by Neil White
Laura knew who she was looking for: Joe Kinsella. He had planted the seed, hinted that Jack might be getting in too deep again. Laura tried to fight the urge to find out more; she suspected that Joe was just drawing her in so that he could find out what Jack knew, but she couldn’t fight the doubts. What was it about Jack’s story that was making Joe so secretive?
She leant back and looked at the ceiling. Who was the woman who had been at the house the day before yesterday, who was now sharing a hotel with Jack? And why were the police watching her?
Laura thought more about what Joe had said, and remembered that there were some spare rooms on the top floor, furthest from the lift.
She closed her file and went to find Joe.
The basement flat smelled musty when I went inside. It was small, with a dark corridor that went past a box of a kitchen and into a living room furnished with a threadbare sofa and a television on a chipped mahogany table, the wallpaper flowered and old.
My quarry was sitting in a chair in the corner of the room, its filling spewing out through the ragged cloth on the arms. His fingers were steepled under his nose.
‘Why did you follow Susie last night?’ Claude said quietly, the Balkan accent gone now. ‘I said that I would contact you.’
‘You had already,’ I said, trying to stay calm. ‘You were in the pub last night. You came in just after me.’
He tilted his head. ‘You have a good memory,’ he said, ‘and now you see how easy it has been to stay hidden.’ He gestured towards a chair by the window.
The springs creaked loudly as I sat down. ‘I need to record this interview,’ I said, as I rummaged in my pocket for my voice recorder.
‘No,’ he said, his voice stern. ‘That’s not what we agreed.’
‘And neither was the cat and mouse game around London,’ I said. ‘I know you wanted everything your way, but now I’ve found you, I reckon my rules apply.’
‘Then there is no interview,’ he said.
I pulled my phone out of my pocket. ‘Okay,’ I said. ‘I’ll be able to report your arrest at least.’
I pressed nine, and hovered with my thumb over the button, holding his gaze and ready to jab it twice more, but his nerve held steady. I remembered that he was a gambler, poker being one of his vices. Was this a bluff?
‘That’s not what you want though, is it?’ he said. ‘You haven’t come to my home just so that you can report what will be all over the internet within the hour.’ He crossed his legs and tapped his lip with his finger, and then he shrugged. ‘If you want to record it, do it your way.’
I turned off my phone and reached for my voice recorder again. I placed it on the arm of the chair. ‘Tell me your story,’ I said.
He smiled at me. ‘I am Josif Petrovic. I lecture in human quantum energy.’ The Balkan accent had returned. ‘I am from a small village in Serbia called Kovaci, near Kraljevo. I grew up in the mountains nearby, and so I learnt about herbs and flowers, and then I went to university in Belgrade. I am an expert in my field.’
I sighed and looked at the ceiling. My attempt to gain control of the situation hadn’t lasted long. I reached out and clicked off the recorder. I let the silence linger for a few seconds before I said, ‘Well played, Claude.’
He acknowledged the compliment with a nod.
I pulled out my notebook and a pen. ‘So let me ask the one big question, Claude: why now?’
He flashed a look at Susie, and then he looked at his lap, at his clasped hands, and I saw his shoulders slump. When he looked up again, he looked less confident, some of the bravado gone.
‘I’m getting old,’ he said. ‘I’m tired of running and I want to make things right.’
I held out my hands to appease him. ‘Tell me your story.’
Claude sighed and looked at the ceiling. I thought I saw tears in his eyes, and then he looked down to smile at Susie. He took hold of her hand. ‘I knew this day would come,’ he said, his voice soft and quiet. ‘I had a speech prepared, but I can’t remember it now.’
‘I don’t need a speech,’ I said. ‘Just the story.’
He swallowed, and then said, ‘It might not be the story you are expecting to write.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘You want to ask me why I killed my wife, and where I went.’
‘Susie told me that it wasn’t like that.’
He gave a small laugh. ‘It would be easier if it was. For me, anyway.’
‘Easier?’ I said, confused.
‘Yes, easier,’ he said. ‘If I had killed Nancy, I would just have my guilt to deal with, but through all of these years, I’ve had to watch as my name was maligned, and Nancy’s killer stayed free. That made it harder, so much harder.’ He waved his hand at me. ‘And the story wouldn’t be as good for you if I was guilty.’
‘Why is that?’
‘Because the story would be about my capture, nothing more,’ he said. ‘For you, there would be some television interviews, but they won’t pay, and the exclusive in one of the Sundays would sort out some bills, but it would become someone else’s story, book deals done with people who knew me. You would just sink into a bit-part role, a postscript. No, the real headline is not who found Claude, but who killed Nancy.’
‘All I’ve heard so far is Susie’s gut feeling,’ I said. ‘And if you didn’t kill Nancy, why did you go on the run?’
He looked at me and pulled at his beard. ‘Because no one would have believed me,’ he said eventually. He leant forward in his chair. ‘I’ve got a much better story for you, and it will be all your story if you write it.’
I held out my hands. I was listening. But my fingers were trembling.
‘Clear my name,’ he said.
I looked at Susie, who was staring at Claude. ‘People have tried in the past,’ I said. ‘There have been theories, and some wild ones. I’ll be just another crackpot.’
He nodded. He understood. ‘But none have had my story,’ he said, his voice firmer now. ‘Help me prove my innocence, and I’ll go north with you. Press conference, exclusive rights, the whole lot. That’s why you’re here.’ He nodded towards Susie. ‘That’s why she brought you down.’
‘But what if you run out on me?’
He held out his hands and smiled. ‘Then you have this, our meeting. But I’m done running.’
Chapter Twenty-Seven
As Laura walked along the landing on the top floor of the station, with views down into the atrium three floors below, she saw that it wasn’t Joe in the office on the other side of the glass wall, but Rachel Mason, the icy blonde. She was hunched over some papers on her desk and speaking quietly into her phone. Laura hovered in the doorway to listen in to what she was saying, but could catch only murmurs.
Rachel must have sensed her presence, because she turned round and looked at Laura. Her eyes were cold, and Laura noticed that she closed her file with the other hand, the one that had been open on the desk. Laura knew she ought to move away from the door, but she knew that Joe had played her the day before, dropping hints about Jack being in danger, knowing that she would come back. And so she was there, just as he wanted.
Except that he wasn’t there.
Rachel ended her call and swivelled round in her chair.
‘Morning, Laura,’ she said, the smile that flashed onto her lips not reaching her eyes. ‘What can I do for you?’
Laura walked into the room and saw the boxes in the corner, filled with paperwork. Some of it looked old, the edges yellowed and dusty.
‘I just came for a chat,’ Laura said. ‘Yesterday was the first time in a while that I’ve seen Joe, and it’s good to catch up.’
Rachel sat up and smoothed back her hair so that it streamed over her grey suit jacket, her shirt bright blue, the front gaping open at the breast, revealing just the start of her cleavage. Laura felt dowdy in her polyester uniform and pulled herself straight, thrusting her fingers into her equipment belt; then, realising that she just looked awkward, sh
e leaned against the door jamb.
‘What, like in a let’s-go-for-coffee-and-make-idle-talk kind of way?’ Rachel said.
Laura shrugged. ‘Maybe.’
Rachel shook her head. ‘No, you don’t mean that,’ she said, and then gestured towards a chair surrounded by boxes. ‘If you can find a space, sit down.’
Laura had to move some papers and when she looked again at Rachel, Laura saw that she was smiling at her.
‘What’s wrong?’ Laura asked.
‘I can read you,’ Rachel said.
‘I thought I was more enigmatic than that,’ Laura said, sarcasm in her voice.
‘Less than you think,’ Rachel replied.
‘So what do I want?’
Rachel’s eyes narrowed for a moment. ‘You want to find out what I know about whatever Jack’s doing,’ she said. ‘Jack’s visitor was just some woman until yesterday, but now you’re worried.’
‘You don’t have to be a genius to work that out,’ Laura said, her irritation showing. ‘You set up some vague threat to Jack and then wonder why I’m here.’
‘So just come out and ask me what we’re investigating.’
Laura folded her arms. ‘Okay,’ she said, rolling her eyes, frustrated at having to play the game. ‘What are you investigating?’
‘The same as Jack.’
‘But I don’t know what Jack is up to.’
Rachel sat back. ‘Then if you want to know what I’m looking into, ask Jack. If you know nothing, you can’t help me.’
‘And you won’t tell, even though you think Jack might be in danger?’
Rachel just smiled.
Laura sighed, trying not to let Rachel’s smugness wind her up.
‘You need to drop the stand-by-your-man stuff,’ Rachel said. ‘Your first duty is to the job.’
Laura ground her teeth. ‘I know where my duties lie,’ she said.
Rachel stared at her. ‘We are still police officers, PC McGanity Be as loyal to Jack as you want, and I admire you for it, but as soon as you buzz your way in through those secure doors, you lock the rest of the world out. Sometimes we have to sacrifice things. It’s hard, I know that, but if we don’t do the job properly, it just makes it harder for everyone. You can’t expect to get involved with a reporter and then keep his secrets for him.’
‘I don’t need a career lesson from someone who was still flashing her knickers behind the bike sheds when I joined the job,’ Laura snapped.
Rachel’s smile was cold. ‘Be angry with Jack, not me,’ she said. ‘He shouldn’t have told you.’
‘He hasn’t told me.’
Rachel shook her head. ‘I don’t believe you, because I can see your struggle, in here,’ and she tapped the side of her head. ‘Between your uniform and your love life. Not everyone makes the right choice.’
‘And which is the right choice?’
‘The one that makes you happiest,’ Rachel said.
Laura nodded slowly and then stood to go. Just before she got to the door, she turned and said, ‘I don’t know anything about you, and I can see the confidence in your eyes, but I’ve been doing the job longer than you, and there’s more to being a good copper than a sharp suit and good hair. You need to be able to read people, tell when they are lying, and when they are speaking the truth, and you do it badly.’ Laura walked away, feeling angry with herself for losing her temper, but at least she had let Rachel know that she wasn’t to be cowed.
She took a deep breath and looked down as she heard the jangle of her equipment on her belt, saw how her thighs pressed against the cloth. Rachel had used Laura’s uniform against her, made her feel less of a police officer. Laura’s cheeks were burning with rage as she reached the stairs, determined that Rachel wouldn’t get away with that a second time.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
‘So tell me your story,’ I said, my hand poised over my notebook.
Claude Gilbert looked at me, and then at my pen, and for a few moments he just stared at it, as if he knew that there was no going back once he started talking. Then he sat back in his chair and turned the stare towards me again, his eyes bright against the dull grey of his beard, which he stroked with his stubby fingers, the nails chewed down, feathers of loose skin alongside them. When he spoke, his voice was strong.
‘I am the victim of an unbelievable coincidence,’ he said slowly, clearly, and then added, ‘and my wife was not the woman you think she was.’
‘What do you mean by that?’ I asked, sceptical, surprised.
‘Just that,’ he said. ‘I’ve always been the villain, the rogue, the womaniser. That’s what the papers said, that Nancy was the devoted wife, pregnant and loyal. And that picture they sometimes use, you know, the one taken at some garden party, where she’s laughing as she tries to hold on to a straw hat, caught by the wind,’ he scoffed. ‘A real English rose, don’t you think?’
‘There’s a problem,’ I countered, and I nodded towards Susie, who looked at the floor, embarrassed. ‘You were a womaniser.’
He took a deep breath and sat up in his chair. He pointed his finger at me, the tip crooked. ‘That does not make me a murderer,’ he said, stressing every word. Then he sat back with a slump and exhaled loudly. He looked at the ceiling as he spoke, his voice quieter now. ‘I’ve had plenty of time to reflect, Mr Garrett. Twenty-two years, so I know how I behaved, and I don’t care what you think. Yes, I was selfish, a drunk and a flirt, had affairs, but, despite what you think of me, I loved my wife dearly.’
‘And Susie?’ I asked. ‘Did she mean so little to you?’
He looked towards her and smiled, his beard creasing. ‘It’s not about Susie, any of this,’ he said. ‘Back then, Susie was just a good time I once had. I know that sounds cruel, but it wasn’t meant to turn out like this. We’ve talked about it, and things are different now.’
As he turned back to me, I raised my eyebrows.
‘Don’t judge me,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘It is possible to hurt someone you love. And I know I was hurting Nancy, because when I went home and looked into her eyes, I saw a woman I still loved dearly, who was beautiful and who was fun, and who still loved me back.’
‘And what do you think she saw in your eyes?’ I said. ‘Betrayal?’
He slammed his hand on the chair, sending up a small dust cloud and making me jump, a deeper flush to his cheeks now. I didn’t say anything. I let the silence hang there, wanting to hear things his way. He took a few deep breaths, and then he held up his hand in apology. ‘Nothing you can say will change anything. I was in the wrong and so I don’t blame Nancy. I was never there. I was either working or drinking, and when I was at home, I was always too tired to be a proper husband, if you know what I mean.’
‘And gambling?’
He nodded. ‘That too,’ he said, and then he broke into a smile. ‘I was in a lean spell, and so I had to keep on working to earn the stake money.’
‘And while you were watching the cards turn at the casino, Nancy was home alone, in that big house?’
Gilbert nodded, his eyes filled with regret. ‘She was a passionate woman, and she had needs, I realise that now. And because I wasn’t around to fulfil them, she went looking elsewhere.’
That surprised me. ‘What do you mean?’ I asked.
‘What do you think I mean?’ he said, and he leant forward again, his arm resting on his knee, his eyes boring into mine. ‘Nancy was pregnant when she died, everyone knows that,’ he said. ‘It’s what has kept me in the papers, that I buried my pregnant wife alive. But I am going to tell you something that has not appeared in any newspaper I’ve read, so listen well, because this will make your story unique.’
I looked over at Susie, who was watching intently, her bag perched on her knees. I nodded to let him know that I was ready.
He spoke clearly, slowly, just to make sure that I understood. ‘The baby was not mine.’
I opened my mouth to speak, but nothing came out.
Gilbert nodde
d, a look of triumph on his face. ‘You heard me right,’ and he pointed at my notepad. ‘Write it down: she was pregnant with another man’s child.’ He became more animated. ‘You haven’t seen that in the papers, have you?’ he said, his finger jabbing at me.
I shook my head slowly. ‘How can you be sure?’
He laughed, but it was bitter and short. ‘Shall we just say, Mr Garrett, that we weren’t straining the bedsprings too often back then? Oh, there were moments, when Nancy felt needy, or after too much wine, but they were weeks apart. I remember that I was surprised that we could have conceived, but still, it was life-changing, or so I thought. My child, my heir. Why would I think that it was another man’s child?’ He shook his head. ‘It was the scan that made me suspicious, that the expected date of the birth didn’t seem right, didn’t fit in with when we had last been in bed together. And then Nancy changed. She became more withdrawn, cold. I don’t know what her plan had been, whether she had always known that it wasn’t mine, or whether she was just unsure, but then one day she sat me down and told me the news, that the baby couldn’t be mine, that she was carrying another man’s child.’ He licked his lips again. ‘Can you imagine how I felt?’
‘Angry,’ I said, before I had the sense to stop the words. His eyes narrowed and he scowled at me. ‘So whose baby was it?’ I asked.
He sat back, a sour expression in his eyes. ‘A cheap little man, an insurance broker of all things. He did the neighbourhood rounds in his nasty double-breasted suit. This was before internet payments, when the insurance man would call at the house. He must have caught Nancy in a weak moment.’
‘Or a lonely one,’ I said. ‘Or do you prefer your competitors to be as well educated as you?’
‘She was no Lady Chatterley,’ he quipped back. ‘Mike Dobson was his name.’
I scribbled it down and then asked, ‘So what did you do when you found out?’
He stroked his beard again, some of his anger dissipating. ‘I did what all weak men do,’ he said. ‘I ran away. I knew someone with a small lodge in the Lake District, and so I spent a few days there. I did some walking, the clear air did me good, and I drained a few whisky bottles, which didn’t. I just didn’t know what to do. People are different now. Men are different. They weep at everything, from football matches to princesses they have never met, and we have become a nation that pins flowers to road signs.’ He grimaced. ‘Back then, I felt like I had lost everything. I couldn’t face my friends, didn’t know what to do. I was angry and, yes, I wanted to hurt Nancy, but not physically, you understand, just emotionally. So I struck at her in a way that made sense to me.’
