knows the right way to take an investigation. Follows up all the leads. But not this time, for some reason. It’s like he’s…’ Another sigh. ‘Oh, I don’t know. I don’t like talking about him like this. Feels disloyal. Not only that.’ He leaned forward even further. Drawing attention to himself rather than deflecting it. ‘This goes against everything I believe in, telling you this. My job’s on the line here. I’m up for promotion. Higher grade, bigger pension, everything.’
‘I know what you mean. I’d feel exactly the same if it was my boss. Totally disloyal.’ She locked her eyes with his. ‘But it’s my boss we’re trying to find. And I have to say, I’m not too impressed. Not by you, I mean. Beresford.’
Another nod from Matthews.
‘I mean,’ Imani continued, ‘there’s no PMs for any of the victims yet. What’s the excuse for that?’
‘Backlog, the boss said. You know that. It hasn’t yet been given priority so we can’t expect to get them quickly.’
Imani couldn’t believe what she was hearing. ‘Is he having a laugh? Three murders all with the same name in the pocket and it hasn’t been given priority? And the person whose name they all have has gone missing? And he’s a copper? Nope. Don’t buy it. Not for one second. That would have gone straight to the top of the pile.’
Matthews chose that moment to become defensive. ‘Maybe we don’t have the resources that you have in West Mids. Maybe we have to make do with what we’ve got.’ His voice unexpectedly fiery.
Imani drew back. Knew he was finding this difficult. Decided to continue in a more conciliatory tone. She wanted him onside, after all. ‘Sorry. That’s not what I meant at all and I apologise if it came out that way. All I meant was that Beresford doesn’t seem to be running this investigation in a way that’ll get results. That’s all. Like his eye’s off the ball. Not looking where he’s supposed to be looking.’
He said nothing. She continued.
‘And I think you feel the same way, Simon. You wouldn’t have brought me here for this chat if you didn’t, would you?’
Another sigh. ‘It’s… I don’t like grassing on a senior officer. Especially one I respect and admire and have to work with when you’ve gone back to Birmingham. It’s difficult for me. You have to understand that.’
‘I do, Simon. Really I do. And like I said, I’d feel exactly the same if it was my boss. But I’d also think of myself as a good enough copper to be able to voice those concerns. Especially if the investigation was being put in potential jeopardy. If lives were at stake.’
He nodded once more. Not in defeat, but understanding.
‘So what d’you suggest we do?’ he asked her.
Imani looked round once more. It would be tempting to stay in this café, she thought. Drink another flat white, have some chocolate thing with it. Relax. Put aside all my suspicions and think that everything was going OK. But she couldn’t. She had never run away from a challenge in her life. No matter what the outcome. When she was a kid growing up around Aston, being one of the smartest in the class wasn’t the way to make friends, not the kind of classmates she had. So if she wanted to have friends she had to make sure her body was as sharp as her mind. Because everyone thought the class nerd was an easy target. And she was determined to prove them wrong. And she did. It cost her bruised knuckles, sore ribs and black eyes, but she achieved it. Her father had always told her that if she believed in something then it was worth fighting for, no matter what anyone else said. And she had lived by those words all her life.
She looked at Matthews, saw he was still waiting for answer.
‘What would you do, Simon? If you thought an investigation was being handled wrongly? If you thought that certain procedures hadn’t been followed?’
He shrugged again. ‘Follow them.’
‘Exactly what I would do.’ She stood up, reluctantly relinquishing all thoughts of a second cup of coffee.
‘Right,’ she said. ‘Which way to the morgue?’
30
‘Malcolm?’
Malcolm Turvey turned when he heard his name, teacup nearly at his lip. He replaced it in its saucer, surprised to hear it being said aloud, more than anything. Especially in the tea room he was in where the clientele were aged and conversation never rose above a murmur.
He saw a small black woman with a shock of spiked blonde hair and a taller woman accompanying her. She was a looker: dark, curly black hair, strong Latin features and a figure that could make anything good. Even the jeans and hoodie she was wearing.
He then felt guilty for thinking that way. That was no way to think about a woman. Had a lifetime of working amongst books and reading the Guardian taught him nothing?
The tea room was one of a number on Sir Isaac’s Walk in Colchester, an old building, all visible beams, supports and struts, with old-fashioned crockery and menu to match. The perfect place for beige-jacketed retirees to gather for lunch.
He recognised the black woman immediately. Beckoned them over. Stood up. Remembered his manners.
‘DS Hepburn,’ he said, his voice not as loud as Anni’s had been. ‘Please, come and join me.’
He moved the files, notepads and books he had scattered over the table into one central space and scooped them up, placing them in his oversized messenger bag, dropped it on the floor.
‘Just… just preparing for another walk.’ He smiled. ‘Keeps me off the streets.’
The two women sat down. Looked at him. He noticed Anni staring at him for rather longer than he would have expected. Still got it, he thought. Then realised he should have squeezed that spot on the side of his nose this morning.
‘Well, this is an honour. What can I do for one of our most distinguished ladies in blue?’
‘Ex-lady in blue,’ said Anni, pulling out a chair and sitting down. ‘Retired now.’
‘Oh.’ He hadn’t been expecting that. Somehow the lustre of being greeted by Anni Hepburn – Ms rather than DS now – was tarnished slightly. A lessening of the thrill he usually felt at meeting her.
Not that he was a police groupie or anything, oh no. He would never admit to that. Or having some unhealthy fascination wi
th crimes, criminals and catchers. No. It wasn’t unhealthy. Far from it. He saw it as making a study of important work. You can tell how civilised a society is by how it treats its criminals, he always said. At least he wasn’t a collector of stuff, like other people he knew. Well, not much stuff. Comparatively.
‘So, erm… to what do I owe the pleasure?’ He tried not to look at the attractive woman too much. Didn’t want to make her feel uncomfortable, so just had to content himself with casting surreptitious little sideways glances at her.
‘Still work, Malcolm. Still something you might be able to help me with.’
Malcolm tried to stop grinning. Help. Me. If he had known this was going to happen to him today he would have worn a clean shirt under his anorak. Or at least a cleaner one.
‘Anything. Anything. I’m at your disposal.’
Anni indicated the other woman. ‘By the way, this is a friend of mine, Marina Esposito.’
Marina nodded in greeting.
Malcolm stopped moving, as if suddenly frozen. Had he heard correctly? ‘Marina Esposito? The Marina Esposito?’
‘Erm… yes. I think so.’
He looked at Anni once more. Beaming. ‘Oh thank you. Thank you. For bringing…’ He stuck out his hand, then retracted it, wiping the remains of raspberry jam on the side of his khakis, stuck it out once more. ‘I’m a huge – huge – admirer of yours. Please…’
He took her hand, shook it. Kept eye contact all the while. Smiling. Eventually Marina tried to remove her hand from his. He let it go, slightly ashamed at his actions. ‘Sorry. Sorry. I’m just…’ He sighed. ‘I’ve heard so much about you.’
He noticed Marina share a glance with Anni but couldn’t tell what it meant.
‘So, Malcolm. Help.’
‘Yes. Of course. Anything. How may I assist?’
‘How’s the walk going?’
Malcolm stopped dead in his tracks, mouth hanging open. The walk? That was what they wanted to talk about? ‘Ah. Well. It’s… fine. Actually, yes. After what happened it’s been going great. Twice a week now. Make hay while the sun, and all that.’
‘Good. I want you to tell me – and Marina here – what it was you discovered. Exactly what it was.’
‘Well…’ He settled in, ready to give his spiel.
‘Just the facts, please. Thanks.’ Anni smiled. ‘We’re not punters.’
‘No. Quite. Well. I walked them round the usual haunts, gave them the story, all of that. Then we reached the old Dock Transit building. I’d been on to the company that owns that building, asked them to leave it open. They hadn’t done so, so I had to get one of the punters to pull open a door.’ He laughed. ‘Don’t tell Health and Safety.’
They smiled politely. He continued.
‘We all went inside. The lights weren’t working – again, I’d been assured they’d be left on – so I had to improvise. Lucky I’d brought a torch with me. Then I started my story.’ He paused. ‘And then we found the body.’
‘Hanging?’
He nodded. Swallowed. Excited to be telling them this now. ‘Yes. From the gantry.’
Marina, listening, frowned. ‘That’s a high gantry. Must have been a lot of rope.’
‘Oh yes. Indeed.’ Nodding, eager to tell them everything. Give his own observations, if necessary.
‘Did it look like it had been there a while?’ Anni asked.
He frowned, actually thinking. ‘If you mean were there any marks, signs of the body decomposing, not really. It just looked like a man.’
Anni leaned forward. ‘Did you see anyone? Hear anyone?’
Malcolm shook his head. ‘Like I said, we were just coming in. Just finishing that part of the walk.’
‘You didn’t see any shadows or figures as you were approaching?’ Marina this time.
Malcolm blushed as he looked at her. Marina Esposito, asking him a question… him…
‘Malcolm?’ asked Anni. ‘Think we lost you there.’
‘Yes. Sorry. Right.’
He closed his eyes. Thought back to that night. Tried to go over everything again. The big man and his footballer wife girlfriend. The texting kids. He let his eyes scan the ground once more, tried to see anything… The…
‘Yes.’
He opened his eyes. They were both staring at him. Waiting.
‘I… don’t know.’ He looked away from them both, not able to hold their eye contact.
Marina leaned forward. ‘What d’you mean you don’t know?’
‘Well…’ He couldn’t tell them. Not here, not now. Even if it was Marina Esposito. ‘There might have been a man, hanging around. It was dark. I couldn’t be sure.’
‘A man? Tall? Small? Wide, thin?’
Questions being fired at him, trying to think, trying to do what they had asked of him, trying not to tell them what he was really thinking about… ‘Erm… tall, I think. Big.’
‘Did you tell this to the police?’ asked Marina.
‘Er, no.’
‘Why not?’
‘Well, I er… I don’t know. Like I said I, I maybe didn’t see him. I don’t know.’
Anni and Marina shared another look. Again he couldn’t read it, but it was different from the first one, he knew that much.
‘So what’s happened since that night, then? The investigation.’
Malcolm just stared at her. ‘I wouldn’t know.’
Anni smiled again. ‘Oh come on, Malcolm. I know what you’re like. You’ll have been all over this investigation like a rash. Exciting enough that this all happened in Colchester, but you finding the body? You won’t have let this one go. So what’s happened?’
Malcolm didn’t know whether to be pleased or offended at Anni’s words. But since she had come to him for information – and brought Marina Esposito with her – he decided to be pleased. Flattered even.
‘Well,’ he said, leaning closer, conspiratorially, ‘nothing.’
Anni frowned. ‘Nothing? What d’you mean?’
‘Just that. Nothing. They’re getting nowhere. No information, nothing to go on, the investigation seems to be grinding to a halt.’
‘Who’s in charge?’
‘DS Beresford.’
Marina looked at her. ‘Know him?’
‘Little bit. Was just coming in as I was going. Full of himself. Self-described alpha. You know the type.’
Marina nodded.
‘And he’s not getting anywhere?’
‘No PMs? Forensics? Nothing like that?’
He closed his eyes again. He really wanted to help, wanted to find the missing clue that would put the whole puzzle together, solve the crime. Him. Malcolm, solving the crime. He’d be a hero. Famous. He —
‘Malcolm?’
He opened his eyes again.
‘Lost you again.’
‘Oh. Sorry. No. No, I can’t think of anything more.’
‘Well, thanks, Malcolm, you’ve been a great help. If you think of anything else…’
‘I’ve got your number.’
Anni nodded, her expression once again unreadable.
The two women stood up to go.
‘Thanks for your time,’ said Anni.
‘Thank you,’ Marina echoed.
‘Oh.’
Malcolm stood too. They both looked at him. Waited.
He looked at Marina, gave what he hoped was his most winning smile.
‘Could I… could I have your autograph, please?’
A Thin Line
Things were never to be the same again. She knew it, even as she was saying yes to Fiona. Yes to everything. Yes. Yes. And the more she agreed with her, the more desperately she clung to her, the more she felt her heart weaken. Like Fiona had infected her with a terminal disease. A heroine from an old Gothic romance, diminished by love to waste away to nothing.
Love. That’s what it was. Not infatuation or a phase. Nothing like that. Love. The fortress walls she had worked so hard to keep in place all those years now well and truly breached.<
br />
And even knowing all that, she was powerless to do anything to stop herself.
Fiona had her. Any and every way she wanted her.
She tried to tell herself that it was an equal partnership. That Fiona and she picked the girls together, decided who to single out, how to nurture them. When to turn them out. And Fiona was right. Always right. The girls she chose were always the most damaged, the saddest, yet the most willing. Fiona could size them up straight away. She revealed a natural talent for turning suffering into money.
And Fiona seduced them in ways she had never done, couldn’t have even thought of doing. Not just sexually – although that was involved too, a surprisingly gentle, nurturing and caring weapon in Fiona’s arsenal, at least at first – but in other ways too. Kinder ways. Ways that made it even worse for the girls in the long run. Making them feel beautiful, wanted. Special. Important. All of that. Usually for the first and sometimes only times in these girls’ lives.
Why d’you do that? she asked Fiona after a while. You don’t have to do all that. But she suspected she knew the answer before she’d spoken. The real answer.
Makes it easier for me to control them when I have to, she said in reply. Less trouble. Then I can move on quicker.
I, she noticed. Not even We. Not any more.
The real answer? Because Fiona enjoyed it. Got a kick out of seeing them fall so far. Watching hope die in their eyes and knowing she had been responsible for that. Manipulating them. Her human puppets.
And she could understand that. Because it was something she had got a kick out of herself when she was in charge. But Fiona enjoyed it so much more. Got off on seeing that damage be removed, replaced by a thin sliver of hope, then removed once and for all, the damage brought back tenfold. Fiona thrived on that dark energy.
