The Mourner

by Susan Wilkins

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Okay, come out of the front door and wait on the pavement, you’ll be met.’

  ‘You mean like . . . now?’ Kaz sounded like a munchkin even to herself; she wondered if she was overdoing it, but he didn’t seem to notice.

  ‘Is that a problem?’

  ‘I don’t want my mum to see? She might ask what I’m doing.’

  ‘She might. But you’ll think of something, won’t you, because you’re a cunning little bitch. If you’re not outside in five minutes, this is going to get far worse. Do we understand each other?’

  Kaz sniffed again, reduced her voice to a teary whisper. ‘Yeah.’

  He hung up.

  She stood there, holding the phone, mind racing. What the fuck was in the briefcase? Half an hour on the tube, a short walk, she’d been at Mike’s – maybe a little over an hour. So, less than two hours since she’d lifted it and in that time some bunch of security tossers had tracked the phone, pinpointed her location down to the street. It was probably the laptop they were after; it must contain sensitive data of some description. She thought back to Baldy; she’d just taken him for an overpaid city boy – the suit, the obnoxious attitude – not exactly the sort of guy you’d trust with secrets.

  Mike was standing in the doorway, a plate of sandwiches in one hand.

  ‘Don’t know if you’re still hungry after all those biscuits?’

  She had only seconds to make up her mind. The truth or a lie? But what lie? Her brain flipped to autopilot; all she had to do was spin a yarn, maybe something about Joey.

  ‘What’s up?’ Mike was scanning her face, his artist’s eye missing nothing.

  If she told him the truth he’d know what a slag she really was. He’d probably boot her out – and he’d be right to do so. The shame of it was already seeping through her. She had to force herself to meet his gaze. His eyes were so dark it was unnerving. And he was no fool.

  She forced a smile. ‘That briefcase isn’t mine. Nicked it from a bloke in a coffee shop. I was looking for cash to get somewhere to stay, before I thought of coming here. But he’s obviously got some security outfit on the case. They’ve tracked the phone.’ She got up from the lounger. ‘Look, I’ll just get my stuff and go. I’m sorry.’

  Mike put the plate of sandwiches down on the wrought-iron garden table. ‘What’s in the bag that’s so valuable?’

  ‘Not sure. I’m guessing the laptop.’

  ‘Probably.’ Mike scratched the stubble on his chin as he considered this. He seemed surprisingly relaxed about the whole thing.

  Kaz took a step towards him. ‘I’m really sorry. I never meant to involve you in stupid stuff like this.’

  ‘But I am involved. You’re my friend. So I’m involved.’ He spoke as if it were blindingly obvious, as if he were affronted that she would suggest otherwise.

  She shook her head. ‘I don’t get it. This is my problem. I don’t want to get you in trouble.’

  Mike’s sharp features softened into a grin. ‘I’ve spent my whole life getting into trouble. I regard it as an artistic duty.’

  ‘What, you’ll help me ’cause that’s what artists do?’ Kaz gave him a puzzled frown.

  He slid his hands in his pockets and laughed. ‘No, Karen. Artists paint, draw, create things! Maybe it’s not artistic duty, more the duty of every human being to reach out. Give help when they can.’ He raised a bony hand to encompass both flat and garden. ‘This place belonged to my wife. I lost her five years ago. She had a stroke. I woke up in bed one morning, she was beside me as usual, but she was dead.’ He smiled but the pain was obvious. ‘It was . . . the worst thing I’ve ever experienced. We got married in 1963 – her family insisted. They were very proper and very rich. Her father was a slum landlord, came over here from Estonia in the twenties, made himself more English than the English. But was he a hero or a villain? Who are any of us to judge the lives of others? Walk down this very respectable street, you’ll find every kind of individual from a Saudi princess, who treats her pooch better than her maid, to a German multi-millionaire, who wants to give his fortune away but his kids won’t let him.’ Mike fixed her with a kindly smile. ‘I’ve met some criminals in my time, most of whom never went to jail, but I don’t think you’re one of them.’

  ‘I feel as if I disappointed you.’ Kaz shifted from one foot to the other.

  ‘Presumably the backpack’s yours? Is there a sketchbook in it?’

  Another one of his odd questions. Kaz frowned. ‘Yeah.’

  He gave her the lopsided grin. ‘Then you haven’t disappointed me.’

  Kaz felt the phone vibrate in her hand. She turned it over, glanced at Mike. ‘Probably them again. They gave me five minutes to get outside on the pavement with the briefcase.’

  Mike considered this. ‘That means they don’t know which house. These tracking devices can only give them a rough location. And there are three flats in this building alone. Also, how legal is any of this?’

  ‘That’s why they’re trying to get me outside.’

  A glint came into Mike’s eye. ‘Okay, I’ve got an idea . . .’

  29

  Simon Blake had his hands in his pockets, feet planted squarely behind his desk chair. A frown creased his brow as he listened to Nicci summarize what they’d been able to discover about the circumstances surrounding the death of Eddie’s contact.

  ‘Hardly any reporting of it, just another suicide on the underground. Police were called, uniform dealt with it.’

  Blake jangled the change in his pocket, glanced at Eddie. ‘You knew him, Eddie, what do you make of it?’

  Eddie was sitting hunched up on the sofa, cradling the mug of tea Pascale had made for him. Nicci couldn’t make up her mind whether he was genuinely upset or whether it was all just part of his schtick. Either way, he still annoyed the hell out of her.

  ‘Known him ten years or more.’ There was a tremor in Eddie’s voice. ‘He was . . . well y’know, a nice bloke. It don’t seem to me the sort of thing he’d’ve done. He loved them kiddies, well, and his wife. Youngest was only three. He wouldn’t do something like this to them. He just wouldn’t.’ Eddie blinked away a tear. ‘Ray was a grafter, done the job, went home to the family. I never knew him involved in any hanky-panky.’

  Blake glanced at Nicci. ‘What’s your take on it, Nic?’

  Nicci shrugged. She found Eddie’s sentimentality saccharine, but was she letting annoyance cloud her judgement? She turned to him, frowning. ‘You said you met him in a pub round the corner from the Labour Party.’ He nodded. ‘Crowded?’

  ‘Pretty busy.’ Eddie’s chin was quivering. He made an effort to compose himself and went on: ‘It was four-ish. Plenty of people knocking off, in for a bevy before the train.’

  Nicci returned to Blake. ‘Conversation could’ve easily been overheard or even monitored.’

  ‘And an hour later he’s dead. Coincidence or conspiracy?’ Blake shot her a mischievous look. ‘When we talked after lunch you were resisting the conspiracy route.’

  ‘No I wasn’t. I was just doing what you taught me, boss, keeping an open mind.’

  ‘And now?’

  ‘Now?’ She drew in a sharp breath, pondered the question. ‘Okay, Labour MP supposedly kills herself? Doesn’t seem the type. Party official is questioned about her death. Another suicide. I don’t know . . . I don’t know what to think.’

  She turned away from both men, found herself some space in the corner of the room.

  ‘Gut reaction?’ Blake wasn’t about to let her off the hook.

  Nicci flicked her head, more shudder than shake. ‘Not enough information.’

  ‘Right then.’ Blake drummed his fingers on his desk then clicked the mouse to wake his computer. ‘Let’s see who we’ve got with contacts in the transport police.’ He scrolled through his address book. ‘Here we go. Ken Sturridge, retired superintendent in the BTP. We’ve used him before. I’ll get him to do some digging. Might be able to get a look a
t some CCTV.’

  ‘Five o’clock on the Central Line?’ Nicci reminded him. ‘Pretty crowded.’

  ‘BTP should’ve got some witness statements at the very least.’ Blake looked up from his computer and frowned. ‘Who did you speak to?’

  ‘Transport for London. But their press office has already given the suicide story to the media. It must look clear-cut.’

  ‘The Met are convinced Helen Warner committed suicide. That’s why I asked you for your gut reaction. You start putting the incidentals together, what do you get? Just a coincidence? Two unrelated suicides?’

  ‘No. Something’s going on. No idea what, but it feels connected.’

  ‘I agree.’ Blake had a glint in his eye as he picked up the phone. ‘Let’s say for the sake of argument a professional hitman was sent after this friend of Eddie’s. Crowded tube platform isn’t ideal, but it’s an easy way to make murder look like suicide.’

  ‘Bloody hell.’

  Caught up in the excitement of the case, Blake and Nicci had forgotten Eddie was still in the room. They both turned to look at him.

  ‘Poor old Ray.’ He blinked at them, shook his head. ‘Poor old Ray.’

  30

  Mike Dawson mounted the steps from his basement flat to the street, an old beany hat pulled low over his eyes. He took his time, carrying his hessian shopping bag in his hand. When he made it to street level he paused to glance up and down the road. There were a few cars in the residents’ parking bays, but plenty of spaces. Crossing the road with an easy gait, he stopped in front of the iron railings separating the street from the private gardens at the centre of the square. He inverted his shopping bag and out tumbled the leather briefcase. He stooped to pick it up out of the gutter and made an elaborate show of swinging it back and forth several times, building up momentum. He then lobbed it over the railings into the shrubbery beyond.

  Retrieving his shopping bag he set off up the street at a leisurely pace. He’d walked no more than ten metres when two men leapt out of a silver Ford Focus and raced towards him, shoving him none too gently against the side of the car. Both were in their twenties, solidly built, with close-cropped hair and bland faces.

  The taller of the two placed a restraining hand on Mike’s chest. ‘Not so fast, granddad.’

  Mike opened his mouth, sucked in a lungful and hollered. ‘Help! Help! I’m being mugged! Call the police!’

  The men seemed taken aback. Mike managed to bat one with his shopping bag, but then the taller one pinned him firmly against the car. Seeing his colleague glancing nervously up and down the street, he hissed, ‘Just get it!’

  While the other man sprinted across the road and vaulted the railings, the taller one tightened his grip on Mike. Mike started to wheeze and cough. Then from nowhere Kaz appeared. She was holding up her phone and filming them.

  ‘Let him go, you bastard! I’m calling the police!’

  The tall man swivelled in her direction. He looked surprised, but he continued to grasp Mike firmly by the throat.

  She danced around just out of his reach, keeping the phone’s camera firmly focused on him. ‘I’m warning you, let him go! Let him go.’

  Mike wriggled to free himself. He was stronger than he looked and his captor struggled to maintain a grip. It lasted only seconds, Kaz filming the tussle.

  Further up the street, two builders in hard hats emerged from the open door of a property undergoing renovation. Kaz saw them and began waving her free hand.

  ‘Help! Help! Call the police! These blokes are mugging an old man!’

  The builders didn’t hesitate. They came thundering down the street. The tall one shot a look across the road to where his companion was climbing back over the railings, the briefcase in his hand.

  He jabbed an index finger in Mike’s face. ‘This isn’t fucking over, granddad!’

  Mike regarded him coolly. ‘Oh yes it is, sunshine. Or within five minutes our little home movie and your vehicle licence plate is going to be all over the web. And that’s not what the corporate clients want to see, is it? Bad for business. Now take your stuff and fuck off! Case closed.’

  The man’s confidence wavered. Mike was glaring at him, the two beefy builders were closing fast. With a grunt of frustration he jumped into the Ford Focus, started the engine, rammed it into first, accelerated hard, braked to pick up his mate then roared off.

  Kaz filmed the retreating car thwacking over speed bumps until it reached the end of the street and disappeared. She and Mike grinned at each other. She was beginning to feel that being back in London wasn’t such a mistake after all.

  31

  Kaz and Mike celebrated their victory over the dark forces of corporate capitalism in a ritzy patisserie in Kensington largely patronized by Chinese tourists. Kaz had a millefeuille, which she’d never tried before. Mike sipped camomile tea and smiled at her attempts to eat it elegantly with a fork. She gave up in the end and used her fingers.

  They chuckled over the details of their escapade and agreed that the timely appearance of the builders was pure luck.

  Finally, when Kaz had licked all the cream from her fingers, she rocked back in her seat and fixed him with a direct look. ‘Ain’t you ever gonna say it then?’

  ‘Say what?’

  ‘If I hadn’t nicked it in the first place . . . well, you know what I mean.’

  ‘No, I don’t. Explain.’

  ‘It was a stupid move. Stupid stupid stupid!’

  Mike coughed then laughed. ‘You know the old saying, either stop thieving or become a better thief.’

  ‘Point taken.’ Kaz grinned. ‘Anyway, it’s not why I came down here.’

  ‘No, it’s not. We need to focus on the inquest.’

  Kaz saw that his eyes were pitch-black and over-bright, with dark shadows beneath. His brow was slick with perspiration. She wondered if he was in pain. She’d seen him sneak a couple of pills from a bottle he carried in his pocket and swallow them with his tea. She came to a decision.

  ‘Y’know, you’ve helped me enough. And having a place to stay, well that would be brilliant. But you don’t have to carry on with this.’

  ‘I don’t have anything better to do right now. There are enough bad paintings in the world, I don’t need to add to their number.’ He flashed her that lopsided grin again.

  ‘I know you said you lost your wife, don’t you have any kids?’

  He hesitated, but only for a second. ‘One son. Adrian.’

  ‘Where’s he?’

  ‘Lives in Hong Kong.’

  The last thing she wanted was to upset him, and she could tell from his tone of voice and the sad look on his face that he wanted her to drop it, but she persisted. ‘Mike, you helped me, I wanna help you. Don’t you think it’s time to call him?’

  Mike eyeballed her defiantly. Had she over-stepped the mark?

  Then he shook his head, picked up the delicate porcelain cup and took a sip. ‘Last time I saw him is when he came to his mother’s funeral, all buttoned up and angry, black tie, black suit.’

  Kaz waited for him to say more but he didn’t. His dark eyes rested on the lip of the cup. She scooted the remaining crumbs round her plate.

  He set the cup down in its saucer. ‘Can I get you some more tea?’

  ‘No thanks.’

  Had she ever met a better person than Mike? Kaz didn’t think so. He had an open-hearted generosity that was rare. So what was wrong with his twat of a son?

  She caught Mike’s eye. ‘He should’ve grown up in our house.’

  ‘Perhaps he thinks he did.’ His lips started to form a rueful smile but then a bout of coughing seized him. Once it subsided, he drew a ragged breath, composed himself. ‘So, what’s the plan?’

  Kaz hesitated. She really wanted his help. He was sharp, knew how to sort things out. Not in the way villains did, always on the back-foot, always suspicious. Mike had a vast array of proper knowledge and what he didn’t know he knew how to find out. Still, she felt reluctant to
involve him. It wouldn’t be fair.

  Sitting back in his chair Mike monitored her inner struggle with a melancholy eye.

  He took a wheezy breath. ‘Listen, Karen, you’ve done me the courtesy of being honest with me, so I think I should reciprocate.’

  ‘You don’t have to talk about it.’

  Lacing his skeletal fingers he leant forward. ‘I’m ill – well, obviously.’ He seemed to ruminate on this then sighed. ‘Nothing to be done about that. There’s little I can tell you about my son. He was close to his mother. As I said before, she came from a wealthy family. Her father paid for his schooling. I think Adrian regards me as a layabout and a scrounger.’

  ‘Maybe he should take one of your classes, then he’d know what a brilliant teacher you are.’

  Mike shrugged. ‘He sees art as just another commodity. His grandfather and uncle encouraged him to go into the commercial world.’

  Kaz gave a dry laugh. ‘What is he – a banker?’

  ‘A lawyer. Mergers and acquisitions. He doesn’t discuss his life with me. When he needs advice, he goes to his uncle.’

  The chin beneath his stubbly beard quivered a little but he disguised it by lifting the teacup to his lips. Kaz imagined bottling Adrian. They sat in silence until the waitress came to take Kaz’s plate.

  Mike smiled at Kaz. ‘More cake?’

  She shook her head. ‘Does he know you’re ill?’

  ‘No. And I don’t plan to tell him. I’ve made my arrangements. There’s a hospice I like. They’ll provide care at home, then as an in-patient. But I’ve got a few months probably before it comes to that.’ A mischievous glint crept into his eyes. ‘Today was fun. Outwitting those two knuckleheads. Bucked me up no end.’

  ‘Some good’s come of it then.’ Kaz laughed.

  He nodded. ‘Yes. Did you ever read much poetry at school?’

  She gave him a sheepish look. ‘I never went to school that often.’

  ‘I suppose not.’ His vulpine features creased into a broad smile. ‘“Do not go gentle into that good night” – you ever hear that line?’