The Mourner

by Susan Wilkins

  Nicci’s first impulse was to creep away, pretend there was no one home. But the old lady must’ve heard her come in. If Nicci ignored her she’d probably only come back later, so getting rid of her quickly now was probably the best option. Nicci opened the door.

  The old lady beamed and held out a plate with two cupcakes on it; one was slathered in pink icing, the other green. ‘My granddaughter always brings me cakes when she pops in. They’re from that fancy new bakery on Upper Street. I just wanted to say thank you, officer. You lot have a hard enough job and you could’ve just minded your own business this morning.’

  Nicci stared at the cakes, searching in vain for a way to refuse the gift. But the old lady’s plate-carrying hand was shaking as she leant heavily on her stick.

  Nicci smiled and took them. ‘Thanks. But look, I’m not actually a police officer. Used to be, not any more.’

  The old lady shrugged. ‘You certainly gave that young hooligan what for. Ethel Huxtable. I’m over there, number five. I seen you come and go a few times since you moved in. But people aren’t neighbourly nowadays, not like they used to be. Different world, I suppose.’

  Ethel’s eyes were watery but totally blue, the gaze clear and steady. Suddenly Nicci felt chastened. The figure before her might be stooped and wrinkled and embarrassingly old, but underneath she was still fearless.

  Nicci held out her hand. ‘Nicci Armstrong. Pleased to meet you, Ethel.’

  Ethel rested her bony hand in Nicci’s. Though the skin was papery and baby soft, she had a firm grip. ‘I won’t keep you. Smells like an Indian. I love a good curry, but they don’t much like me any more.’

  Nicci smiled. Ethel turned and began a slow progress back across the hall. In addition to Nicci’s there were three other flats on the same floor. Nicci watched Ethel fumble with her key and disappear behind the door of number five.

  Nicci’s own grandmother had died of a heart attack at eighty-six; at the time it had seemed a tragedy. The family all gathered, sad but restrained. Tim hadn’t wanted Sophie to attend the funeral – she was only four and he thought it inappropriate. But Nicci knew that the little girl had a strong bond with ‘Big Nana’; she needed to understand what had happened, be part of the family ritual. There was a bit of a row and Tim gave in. Later, when it came to arranging his daughter’s own funeral, he was implacable. He insisted on controlling every detail, his rage excluding Nicci totally. He would have banned her from the proceedings entirely if he could have.

  Nicci placed the pink and green cupcakes on the table. Sophie would’ve definitely gone for the pink one. She wasn’t a particularly girly girl, but Huggy, her favourite bear since she was a toddler, had been pink with white ears and paws. This had caused Nicci problems, because he was always getting grubby. Then her mum had read the label and pointed out that he was machine washable. After that Huggy had a monthly bath, watched by a fascinated Sophie, on the strict understanding that although swimming in the washing machine was fun for bears, little girls shouldn’t try to emulate it in any way.

  Nicci opened the fridge: there were two cans of beer left. She considered them for about three seconds then reached for a bottle of Pinot Grigio. Unscrewing the top, she poured herself a large glass and stripped the cardboard lids off the takeaway. Should she transfer the rice and chicken tikka marsala onto a plate? It was easier not to bother. She got a fork from the drawer and started to eat standing up.

  Pascale had been collating information from the Net all day and she’d made a summary of her discoveries so far. Nicci propped her iPad on the kitchen counter and scrolled through the pages as she ate.

  There was some background on Helen Warner – her by-election victory, her earlier legal career, plus quotes from a couple of articles on being an out lesbian in politics. Nicci scanned the photographs and only then did it dawn on her that they’d actually met. She should’ve remembered. Warner had been Kaz Phelps’ lawyer. She’d been present once at an interview, she’d even called Nicci the night DS Bradley was murdered by Joey Phelps. Nicci racked her brains, trying to recall whether she’d run into Warner after that. By the time Kaz Phelps agreed to give evidence against her brother, she had a different lawyer, a bloke. Why had she parted company with Helen Warner? Nicci couldn’t remember, too much had happened since then, though she wasn’t sure she’d ever known.

  Rolling through the images of Helen Warner culled from newspapers, gossip magazines and the Net, Nicci noticed they all looked remarkably alike. Her public face was a broad, telegenic smile; in an odd way, she looked more American than English, the style and presentation hinting at some transatlantic political charm school. Nicci searched in vain for any telltale signs of drunkenness or any scenes that might suggest a drug-induced loss of inhibitions. But the pictures revealed nothing more than an attractive woman, who knew how to pose.

  She flicked the cover back over the screen and was dumping the foil cartons from her takeaway in the bin, when a door in the outer hall was slammed with some force. This was rapidly followed by a female voice, high-pitched and angry. Nicci couldn’t make out the exact words. She stood stock-still for a moment and listened. She’d heard noise and commotion out in the hall before. The sound insulation in the flats was generally good, but the occupants of number six opposite had a tendency to row and this sometimes spilled out into the communal hallway. Nicci’s policy was to ignore it; her door was locked, her solitary cell secure. She had no need and certainly no desire to involve herself in other people’s messy lives.

  She had poured herself another large glass of wine and was about to settle on the sofa, when the pounding began. A fist, she imagined, was being applied heavily and rhythmically to the door of number six.

  Now the voice was clearer and louder. ‘Bastard! Yer fucking bastard!’ There was more hammering, then a deeper thud – the door being booted, followed by the low grizzle of a child crying.

  It was the sound of the child that forced Nicci to go and look. She wandered down the hall, glass in hand, and peered through the spy-hole. She’d never spoken to her neighbours at number six. Once or twice she’d passed the woman on the stairs, exchanged a nod. Through the fisheye lens of the spyhole she saw a skinny girl in a vest top and jeans, squatting with her back to the wall, cradling a baby. The baby was about nine months with a mop of black hair, its mouth was open, dribbling tears and snot, and it was howling.

  Nicci sipped her wine and watched. There was nothing to be done. She’d attended enough domestics in her time to know the futility of outside intervention. The baby’s cries were piteous and the young woman’s face pained and tense as she tried in vain to comfort the child.

  Then another figure inched into view across the lens of the spy-hole. Nicci could hear voices and a thin, bony hand reached down to the girl’s shoulder. It was Ethel Huxtable.

  Nicci’s view through the spy-hole was severely distorted. But she saw Ethel raise her stick and heard its hard and insistent rap upon the door. For the second time in one evening Nicci found herself shamed by the feisty old lady. She took the chain off, unbolted her door and opened it. Hardly a second later the door to number six also opened. Framed in the doorway, a large scowling figure towered over Ethel by more than a foot. He was about thirty, head shaved to black stubble, muscled shoulders under a khaki vest.

  Ethel wagged an accusing finger at him. ‘You should be ashamed of yourself. Look at the state of them.’

  The young woman crouched, clutching the baby to her, rocking it and silently weeping. The man’s eyes rested on her for a moment and Nicci thought she saw him blink away a tear.

  But Ethel wasn’t finished. ‘What kind of man treats his wife and kiddie like this? I’ll tell you what kind – a bully and a coward.’

  He rocked back on his heels, his gaze seeming to float over Ethel’s head to the lights set in the ceiling above; Nicci realized he was drunk or high or both. He put a hand on the doorframe to steady himself then he made an effort to focus on Ethel. Nicci’s muscles tensed
as she readied herself to step in.

  But his tone was surprisingly mild. ‘You don’t know nothing about it.’

  A vacant smile flicked briefly across his face, then he turned and disappeared back into the flat. The young woman scrambled to her feet, pushed past Ethel and scurried in after him with the baby. The door slammed.

  Nicci stepped forward and took the old lady’s arm. ‘What are you playing at, Ethel? You could get yourself in serious bother. He’s off his face.’

  Ethel smiled serenely. ‘How were the cakes? Nice treat?’

  ‘I’m not joking.’ Nicci shepherded the old lady back towards her own door. ‘You could get hurt.’

  ‘Oh, him and me have had words before. They’re always rowing – baby’s left to scream its little lungs out.’

  Nicci shook her head ruefully. ‘You don’t ever back down, do you?’

  Ethel gave her a wrinkly grin. ‘My dad was a boxer. Learnt it in the army during the first war. He taught all us kids to stick up for ourselves. Boys and girls alike, he made no distinction. His code was simple: you don’t go picking a fight, but if it comes to you . . .’

  As she pushed the door to number five open, Nicci smiled. ‘How old are you, Ethel?’

  ‘That’s a very personal question.’

  Nicci laughed. ‘Okay, I’m thirty-five.’

  Ethel gave her an appraising look. ‘Bit scruffy, bit skinny and you drink far too much. Is that why you’re not married with kids of your own?’

  Nicci stopped in her tracks; she wasn’t expecting this kind of directness. But before she could react, Ethel squeezed her hand. ‘Take no notice of me. Gobby and rude, that’s what my Eric used to say. I’m eighty-nine, as it happens. Ninety in March. The family are planning a do. You can come if you like.’

  It was impossible to take offence. Ethel knew that being old had few privileges and she was determined to take full advantage of those she did have. Her blue eyes betrayed a definite sparkle and Nicci suspected that a bit of aggro with the neighbours had provided her with much better entertainment and stimulation than an evening dozing in front of the telly.

  Once she’d ensured that Ethel was safe behind her own front door, Nicci returned to the flat. She glanced around, noticing just how spartan and impersonal a space it was. The bottle of Pinot Grigio sat open on the kitchen counter – less than a third of it was left. On an average night Nicci would get through a bottle and a half, sometimes two. Ethel was right, she did drink too much. But how did the old girl know? Was that really how she came across: the single female wino getting quietly sozzled behind closed doors, oblivious to the fact she’d let herself go a bit?

  Nicci put a stopper in the wine and returned it to the fridge. She sat down at the table, opened the iPad, called up a fresh page and started to make her own summary of the main points of the case so far.

  16

  Kaz retreated rapidly into the shadows, acutely aware of the scrunching of her feet on the gravel path. The temptation was to just turn tail and run, but then they might hear her. It was Joey, she was sure it was Joey. Except Joey was in jail.

  As Kaz tiptoed her way along the side of the house chaotic thoughts cascaded through her head. Sean was dead, of course he was, she’d pulled the trigger herself. Still the Turk had insisted he was back running the business. Joey was banged up, she’d given evidence at his trial, now there he was in her parents’ back garden, clinking beer bottles with Brian. For an instant Kaz wondered if she was going mad. None of it made sense.

  She turned the corner to the front of the house and was suddenly caught in a phalanx of headlights. The first car pulled up inches from her, a large van following it through the open gate. Doors flew open, she was grabbed and spread-eagled on the bonnet. Only then did she realize it was a police car. They held her fast as she watched armed cops swarm from the van and round the house. A tubular steel ram brought the oak front door off in a single blow. The cops poured into the house. There were shouts of ‘Armed Police!’ and she heard her mother scream.

  A uniformed officer clicked a pair of speedcuffs on her wrists. A third vehicle pulled up on the drive and DCI Cheryl Stoneham climbed out of the back. Kaz stared at her, then recognition dawned. It was the cop who’d interviewed her and Joey in Southend, though she’d put on quite a bit of weight.

  Stoneham glanced in Kaz’s direction with a baffled frown, then she strolled over. ‘Well, you’re the last person I expected to find here.’

  Kaz gave her a tepid smile; she was in shock, heart pounding. It was simply easier to say nothing.

  The sergeant from the armed response team came out of the house, cradling his MP5.

  He walked up to Stoneham and shook his head. ‘Just the two of them. It’s all fields out the back, so he could’ve done a runner. I’ve sent some of the lads over there to take a look.’

  Stoneham sighed. ‘Thanks, Martin.’ She turned to Kaz. ‘Let’s go inside, shall we, and see what’s what.’

  Kaz’s wrists were pinioned behind her. One of the uniformed cops put a hand on her arm and shepherded her into the house behind Stoneham. It hadn’t changed much since her last visit, except armed police were noisily searching upstairs and one of them was standing guard in the hall. Kaz followed Stoneham into the kitchen. Ellie was seated at the large pine table with her face in her hands. Brian sat opposite staring at a half-drunk bottle of beer. A wine glass lay shattered on the tile floor close to the table leg.

  Flanked by two uniforms and concealed by the DCI’s bulk, Kaz was not immediately visible to her mother.

  Ellie opened her mouth and gave vent. ‘What the fuck is this about? You bust in here, mob-handed! You got no fuckin’ right!’

  Stoneham moved forward towards the table. ‘We know he’s been here, Mrs Phelps. ANPR cameras tracked him in a stolen car all the way down the A12. The car’s parked just up the road.’

  ‘I dunno what the fuck you’re talking—’ Ellie’s eye alighted on her daughter and the words evaporated. She stared at Kaz as if she’d seen a ghost, then venom erupted from some previously hidden reserve as she hissed, ‘I might’ve known you was behind this.’

  Kaz just stood there, pale, handcuffed, and let her mother’s hatred wash over her.

  Stoneham watched the two of them with interest. She gave the uniformed officer a nod. ‘Take the cuffs off.’

  The officer complied. Kaz rubbed her wrists. Ellie’s eyes didn’t leave her daughter’s face – accusing, blaming, despising. Kaz tried in vain to hold her gaze. The pain was familiar, it had always been there, but now it was turning into a Gordian knot in Kaz’s stomach. She gritted her teeth; no matter what, she wouldn’t cry. Her feelings wouldn’t betray her.

  Stoneham scanned them both thoughtfully. The sergeant from the armed response team stepped through the sliding door to the garden.

  ‘Found this down the garden, boss.’ He held up a plastic evidence bag containing a beer bottle. ‘Looks like it’d only just been tossed. Beer’s still frothy.’

  Stoneham shot a glance at the matching bottle on the table in front of Brian.

  She smiled. ‘We’re going to find his prints on it, aren’t we? So you may as well tell us the truth.’

  Ellie folded her arms defiantly. ‘I don’t know what you’re on about. If you’re talking about my son Joey, he’s in the nick. Where you lot and his lying scumbag of a sister put him. I ain’t got nothing else to say.’

  Kaz looked at her mother’s implacable face. Did she really believe that her boy could do no wrong? Was such wilful blindness natural to all mothers or only women with Ellie’s drug-fucked psyche?

  Across the table, Brian sat staring at Kaz, his face twisted in a malevolent sneer. The late Terry Phelps’ whipping boy, a little ferret of a man who’d wheedled his way into the boss’s shoes and bed. Could he have taken over the business, him and Ellie? Someone was certainly using her cousin Sean’s scary reputation as a cover to keep the competition at bay. But did Brian and Ellie even know that Sean was dea
d? Kaz’s brain was reeling; none of it made sense.

  She realized how stupid she’d been to even think of returning to this place.

  Turning, she faced Stoneham. ‘Joey was here moments before you arrived. They was having a drink out the back.’

  Ellie flew out of her seat, sending the chair toppling backwards. As she lunged at Kaz, Stoneham’s DS caught her round the wrist.

  He held her firmly but Ellie fixed her daughter with a glacial stare. ‘When I got pregnant with you, yer Nan wanted me to have an abortion. I wish I’d taken her advice.’

  17

  Kaz was driven to the police station in Basildon for questioning. She made a simple statement; all she could say was that she’d gone home and seen Joey. Then she waited. It was well after midnight when Stoneham appeared. Joey was on home turf and he’d gone to ground without a trace. Kaz wasn’t surprised. The field at the back of their parents’ house abutted on to woodland. It had been their childhood playground and was an ideal place for someone who knew the ground to lose his pursuers.

  Stoneham was tired and frustrated. She came in with a box of doughnuts, which she offered to Kaz. Ellie and Brian had been charged with harbouring, they’d refused to talk and within an hour a solicitor had appeared to demand bail.

  Stoneham devoured her second chocolate glazed doughnut, dabbed the crumbs from her lips with a tissue and gave Kaz a weary smile. ‘You’re free to go. However, I can hold you in protective custody until morning. Then we can get an officer from witness protection to pick you up. Have you got anywhere to go?’

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘He killed a prison officer, y’know. Sliced open the jugular.’

  Kaz could only nod dumbly. She felt numb and exhausted. ‘Will you get him?’