The Mourner

by Susan Wilkins

  Julia concentrated on wiping her bloodshot eyes. She was reining herself in.

  Sensing the polite shutdown, Nicci tapped the counter, waiting until Julia’s gaze rose to meet hers. ‘Either you trust us, or you don’t trust us. It’s a choice. I need to know your suspicions, if you have any. I need to know the things you’re confused about. I need to know the tiny things that don’t seem important. So, basically everything.’

  A sigh rippled through Julia’s frame. ‘The thing is . . . if Helen was actually murdered, I just feel . . . well, who can you trust? The police investigated. You should be able to trust the police, shouldn’t you? But their whole approach, it was never right.’

  ‘They just went through the motions?’

  ‘Yeah. Exactly.’

  ‘And you’re asking yourself why? Why didn’t they want to look at this? It’s a scary thought.’

  Julia leant against the back of her stool, gazing over Nicci’s shoulder. ‘Helen used to say I was blinkered, lived in a bubble – nice house, nice car, good job – a middle-class bubble. I expect people to be polite to me in shops. I expect tradesmen to be reliable.’

  Nicci smiled. ‘Don’t we all.’

  Julia turned to meet her eye. ‘As a lawyer, Helen’d dealt with all types. The dregs, you might say. All I know are my family, my colleagues, friends I went to school and uni with, and they’re all decent people. That’s the assumption you make, isn’t it? Well, it’s the assumption I make. Helen didn’t, maybe you don’t.’

  Nicci gave her a rueful smile. ‘There are individuals out there capable of any atrocity you can imagine. But it’s true, mostly we don’t meet them.’

  ‘You mean people like me don’t meet them.’ Julia sniffed. ‘I’m stupid and privileged and naive. That’s what Helen thought. But when it came to appearances – and politics is all about that – I fitted the bill. That’s why she asked me to be her civil partner, she knew I wouldn’t embarrass her.’

  Nicci tilted her head. ‘You sound quite bitter.’

  Julia swept her palm across her forehead as if to brush aside the pain. ‘Oh, I knew what I was getting into. I think she did love me, in her way. It was just never enough.’

  ‘But you loved her?’

  Julia hunched her shoulders and stared down at her hands, cradling the left knuckle in the right palm. ‘Yes. She was it for me. The one and only. I’d’ve done anything to make it work.’

  ‘So you put up with the affairs?’

  ‘I only really know about one. But who can tell, there were probably others. She had this client – she was completely obsessed with her. Then when she proposed to me she told me in a roundabout way that it was over, she was putting the past behind her, focusing on her political career. But Helen was always secretive. Lawyers make the best liars you know.’

  Nicci grinned. ‘Oh yeah, I do know.’

  A wounded smile crept over Julia’s features. ‘A couple of months ago she told me she had to go to Edinburgh for a conference. Then I saw a bill on her desk, a hotel in Glasgow. Later I asked her why she’d gone there instead, just an innocent enquiry. She completely denied it, insisted I’d misread the bill. Why would she deny going to Glasgow?’

  Nicci scooted her tongue across her upper lip. Glasgow. This was getting interesting. ‘You think this was the same client?’

  ‘Her – someone else? I don’t know.’

  ‘The client you’re thinking of, have you got a name?’

  Julia clearly had, but hesitated; saying it would make it real and part of her resisted. ‘It could be Karen. Helen used to visit her in prison. Sometimes she talked about that and there was always a . . . a certain tone in her voice.’

  ‘Have you got a surname?’

  ‘She might’ve mentioned it ages ago. But I don’t remember.’ She caught Nicci’s eye. ‘Really I don’t. Couldn’t we get hold of a client list from her old firm?’

  Nicci nodded, even though such an enquiry was unnecessary. She already knew the client Julia was talking about. It had to be Kaz Phelps.

  23

  Kaz wandered along the north side of Onslow Square. A magnificent Victorian terrace of stucco and brick, it rose to four storeys and oozed money. Every porticoed door was freshly painted, every iron railing topped with impressive spikes. Kaz was puzzled; how come a down-at-heel art teacher like Mike Dawson lived on millionaire’s row? She tracked the numbers along the street until she came to his basement flat. A short flight of stone steps led down to the front door. She hesitated. It was tempting to simply turn tail, but then the door opened.

  The first thing she heard was his hacking cough, painfully phlegmy, then he emerged, wearing an old hoodie and clutching a hessian shopping bag. His claw-like hand grasped the balustrade as he started a slow ascent up the steps.

  Kaz peered down at him through the railings. ‘Hello, Mike.’

  As his eyes slowly rose to meet hers she felt a wave of trepidation sweep over her. It was fear; not of harm or danger – that sort of fear was commonplace in her life. She could handle that. What she feared was his indifference. Maybe he wouldn’t even remember her.

  His eyes wrinkled against the sunlight, but his gaze was as piercing as ever. Recognition dawned. ‘Karen?’ He broke into a huge grin. ‘Karen Phelps! Well I never! I was thinking about you just this morning, wondering how you were getting along.’

  Kaz felt elated but shy. ‘Since I was in London, thought I’d look you up.’

  ‘Well I’d have been jolly offended if you hadn’t.’ He flapped his hand, beckoning. ‘Come on, come inside and I’ll put the kettle on.’

  Kaz went down the steps and followed her old teacher into the flat. Although it was a basement, the interior was surprisingly large and light. A huge open-plan room stretched from the front of the property to the back with a conservatory and floor-to-ceiling sliding glass doors onto the rear garden. The space comprised sitting room, dining area and kitchen rolled into one, plus in the corner at the back Mike had a large studio easel with a half-painted canvas on it. Several more paintings were propped against the wall.

  Mike beamed at her. There was a moment of awkwardness as Kaz stood there wondering if she should give him a hug. Somehow that didn’t really feel appropriate with Mike.

  He rubbed his hands together with glee. ‘Make yourself at home.’ He bustled into the kitchen area and began filling the kettle, raising his voice to be heard above the noise of the tap. ‘I want to hear all about Glasgow. And I hope you’ve got a sketchbook to show me.’

  Kaz deposited her backpack and the stolen briefcase near the door then wandered over to the easel. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever seen any of your stuff before. Mind if I look?’

  ‘Be my guest. I don’t paint that much nowadays, I don’t really have the energy. Plus I’m lazy, I’d rather just sit in the garden and soak up the sun.’

  Kaz studied the half-painted work on the easel. A monumental figure, possibly female, was emerging from the white expanse of canvas – a bit like a Henry Moore sculpture, although tortured and slightly contorted.

  She smiled. ‘I like it. Unusual.’

  Mike was taking floral ceramic mugs from the cupboard and arranging them on a tray. ‘No it’s not. It’s totally derivative. Francis Bacon did it first and he did it far better. But I’ve got a dealer who does very well selling to the Chinese. They’ll buy anything vaguely European, especially if they think it’s a bit rude. And now I’m retired, I have to do something.’

  ‘When did you retire?’

  ‘Last Christmas. Had a few health problems.’

  Kaz waited for him to elaborate, but he didn’t and it seemed intrusive to ask.

  Having filled the teapot with boiling water, he put it on the tray and carried it over to the low, carved oak coffee table that sat between two massive sofas. Kaz watched him as he moved; he’d always looked ancient to her and now he was much thinner, his hunched shoulders rising up towards his ears like angel wings. He’d coughed several times since she ar
rived, a rumbling eruption deep in his lungs; it didn’t sound good.

  As he eased himself down on to one of the sofas with obvious relief, Kaz positioned herself on the sofa opposite.

  ‘I’ll be mother then, shall I?’ He gave her his lopsided grin. ‘Milk?’

  ‘Yeah, milk no sugar, thanks.’ She smiled back at him, remembering her first impression of Mike Dawson. With his dark eyes, vulpine features and long wispy grey hair, she’d thought he was a dead ringer for Rasputin and scarier-looking than any of the many villains she’d encountered in her life. Yet he’d turned out to be the kindest, straightest bloke she’d ever met.

  What the hell – it wasn’t as if she had anything to lose. ‘I’ve got a problem, Mike.’

  ‘I rather thought that might be the case.’ Seeing the look of confusion on her face he inclined his head. ‘I saw the television news this morning. I gather your brother has murdered a prisoner officer and escaped from jail.’

  ‘Yeah. That’s one part of the problem.’

  ‘There’s more?’ His manner was direct as always, but gentle. There was no judgement.

  Impulse overrode caution and Kaz decided to just go for it. ‘About a month ago the police pulled my ex-lover’s body out of the Thames. I only just found out. They’re saying she committed suicide, but I don’t believe it. I think she was murdered. That’s why I’m down here. I need to find out what happened to her. Oh, and I need a place to stay.’

  Mike ran a long, paint-rimmed fingernail over his stubbly chin as he absorbed the information. He nodded his head slowly a couple of times then smiled. ‘Well, I think I’ve got some chocolate digestives somewhere. Strikes me we’ve got some serious thinking to do, so we’ll need them.’

  24

  Joey wandered through narrow avenues of dense foliage, sweat dribbling down his face and neck. The midday sun blazed down on him, hot but diffused by the heavy plastic sheeting which formed the garden centre’s makeshift roof. The feathered fronds of exotic palms brushed his shoulder as he passed. Water puddled around the bases of the plant pots, moisture and heat combining to create a humid fug.

  It felt a bit like the steam room in the exclusive gym and racquet club near London Bridge where he’d been a member before his incarceration. He’d fitted right in among the bankers and lawyers, even winning a grand off some hedge fund manager he’d thrashed on the squash court. It was the world he’d aspired to, one where he belonged. But somehow it had all gone pear-shaped.

  The assiduousness of the police pursuit had surprised him. Turning up mob-handed at his mum’s place seemed a bit unnecessary. Plenty of convicted felons went on the lam and hardly rated a mention in the media. But maybe they weren’t serial killers. This was the label Joey had ended up with: psychopathic serial killer.

  The tabloids had reported his conviction with relish, crowing over the long sentence. Now they were slamming the prison authorities for his escape. He’d been dubbed the ‘angel of death’, mainly because it fitted with a pap shot they’d dug up of him with an old girlfriend. She was a soap actress he’d hung out with briefly. But then Joey’s liaisons were only ever brief. The picture had been taken at some swanky party; piercing blue eyes, gorgeous grin, he looked far more of a star than the anorexic waif clinging to his arm. Joey loved this photo and had even obtained a copy of the original from the photographer, which he’d hung on the wall of his cell.

  As to the tag ‘psychopathic serial killer’, he’d become comfortable with that too. People had died at his hand, he made no bones about that. Most of them deserved it. Maybe there’d been one or two who didn’t. But in any soldier’s career there was bound to be some collateral damage.

  The term psychopath carried negative connotations and when his offender manager had first used it to describe him, Joey had been tempted to give the moron a slap. Back then, he’d only been aware of the adverse implications of the term. It was only after he’d done some research, got stuck into the real neuroscience, that he found he really did fit the profile, and what’s more it confirmed what he’d always believed: he was indeed special, his brain was wired differently. And that was a huge advantage.

  Arguably, psychopathy was an evolutionary step forward. The rapid fight-or-flight response had been a lifesaver for primitive man, when survival meant legging it from bears and woolly mammoths and the like. But there weren’t many woolly mammoths lurking round the corner in the modern world. Fear and anxiety were debilitating emotions, they paralysed you, stopped you from thinking rationally. Those rare individuals who never lost their nerve, who could always be ruthless and decisive – individuals like Joey – would always have the edge.

  Joey had just been unlucky in his parents. Terry Phelps had been a criminal because he was too stupid to get what he wanted by other means. This had been apparent to Joey even as a kid. But his father’s way had become his way, and that was the root of his problems. If he’d had a proper education and a father who’d supported him instead of beating the shit out of him, he’d have never landed in jail. He’d have been a CEO or a City trader or a commando in the SAS, and when he took out some scumbag he’d have been doing it for Queen and country and they’d have given him a fucking medal.

  Joey mused on these things as he wandered and waited. His picture was all over the papers and on the telly, but he wasn’t that worried about being recognized. Since he’d been inside he’d let his hair grow and once he’d started to plan his escape he stopped shaving. Now with a shaggy blond mane and a thick reddish beard, he looked nothing like his mug shot.

  Finding a shady nook with a rustic wooden bench he settled himself on it. An elderly couple towing a trolley took him for one of the garden centre staff and asked directions to the rhododendra. He gave them a sunny smile and pointed randomly. They pootled off.

  When the police had come crashing through his mum’s front door he’d got over the back fence nimbly enough. In the dark woods behind the house he soon lost his pursuers. He’d managed to progress at a steady jog. The stab wound in his side had continued to ooze a little, but with the adrenaline pumping he felt very little pain.

  When he’d emerged from the woods onto an unmade farm track, it was still light enough to recognize familiar landmarks. He’d stopped to catch his breath and rest his palm on the trunk of the big old oak where he and Kaz had once tried to build a treehouse. Their imagination had far exceeded their skill and the rickety boards they’d used to create a platform between the spreading branches had collapsed under their weight and resulted in him falling about ten feet and breaking his collarbone. As always, Kaz had sorted it, filching a couple of notes from their mother’s purse and then bundling him into a taxi to Basildon A&E. When he’d returned home with his arm in a sling, Ellie had assumed he’d been fighting and had given him a clout.

  The farm had once been a hive of activity, with a small dairy herd and chickens and geese scampering round the yard. When he passed through last night, there hadn’t been a creature in sight and the land had given way to acres of oilseed rape. The red-brick Victorian farmhouse had been sold off as an executive home, and Joey had paused to cast a longing eye over the brand-new Audi four-by-four parked on the jet-washed cobbled drive. Unfortunately it was securely locked and alarmed, so any attempt to boost it would be sure to attract attention. He’d settled instead for a kid’s BMX bike that he found propped against a wall.

  After pedalling through the back lanes he’d finally come out onto the A127, then ridden a few miles along the cycle path in the direction of Southend. Breaking into the garden centre had been a piece of piss. He’d spent the remaining hours of darkness curled up under the cover of an empty hot tub. Waking at first light, he got himself a drink from a stand-pipe and searched out a quiet corner where he could hide away until his mother showed up.

  Ellie had never been a reliable parent, but she was fiercely loyal. The stroke that had torpedoed Joey’s father had also served to set her free. Slowly she’d weaned herself off the diet of booze and pills tha
t had sustained her through her long marriage to a domineering bully. With Terry wheelchair bound and incapable of speech, she’d taken up with Brian, moving him into the house and the marital bed. By the time Terry was finally dead and buried, she’d reinvented herself as matriarch of the clan. Joey indulged her fantasy – after all, she was his mum – and paid the bills. But he never made the mistake of listening to her nonsense. She’d suggested the garden centre as a rendezvous; he probably shouldn’t have listened to that either, but there’d been no time for debate with the Old Bill piling out of their cars and trying to break down the front door.

  With hindsight, it had been a stupid mistake to go back. The only reason he’d done so was to retrieve a laptop, a clean smartphone with a removable battery and some cash hidden in a secret compartment behind a tiled conduit in one of the en suite bathrooms. They’d been stashed there long before his arrest as one of several precautionary measures he’d taken to ensure he had an escape route in place, should he ever need it. The alternative would have been to rely on Ellie and Brian to evade surveillance and get the stuff to him, but knowing them they’d have ended up leading the police right to him. So he’d taken the risk. He had to – he needed that laptop. It contained all his contacts and access to his offshore accounts. At least it was still safely tucked away in its hiding place, and even if the worst happened and the police did get hold of it, everything was well encrypted so it wouldn’t be the end of the world.

  Without a watch or phone he could only guess the time. The sun was overhead and scorching. He’d always been a bit of a sun-worshipper, but the mugginess in the garden centre was really getting to him and the wound in his side had started to throb. Where the hell was Ellie? Suddenly overcome with dizziness and feeling sick, he struggled to his feet. If he could just get out of this fucking heat. He took a step forward, stumbled, the concrete floor flew up to smack him in the face and for the first time in his life Joey Phelps fainted.