‘That’s London for you.’ Nicci tried a smile.
Julia just glared back. ‘I know. And I’ve heard it all. Cock-up, not conspiracy. The experts have spoken. And they may well be right. But there is one thing I do know for certain, Ms Armstrong. My partner did not jump in the river of her own accord. Helen did not commit suicide.’
Julia Hadley’s eyes flickered as she spoke her lover’s name for the first time. For a moment they all sat in silence. Then Julia reached for her bag and began rummaging until she found a crumpled tissue.
Blake and Nicci exchanged a look. In the Met their relationship had been very different. He’d been the big boss, she’d been just one of many officers on the team. Now they were operating in a different universe. The team had been reduced to a double act and they were both still getting used to it.
Blake cleared his throat. ‘Well, Ms Hadley, the first thing I have to tell you is that we can offer no guarantees.’ He glanced at his notes. ‘The investigation into your partner’s death appears to have been thorough . . .’ His voice took on a regretful tone. ‘And of course there’s the issue of the suicide note.’
Julia couldn’t contain herself. She leapt to her feet. Nicci hadn’t realized just how small she was, how frail and birdlike, only a few inches over five feet.
She folded her arms defiantly across her chest and marched over to the window, then turned to face them. ‘A suicide note on fucking Facebook! If you’d known Helen you’d know just how risible that is. Okay, she did Twitter, had loads of followers on that. But that was part of the job. She had no time for social media outside of work. So whoever set this up didn’t even know her.’
Blake nodded. Julia remained, shoulders hunched, glaring at him. Nicci watched in silence for a moment. She didn’t want to add to this woman’s pain, but they needed to dig, to get beyond the told and re-told story.
Keeping her voice calm and neutral, she inclined her head. ‘What did the note say and why are you so sure Helen didn’t write it?’
Julia spun to face her. ‘It said that . . . that she felt she’d let everyone down and she couldn’t stand that . . . Then it . . .’ She clenched her jaw and swallowed hard. ‘It asked people to forgive her. Forgive her for what? It’s nonsense. Bloody nonsense!’ With this the dam inside finally burst and tears coursed down Julia’s cheeks.
Nicci got up from her chair, picked up a box of tissues from Blake’s desk and offered them to her. ‘What time was the posting? Was it after she left Portcullis House?’
Julia pulled a tissue from the box and blew her nose. ‘About fifteen minutes later. The police said it was sent from her phone.’
Nicci pondered this. ‘And the weather that night? You said the CCTV network was waterlogged?’
Julia wiped her face with the tissue. ‘It was pouring. Torrential rain.’
Nicci turned to Blake. ‘Well, if I was in an emotional state and I was going to commit suicide, I’d write my note in the office, then I’d go out and do it. I wouldn’t try and compose it in the pouring rain on a mobile phone.’
‘Could’ve been an impulsive decision.’ Blake was playing devil’s advocate; he knew Nicci had a point.
‘It could.’ Nicci’s tone was dismissive. ‘It’s also possible someone could’ve cloned her SIM, killed her, posted the note.’
They both looked at Julia, who’d been following their exchange with a tense frown.
Blake pursed his lips. ‘Did the police ever suggest that possibility, Ms Hadley?’
Julia shook her head, her lips narrowing into a tight smile. She balled up the tissues and tossed them in the bin. ‘Fiona Calder was right. She said you’d be the best people for the job.’
Blake’s jaw slackened, Nicci shot him a glance.
He paused for a second to conceal his surprise. ‘You discussed coming here with the Assistant Commissioner?’
‘Helen’s father organized a private meeting with the Commissioner.’ She let out a bitter laugh. ‘It was all bullshit. Fiona Calder sat in on the meeting. The Commissioner obviously felt the need for a female presence. I think they were all scared I’d make a scene.’
Nicci caught her eye. ‘And did you?’
Julia shook her head ruefully. ‘What would’ve been the point? Afterwards, she escorted us out. She took me aside, asked if I was okay. Then she said if we weren’t satisfied perhaps we should hire a private investigator.’
Blake could no longer contain his astonishment. ‘She actually said that to you?’
Julia nodded. ‘Then she mentioned your firm. Said you were former police officers, not some cowboy outfit. She said you’d be thorough and trustworthy.’
Blake and Nicci could only look at each other, both equally dumbfounded.
Julia gave a puzzled shrug. ‘That’s why I’m here. I thought you knew that.’
4
Kaz wandered across the station concourse and out on to Euston Road. She had to admit that in her new life north of the border she’d missed all this, though it was hard to say what this was. She was London-born but like many a cockney had grown up in Essex. Down south was home, the place she belonged. The light, the pace, the rhythms were unique. The streets were full of hustle and frequent hassle; people could be abrupt, disinterested. Still, in London she always felt free, it was a city of infinite possibilities. Endless waves of immigrants and refugees meant it belonged to no particular tribe and yet to every tribe. The global mega-rich bought up the best property because if all else failed and they needed a bolt-hole, London would save them.
Kaz wandered through Bloomsbury in the vague direction of the West End. She was adrift, but back on home turf, which carried her footsteps forward. She had nowhere to stay, thirty quid in her pocket, a maxed-out credit card and very little of her student loan left in the bank. She’d lost the flat Joey had bought her; it had been seized, part of civil proceedings to recover assets derived from his criminal enterprises. Not that she wanted it, but the money might’ve come in handy.
At first, living frugally hadn’t bothered her. She was free and that was the main thing. She worked part-time and in her second year won a modest scholarship. But making ends meet had got harder. These days she lived on pasta and homemade soup.
And art supplies were bloody expensive. She much preferred working in oils to cheaper acrylics and on proper canvas, big canvases, which she stretched herself. But her furious work rate devoured materials. She’d taken to shoplifting oil paints – as did half the students in her year, but Kaz was far better at it. She knew about security cameras and blind spots, which shop assistants to avoid: stuff she’d learned as a kid, much as other kids learnt to ride a bike. Her mother, Ellie, had been an accomplished hoister back in the day; she’d shove Joey in the pushchair and Kaz would trail along at her side – following instructions, providing cover or filching the odd item, learning dexterity and speed.
Soon Kaz found herself selling surplus paint she’d nicked to other students. She didn’t rip them off, only took a small profit, which helped keep her head above water. She didn’t regard this as particularly criminal and the risk was negligible. It was no more than common sense to use the talents you had to get by.
Kaz stopped in Russell Square, found a bench in a patch of dappled sunlight and took out her phone. She scrolled through the address book until she found the number she was looking for. Yasmin had been her cellmate for the last year she’d been inside. They’d exchanged a few texts, but Kaz had been heading north into the witness protection scheme by the time Yasmin got out. Kaz didn’t even know if the number was current, they hadn’t been in touch for nearly a year. She let it ring, expecting it to be dead or disconnected.
After three rings a voice came on the line. ‘Yeah?’
‘Yasmin?’
‘Who the fuck dis?’ The tone was matter-of-fact rather than hostile.
Kaz smiled to herself – that sultry nicotine voice and its weariness. ‘It’s Kaz – Kaz Phelps.’
The line was silent
for an instant then a dry chuckle erupted. ‘The fuck it is! Where you bin, girl?’
‘Long story. You still in Walthamstow?’
‘Nah, I’m in the fucking Bahamas lying on a beach. Wot you think?’ Yasmin chortled, a deep-throated, filthy laugh that immediately brought the image of her old friend into Kaz’s mind.
Kaz grinned to herself. ‘Listen, babes, I know I haven’t been in touch but—’
‘How’s that little brother of yours? You living in clover, girl?’
‘Not exactly. And Joey’s in the nick. Doing life.’
Yasmin gave a low whistle. ‘Sorry to hear.’
‘That’s why I’m calling, Yas. I know it’s cheeky, but I’ve been up north. Now I’m back I need a place to stay. Only for a couple of days. Wondered if you could help me out?’
Kaz steeled herself for the brush-off, the vague excuses. Calling Yasmin was a long shot and the measure of her desperation. But what she heard was the rumbling laugh. ‘Sounds like I’m doing better than you. You get your arse over here, I’ll text you the address.’
‘Thanks, babes. I really appreciate this.’
‘Hey, no probs.’
Kaz hoicked the backpack on to her shoulders and crossed the square to the tube station. She took the Piccadilly line to Finsbury Park and changed to the Victoria. When the train finally emerged into daylight she gazed out at the endless Victorian brick terraces and fifties council blocks of northeast London. This was territory her brother had coveted – rich pickings, but also riven with gangs. Kaz suspected there’d been some bloody battles, more than she knew about. There were plenty who’d established a lucrative business in these parts and who weren’t about to give ground to some upstart from Essex. As Kaz rode to the end of the line, her gaze surfing through patches of sunlight, it struck her how little she actually knew about her brother, how much she’d ignored. Now he was out of her life, safely behind bars, but forgetting the past was impossible. He was still Joey. She thought about him every day and the guilt at having been the one who got him put away gnawed at her.
She emerged from Walthamstow Central, once a country station but long since swallowed up by urban sprawl, and followed the map on her phone to a neat road of bay-fronted, Edwardian terraced houses. There was residents-only parking, rows of wheelie bins and shouts of laughter from the playground of a nearby primary school. The address Yasmin had sent was number 27. Kaz stopped outside the house. The front window was obscured by thick lace curtains, the door freshly painted in black gloss. She rang the bell.
A key turned in the heavy deadlock, the door opened and Yasmin screeched, flapped her hands and swept Kaz into a hug. Kaz dumped her backpack near the door and was invited to follow her old friend down the hall.
Yasmin glanced over her shoulder, face wreathed in smiles. ‘I can’t believe you, girl! You look like a fucking charity shop. And the hair? Dyke cut – not cool. We gotta do some serious shopping.’
She herself was wearing a tight business suit, the jacket tailored to the waist, emphasizing her figure, with a low-cut silk blouse exposing several inches of cleavage.
Yasmin cocked her head and grinned as she pushed the door to the sitting room open with the tips of her long manicured nails. ‘Now tell me what you think, babes. Have I done all right or what?’
The room Kaz stepped into took full advantage of the period features of the house. It was an Edwardian parlour hung with plush velvet curtains. There was a red chaise longue, several armchairs and, in a glass-shelved alcove, a row of champagne glasses. Yasmin was bursting with pride.
She looked happier than Kaz had ever seen her. ‘Done all the design myself. So whad’you think?’
Kaz didn’t know what to think. ‘Yeah, it’s . . .’
Her gaze rested on a gilt-framed sepia photo of a regal Victorian lady in a corset holding a riding crop. She searched her brain for a suitable compliment and came up empty. It was sumptuous all right. The attention to detail was impressive and none of the furnishings were cheap. Still, there was no mistaking what it was. This space that Yasmin had so lovingly created was an upmarket brothel.
5
Nicci finally got her coffee hit courtesy of Alicia. She collected a pint-sized mug with the slogan ‘Keep Calm Then Fuck Them Up’, a birthday gift from her colleagues, and carried it back into Blake’s office. He was staring out at the dead-eyed reflective windows opposite as he rhythmically jangled the coins in his trouser pocket.
Nicci watched him for a moment. ‘Sure you don’t want anything?’
He shook his head, ran his fingers across his close-cropped balding scalp. ‘A very senior officer in the Metropolitan Police Service tells Warner’s partner to hire a private investigator? Why would she stick her neck out like that?’
‘You could try asking her.’
Blake turned away from the window.
He might be a businessman now, but more than twenty years as a serving officer had left its mark, shaped his sympathies. ‘If this ever got out, Calder would be finished. They’d have her job.’
Nicci perched on the edge of the sofa, tipped a sachet of sugar into her steaming black coffee and gave it a stir. ‘She must think the investigation’s flawed.’
‘Maybe, but would you put your career on the line for it?’
Nicci sipped her coffee; it was hot and sweet, another newly acquired habit. She took a moment to savour it before answering.
‘Okay, say she knows something. Maybe it’s just a whiff, the hint of some kind of political skulduggery. That’s a minefield for the Met. So what does she do? You’ve got a bunch of neurotic politicians at City Hall and a hemmed-in Commissioner. They go through the motions, tick all the boxes, but their first instinct is going to be to put a lid on it.’
Glancing at Blake she wondered if he was even listening. She was stating the obvious; he’d have already thought all this and more in the time it took him to escort Julia Hadley to the lift.
Blake rubbed an index finger over his clean-shaven chin. ‘I doubt it.’
‘You doubt they’ve put a lid on it?’
‘Obviously they have. I doubt Calder’s got a conscience. Wasn’t that your next point?’
Nicci grinned. ‘Yeah.’
This was vintage Blake – streets ahead and making sure you knew it. He had an arrogance that had not always served him well. In his Met days he’d worked to keep it under wraps, but Nicci had noticed his attitude had become looser of late, especially with her.
He drew a sharp breath through his nostrils. ‘Knowing Calder, she’s got an agenda.’
‘So what we going to do? Say no?’
Nicci knew it was a silly question. Blake loved a walk on the wild side and there were aspects of the new business, particularly the highly lucrative computer forensics, which he found decidedly tame. She recognized the glint in his eye: he was moving into overdrive.
He drummed his fingers on the desktop, sucked his teeth. ‘What we’re going to do is go back to square one. I want to delve into every aspect of Helen Warner’s life, including all the stuff her partner, her family, her friends, her esteemed political colleagues and the papers don’t know. Pascale and Liam can do the background brief. And I want Eddie in on this too.’
Nicci grimaced. ‘Eddie? Oh please, Simon, no . . .’
‘He’s a very resourceful bloke. Don’t be so judgemental.’
Realizing it was an argument she was never going to win, Nicci picked up her mug, got to her feet. ‘We shouldn’t touch this with a bargepole, you know that, don’t you?’
Blake feigned innocence. ‘Just some preliminary research, get the lie of the land. Then we’ll make a decision.’
Nicci gave him a sceptical look. ‘I have a couple of defence briefs I should be working on.’
‘When are the court dates?’ He started to flick through the pages of his notebook.
‘End of September.’
‘They can wait.’
‘Okay.’ Her hand was on the handle of the plate
-glass door when Blake caught her eye. There was more.
He hesitated, but only for a second. ‘First I want you to go and see Fiona Calder.’
Nicci let go of the door, stared right back at him. This was beyond the call. ‘Me? No way.’
‘Come on, she likes you, Nic. After the Phelps case you certainly earned her respect . . . and, well . . . obviously there’s the other stuff . . .’
The other stuff. The death of her child. At least he had the decency to look slightly shame-faced, but Nicci still hated it; the assumption he could use her.
She gave him the look, the icy stare. ‘It’ll take me two weeks just to get past her PA.’
‘Text her. You must still have her private number.’
Nicci wasn’t about to budge. She stood with her ridiculous mug in her hand and waited. Blake flicked through some papers, checked his watch, but eventually he met her eye.
‘C’mon, Nic, you know the deal. The business we’re in now, we use what we have. ’Cause that’s all that we have. That’s why we’re called private investigators. We’ve no backup, no legal authority. Nothing but our brains and our contacts.’
‘And so I should use the fact that . . . that she gave me support . . .’ Nicci’s voice faltered. She swallowed hard and turned away. She was damned if she’d cry.
Blake watched her, conscious he was being tough, pushing her. But he also knew she’d hate it even more if she thought he was going soft on her. ‘Needs must, Nic. She’s never going to talk to me. I really wouldn’t have a hope in hell of getting past her PA.’
Nicci kept her voice low: ‘You’re a fucking bastard and you can fuck off!’
Blake gave her an apologetic shrug. In the past she’d have never spoken to him in such a manner. But they weren’t serving officers any more – no ‘sir’ and ‘ma’am’, no chain of command. This was a different world; everyone was freelance. He needed her and they both knew it.
The Mourner Page 3
