Parkes went silent for moment. Munro heard a sharp intake of breath.
‘The Leen,’ she said, with a heavy sigh.
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘The Leen. That’s what they called her. Aileen.’
‘Aileen who?’
‘Wish I knew.’
West looked on in silence as Munro lowered his pen and gently placed the receiver on the cradle. He stood, slowly stretched, and reached for his coat.
‘You heard that?’ he said.
‘I got the gist of it,’ said West. ‘At least we have a name.’
‘A name, Charlie. Singular. We need two, the second one being more important. Have a word with Tommy, see if he can’t find something on this Aileen lassie, start with the local force by the university, if she was taken in, they’ll have a surname.’
‘If she was taken in, and she was dealing, it was probably false.’
‘We’ll see,’ said Munro. ‘We’ll see. You look tired, are you not hungry?’
West smiled.
‘I’m famished,’ she said. ‘I’ll grab something on the way home.’
‘No, no. Come with me. I know a wee place across the green.’
* * *
Alberto, surprised at the sight of Munro entering the restaurant with a companion, hastily set the table for two and dressed it with a carnation in an empty Orangina bottle.
‘James!’ he said, sporting a grin normally reserved for his youngest daughter, hands clasped beneath his chin. ‘And-a who is this-a beautiful lady? Is-a your daughter, no? Your-a niece, maybe?’
Munro regarded him from beneath a furrowed brow and spoke quietly.
‘She’s in custody,’ he said, flatly. ‘In three hours, she’ll be deported.’
‘Oh,’ said Alberto, snatching the carnation from the table. ‘Is-a shame. You-a still wanna some wine?’
‘Bottle, please. Two glasses.’
West tossed her coat on the banquette and eyed Alberto, in his starched, white shirt and slicked-back hair, flirtatiously.
‘Dinnae think about it, lassie,’ said Munro, as he sat. ‘He’s married. Five bairns.’
West lowered her head and smiled.
‘You know me too well,’ she said.
‘Better than you think, Charlie. Better than you think. Will you take some wine, or would you prefer the usual?’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘Vodka, unless I’m mistaken. You know, the great thing about vodka, is the fact that it’s odourless. It’s the jakey’s tipple of choice.’
West grabbed a menu.
‘Wine’s fine,’ she said, cheeks flushing. ‘Just fine.’
Alberto returned, poured the Barolo and, having never served a felon before, stood cautiously by Munro.
‘So,’ he said, doing his utmost to appear normal, ‘tonight James, you’re-a going to surprise me. Tonight, you wanna try-a something-a new and exciting, something that make-a your mouth say “I’m in-a heaven”, no?’
‘No,’ said Munro. ‘Steak, please.’
‘Steak. It’s-a wonder you don’t-a look like-a cow. And-a for the beautiful signorina?’
West glanced down the menu, tracing the list of mains with her index finger.
‘I’ll have…’ she said hesitating, nervously. ‘I’ll have the aubergine, the grilled aubergine with parmesan, and a tomato salad, please. Tomato and feta.’
Munro laughed aloud, grabbed Alberto by the wrist to prevent him leaving, and stared at West. She raised her eyebrows, momentarily stumped.
‘Alright,’ she said, caving in. ‘Alright, alright. I’ll have the same as him. Steak. Big one. Do you have chips?’
Alberto sighed.
‘We don’t have-a the chips, signorina, we have-a the patatine fritte.’
‘Chips?’
‘Si.’
‘Good. Lots. Thanks.’
West took a healthy glug of wine, followed by another, and sat back.
‘I must be made of glass,’ she said, ‘cos you can see right through me.’
Munro smiled but said nothing.
‘So, what brought you down here?’ said West. ‘What made the south so irresistibly alluring to the monarch of the glen?’
Munro paused before answering.
‘My wife,’ he said, sipping his wine.
‘God, you’re a dark horse, aren’t you? Never even knew you were married. Where is she? At home?’
‘She’s dead.’
West drained her glass and reached for the bottle.
‘Well, that’s a conversation stopper, if ever there was one,’ she said, shocked by his blunt reply. ‘Sorry. I didn’t… well, you wouldn’t, would you? I mean…’
‘It’s okay, Charlie,’ said Munro. ‘Really. Calm yourself. You’ll ruin your appetite.’
West smiled.
‘What happened?’ she said, softly. ‘Was it down here? You moved down here and…’
‘No, no. I came here afterwards. I had to, breathe again.’
‘I don’t understand,’ said West.
‘I was suffocating, Charlie. Jean was… she was… it wasn’t, natural causes.’
‘What? You mean she was…’
‘Arson,’ said Munro.
‘Arson? Fuck. You’re kidding. Why?’
‘Someone wasn’t keen on my… lines of inquiry.’
‘Shit. I am so sorry. Truly. But, hold on, if it was arson, surely that means her death would be…’
‘Murder? Aye. It was murder,’ said Munro.
‘Did you catch them?’
‘Oh, I caught them, Charlie.’
‘Well, I hope they got life,’ said West.
‘Longer than that, lassie,’ said Munro. ‘Longer than that.’
West fiddled with a breadstick, clearly not intent on eating it.
‘It must be, lonely,’ she said, compassionately. ‘I mean, being so far from home and… I mean, you must miss her.’
‘Every waking hour,’ said Munro. ‘But I’m getting used to it. I’m content, now. I’m happy in my own company. Unlike you.’
‘Me?’ said West. ‘What do you mean? I’m fine…’
‘Och, Charlie, come clean, lassie,’ said Munro. ‘You cannae fool me. Someone your age shouldnae be alone. Do you not have a suitor?’
West smiled, warmed by Munro’s antiquated use of English.
‘No,’ she said. ‘I… there was someone, once, but…’
‘I’ll not pry into your past, lassie, least said.’
‘It’s alright, just didn’t work out, that’s all. It was my fault, I’m too, selfish. Too...’
‘Don’t say career-minded. Your nose will grow.’
West smirked.
‘I’d like to be. Career-minded, that is, it’s just that sometimes I wonder if I, you know…’
‘You made the right decision?’
‘Yeah. The problem with me is, see, I hanker after things and, as soon as I get them, I’m bored. I have a habit of screwing things up. Spoiled brat, right?’
Munro drained his glass as the steaks arrived.
‘You’re running from yourself, Charlie. No-one else,’ he said. ‘Stop running and you’ll get there.’
CHAPTER 13
“WHO IS SHE?”
She. Is the tingle.
The frisson. The spark.
She, is the flame, to your third degree burns.
She, is the hunger that riddles your gut, the insomnia that steals your sleep.
She’s the pea beneath the mattress, the stone in your shoe, the itch you cannot reach.
She’s virulent. Infectious. Debilitating. Pernicious.
She, is a walking contradiction.
She, is as beautiful as the dawn, and as dark as the night.
She’s the opposite of good, and the antithesis of evil.
She is as loving as she is loveless.
As vulnerable as she is confident.
As capricious as she is predictable.
As faithful as she is p
erfidious.
As deadly as she is healing.
She’s the girl who was betrayed.
The girl who vowed revenge.
She’s the girl you always look for. And hope you never find.
CHAPTER 14
OSPRINGE HOUSE, WOOTTON STREET, SE1. 7:18am
West, caught between pity and sympathy, and a spiteful sense of triumph, gloated at the sorry sight before her. It was not the Samantha Baker she’d derided 24 hours earlier. Gone was the youthful complexion, the immaculate hair, the bespoke outfit and the radiant smile. She stared, instead, at a dishevelled woman approaching middle age, clad only in a knee length tee-shirt, her skin, dry, her hair, bedraggled, and her eyes, a glassy shade of red.
‘You again?’ said Baker, tossing a reefer onto the street. ‘You’d better come in.’
The lounge, curtains pulled tight, was dark and cold. A pungent mix of cigarette smoke and cannabis hung heavy in the air. An ashtray, full to overflowing, spilled its contents across the table.
‘Drink?’ said Baker, as she sat and shook a cigarette from the pack. ‘Oh. No milk. Sorry. Unless you want black. Or water.’
Munro smiled appreciatively.
‘Nothing, thanks,’ he said, softly, gesturing towards the chair. ‘May I?’
West nodded.
‘So,’ she said. ‘What is it this time?’
Munro paused before answering.
‘How are you feeling?’ he said, with all the grace of an undertaker.
‘Fine. Numb, to be honest,’ said Baker. ‘A bit, numb.’
‘To be expected,’ said Munro.
‘Do you have someone who could come over?’ said West, in a faux display of compassion. ‘You shouldn’t be alone at a time like this, we could arrange…’
Baker sneered, her voice low and vindictive.
‘You don’t know anything about grief, do you Sergeant?’ she said. ‘If you did, you’d know this is precisely the time I need to be alone, not smothered by some fawning, do-gooder asking me if I’m alright and plying me with endless cups of tea.’
‘Look, I’m sure you’d rather be left in peace,’ said Munro, ‘so I’ll be as brief as possible. As you know…’
‘You’re trying to…’
‘Indeed. So, tell me, Miss Baker, I was wondering, would you ever have cause to visit Islington, at all? Say, Upper Street, perhaps?’
‘What? Islington? No, of course not,’ said Baker, billowing smoke towards the ceiling.
‘You’re sure? No friends, work colleagues…?’
‘Positive.’
‘How about Richmond?’ said Munro, his words now tumbling faster than a game of snap.
‘No.’
‘Pimlico?’
‘What is this?’
‘Epping?’
‘Epping?’
‘How about Wanstead?’
‘Wanstead? Ah, now that’s where…’
Baker stopped abruptly. Her eyes darted towards West, then back to the table. She huffed as she stubbed out the cigarette.
‘I mean…’
‘You were seen,’ said Munro, softly. ‘Clock Court.’
‘You must be mistaken,’ said Baker. ‘Never heard of it.’
‘Och, come now,’ said Munro, sighing as though he were bored with the whole charade. ‘We know you were there. A police officer witnessed you arriving. 8:45am. Which, coincidentally, is little more than an hour after we left you.’
Baker, lighting another cigarette, glared at Munro and said nothing.
‘Okay, lassie,’ he said. ‘I give up. You can either tell us what you know about Harry, here and now, or you can dress yourself and we’ll run you over to our place, for a wee chat. Which will it be?’
Baker cradled her head in her hands, rubbed her eyes and surrendered gracefully.
‘Alright,’ she said, wearily. ‘Alright. I was there. Clock Court. I went to… I don’t know why I went. Harry and I, we were… we were seeing each other. Always have been. Never stopped, in fact. I always hoped one day we might... forget it. It was nothing serious. Well, he didn’t think so, anyway. But that’s Harry for you. He never took anything seriously.’
‘Thank you,’ said Munro. ‘I appreciate your honesty. So, when did you see him last?’
‘Don’t know. About a week ago, I think. I’ve lost track of time, I can’t…’
‘Nae bother,’ said Munro, taking the frame from West and placing it on the table. ‘Look at this wee photo again, would you, at the lassie, there. Are you sure you don’t know her?’
‘Positive,’ said Baker. ‘No idea, and before you ask again, it’s still not Annabel.’
Munro paused, leaned back in his chair and drummed his fingers on the table.
‘I see you… I see you still enjoy a wee, smoke,’ he said.
‘What of it?’ said Baker. ‘It’s not illegal.’
‘No, no, but, forgive me, I’m a wee bit confused, you see, this lassie here, she used to frequent your campus. In fact, she was virtually the sole supplier of, you know, weed, grass, call it what you will. That being the case, I’m really quite surprised you don’t recognise her.’
‘No surprise, Inspector,’ said Baker. ‘I never went near a dealer, I got my gear from Annabel. She bought it for me.’
‘Fair enough,’ said Munro. ‘Tell me, did you... did you know that Harry was betrothed? That is to say, married?’
‘No. Yes. Yes, I knew,’ said Baker. ‘He told me. Said he thought he’d made a mistake but it needn’t change “what we had”, and I believed him.’
‘Perhaps I’m old-fashioned but, did that not bother you? The fact that you were seeing a married man?’
‘I’m not a saint,’ said Baker. ‘I knew I’d get my chance, eventually. What is it they say, “Marry in haste, repent at leisure”? I just had to bide my time, that’s all. Until then, we made a pact, we promised never to speak of her. Or rather, I, made him promise never to speak of her. I didn’t want to hear what they’d been up to on the weekends, or what a fabulous time they were having together. I don’t think I could have taken the guilt. It sounds selfish, I know, but I didn’t even want to know what she looked like.’
Munro leaned forward, allowing the tiniest of smiles to lift a corner of his mouth.
‘Well, now’s your chance,’ he said, tapping the picture frame. ‘That’s her.’
Baker’s eyes widened as she gazed, transfixed, at the photograph.
‘What?’ she said, exasperated. ‘That’s her? So that’s… I was right, that is the girl he was with in Aldeburgh?’
‘Aye. That’s her.’
‘The bastard. You’re telling me they were married, back then?’
‘Indeed, they were.’
‘The lying little… I knew I couldn’t trust him. I bloody knew it. You know, he never said a word, not a bloody word, not till… oh, what does it matter? Really, what the f…? Nothing matters, now, does it?’
She lowered her eyes.
‘She’s very pretty,’ she said, solemnly. ‘Was. Was pretty. For a terrier.’
Munro stood and zipped up his jacket.
‘Well, we’ll leave you be, Miss Baker,’ he said. ‘For what it’s worth, I’m sorry. For your loss. Really.’
Baker forced a smile.
‘Thanks,’ she said. ‘Can I ask, the funeral, I’d like to…’
‘That’ll be for the Farnsworth-Browns to arrange,’ said Munro. ‘We’ll ask them to keep you informed. Oh, I almost forgot, one last thing, shoes.’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Shoes. Where do you keep them? Something we need to check, then we can be on our way.’
Baker sighed.
‘Through there,’ she said, pointing towards the bedroom. ‘Bottom of the wardrobe. Take your pick.’
West disappeared and returned a few moments later, shaking her head.
* * *
‘Well?’ said Munro, as they headed for the car.
‘Two pairs of court shoes,�
� said West, ‘one pair of boots, pair of flat pumps and about a million pairs of killer heels.’
‘So, no Converse?’
‘Nope.’
‘We can rule her out, then. A liar and a philanderer she may be, but a killer, she is not.’
‘So, what now?’ said West.
‘Back to base. You’ve a phone call to make.’
‘I have?’
‘The Farnsworth-Browns. It’s about time they knew about Harry.’
‘Me? But, I’ve never…’
‘First time for everything, Charlie. First time for everything.’
* * *
Munro cast a sideways glance at West, clicked his fingers and pointed to the telephone. She slumped in her chair and reluctantly began dialling.
‘Tommy,’ he said, ‘have you spoken to Jeff? Is there any…’
‘Guv. They’ve got a formal I.D. It’s Jason Chan, alright.’
‘And the prints? Any dabs apart from Mr. Chan’s?’
‘Nothing, guv,’ said Tommy. ‘Place is as clean as a whistle. Must have the same cleaner as our Harry.’
‘I’ve no doubt about that, Tommy. No doubt, at all. How about the chaps in Nottingham, did they have anything on this Aileen lassie and her entrepreneurial activities?’
Cole laughed.
‘Make her sound like she’s businesswoman of the year,’ he said. ‘But no. They reckon she wasn’t charged, otherwise they’d have her on file.’
‘Well, that tallies with Parkes’ story, anyway.’
‘Besides, for something like that, they said they probably wouldn’t bother, got bigger fish to fry.’
‘Have they, indeed?’ said Munro. ‘They should see the one we’ve landed.’
‘Got time for a brew, or you off out again?’ said Cole.
‘Out. But we’ll not be long.’
West was surprisingly chirpy as she hung up the phone.
‘Well?’ said Munro.
‘Done,’ she said, standing to remove her jacket. ‘I spoke to Ed Farnsworth-Brown, he was, well, almost not bothered. I mean, didn’t sound shocked, no outbursts, no…’
‘That’s Americans for you, Charlie. Far too relaxed about everything. Including death. It’ll hit him later. Leave your coat on, we’re away, just now.’
‘Where?’
‘Delgado. I assume he’s not answered your calls?’
SHE: A gripping serial killer detective thriller (Detective Inspector Munro murder mysteries Book 1) Page 11
