She ground her fag underfoot, pushed forward and forced herself into the queue directly behind Kaz. ‘I wondered if you might be here.’
Kaz was spared the necessity of replying by the usher, who counted them through the door with a snap of her clicker.
As they debouched into the foyer, Nicci stepped in front of them. There was no avoiding her.
‘Didn’t realize this was your case.’ Kaz suppressed her annoyance.
‘Well, it is and it isn’t.’ Nicci gave a diffident hunch of the shoulders and glanced at Mike.
He stuck out his hand. ‘Mike Dawson.’
She accepted the handshake. ‘Nice to meet a friend of Clare’s.’
‘It’s okay,’ Kaz told her. ‘He knows who I am. He’s my old art teacher, helped me get into Glasgow.’
‘Oh, I see.’ Nicci frowned, her pallid face and red-rimmed eyes suggested a serious hangover. She seemed to be having problems focusing.
Kaz turned back to Mike. ‘Nicci’s one of the cops that sent my brother down.’
‘Not a cop any more.’ Nicci corrected her. ‘And presumably you’ve seen the papers? Joey broke out.’
‘Yeah, I saw.’ Kaz shifted restlessly. ‘His priority’ll be to get out the country. I doubt he’ll be coming after me.’
‘Still, you need to take care. Witness protection can only do so much.’
She nodded. ‘So what you doing here?’
Good question, thought Nicci. What was she doing there? Her senses were dull with pain. She’d been up most of the night. She felt dizzy and nauseous, though it was hard to tell if it was from booze, shock or her ricocheting guilt and despair at the death of Ethel. Trying to convince her former colleagues, and her ex-husband in particular, that she might have a relevant lead on the murder had rapidly turned into a fiasco.
Delgado had been listening to her theory with an open mind. Then Tim had turned up. Nicci knew that losing her temper with him had been plain stupid. Yet the very sight of him – his coiled resentment, his sarcasm – simply set her off. Delgado had watched bemused as they tore into one another. After that, any possibility of rational discussion vaporized. Nicci had retreated, fuming, to her flat and opened the first of several bottles.
When her alarm went off at seven she’d had problems remembering where she was and who she was, let alone that she still had a job to do.
Attending the Warner inquest was crucial. All the relevant players would be present, plus she needed to be there for Julia Hadley. And she had to be there for this – the likelihood that Karen Phelps would put in an appearance. Blake was supposed to be coming too, but as yet he hadn’t turned up.
With some effort she fixed her bloodshot eyes on Kaz and forced a smile. Making contact was one thing, but which way would Kaz jump? Would she run for cover? There was only one way to find out. Nicci could muster neither the energy nor lucidity to play games.
‘I work for a firm of private investigators now. We’ve been asked to look into Helen Warner’s death – by her partner, Julia.’
Kaz held Nicci’s gaze, her expression neither hostile nor benign. It had been the same in all their previous encounters: Nicci had always found it impossible to get past Kaz’s inscrutability. When they’d met up in Glasgow, just prior to Joey’s trial, it had been amicable enough. But Nicci knew that Kaz Phelps had wariness written in her DNA. Persuading her to reveal the true nature of her relationship with her former lawyer would not be easy.
‘So – she doesn’t buy the suicide story either?’
‘No. She doesn’t.’ Nicci watched Kaz absorb this. It was as if she’d slipped away to some private realm. From the corner of her eye, Nicci observed the way Mike Dawson’s gaze rested softly on his protégé.
‘Is she here? Can I meet her?’
Kaz’s response stopped Nicci’s jitters in their tracks. ‘You sure you want that?’
‘Yeah. Why wouldn’t I?’ This was accompanied by a defiant stare. ‘I’d like to give her my – whad-you-call-it? – condolences. Yeah, I’d like to do that.’
37
Should she try to intervene? After a day of deliberation Fiona Calder hadn’t really managed to come to a firm conclusion. There’d been a death on the tube that had unnerved her. The connection with Helen Warner was tenuous, but there was a connection. Even so she’d begun to wonder if she was simply being paranoid. There was no evidence – but then there was no bloody evidence for any of it.
On the morning of the Warner inquest she’d been at her desk by seven a.m., staring out of the window at the hazy morning sun struggling to break through. The interests of justice and the interests of the Met didn’t always coincide. That was a proven historical fact. Maybe she was a fool to worry about these things. Keep your head down, wait and see – that had been her husband’s advice. But then Geoffrey was a civil servant, not a cop.
At nine thirty she’d decided to go for the fool’s option. She walked into the Commissioner’s office and asked for a private word. His mood was peevish. He had a meeting scheduled at ten with some policy wonks from MOPAC. He continued to briskly sign his way through a pile of correspondence, while informing her he could only spare five minutes. She’d put her case simply and concisely.
The death of Helen Warner was continuing to attract a great deal of media coverage. A firm of private investigators had been retained by the family and somehow the press had got hold of the fact – she omitted to mention that she herself had been the source. Now the Met was in danger of appearing slapdash in their investigation. Indeed, the blogosphere was buzzing with speculation and accusation.
The Commissioner huffed, he was not a social media man; he regarded it as a waste of time. It might entertain his grandchildren, but that didn’t make it a reliable barometer of the public mood in his opinion.
He raised his fountain pen from the letter in front of him and pointed the blunt end at his Assistant Commissioner. ‘Fiona, is this strictly necessary? I will not pander to the press or the politicians. You know that.’
It was a phrase he liked. Calder had heard him utter it on a number of occasions. She also knew it was meaningless. Pimp or pander? Whatever you wanted to call it, getting down and dirty with all the other creatures in the political jungle had certainly become part of the job.
She smiled. She’d taken the precaution of freshening her lipstick and wearing a tailored blouse that set off her figure to its best advantage. These things shouldn’t matter, but they did. Ever the pragmatist, she’d become expert over the years at exuding just the right amount of femininity, relying on subtle touches like the undertones of an expensive perfume.
She tilted her head, sighed wistfully. ‘Only trying to cover your back, sir.’
The Commissioner snapped the cap on his pen and exhaled. His expression softened. ‘I know you are. And I know you’re one of the few people around here I can rely on to do that.’
Their eyes met. Calder had often wondered if it was true that all men thought of sex, what was it, every hour at a conservative scientific estimate. What a handicap to be saddled with! It was no wonder half of them couldn’t think straight. They were forced to compartmentalize in order to manage rational thought at all. That put them at a huge disadvantage. So much so, she could almost feel sorry for them.
Judging that she had his full attention, she broadened her smile. ‘The big question is, what will the Mayor say?’
‘Say to what?’ His tone was tetchy.
‘Did Helen Warner commit suicide? He’ll be asked – he’ll pass the buck directly to us. Then you’ll be asked.’
The Commissioner shrugged. ‘I’ll just say my officers carried out a thorough investigation.’
‘What if it turns out they didn’t?’
‘What the blazes are you getting at, Fiona? Phil Slattery assured me—’
‘That’s not the point I’m making, sir. Once the question is out there, you’ll be forced to have an opinion. The inquest will throw up a lot of public sympathy for the family
. If you say she did kill herself, you’ll be the bad guy. If you say you don’t know, you’re relying on your officers and the coroner, you’ll be the weak guy.’
The Commissioner frowned, rubbed the side of his nose. ‘Well, what are you suggesting?’
‘We need to slow the pace. We won’t be rushed. We ask for an adjournment.’
‘On what grounds?’
‘Toxicology. No one understands it. We say we’re still awaiting the results of important tests.’
‘Then what?’
‘We’ve got some breathing space. Everyone’ll get excited about something else. More time, less flak.’
The Commissioner pondered, slumping back in his chair. His brow crinkled into a worried frown. ‘We do think she committed suicide, don’t we?’
Calder kept her response noncommittal. ‘I’m sure Phil Slattery’s team have been very thorough. But you know as well as I do—’
‘Yes, yes.’ He flapped his hand, waving away any further argument. ‘All right. Phone him. Do it.’
Calder got to her feet. ‘Thank you, sir.’
As she walked back to her office she felt lighter. It was hard to say why. She’d kicked the can a few yards down the road. A small achievement in the scheme of things, but it kept the situation fluid. It would apply pressure – and with luck that might lead to someone showing their hand.
38
When the coroner announced to a packed courtroom that the case would be adjourned for three weeks to give the police time to complete their investigation, a groan of disbelief rolled round the room. The coroner himself had been similarly aggrieved when the embarrassed SIO had stood in his office five minutes previously and explained that they needed more time to complete all the toxicology.
Detective Superintendent Phil Slattery had thought he was home and dry until he got the Assistant Commissioner’s call. To say he was pissed off was an understatement. She’d been trying to put a spoke in their wheel from the outset. He had it from a reliable source that she was the one who’d suggested to Julia Hadley that she hire a private investigator. And Simon Blake, of all bloody people! It was outrageous.
Slattery was roughly the same age as Fiona Calder and the two of them had come up through the ranks together. But when it came to the positive discrimination game, Calder had played a blinder. And here he was, stuck in the middle-management logjam. Detective Superintendent was probably it for him, but that didn’t make him any less of a copper, or any less loyal. The Job, the Met – it had given him and his family a good life. He wasn’t about to betray that now.
As the courtroom started to empty he walked over to Charles Warner. Helen’s father was still sitting in the front row, hands folded in his lap, staring into space. Robert Hollister was standing next to him, talking into his mobile.
Slattery took a deep breath. ‘Mr Warner, I’m really sorry about this, but—’
There was no chance to say more because Hollister was in his face. He clicked his phone off. ‘What’s going on, Superintendent?’
Charles Warner’s watery eyes rose to meet Slattery’s. He looked haggard and defeated. He made no attempt to speak, not that Hollister would let anyone else get a word until he’d finished spluttering in righteous indignation.
‘This is totally unacceptable!’
‘Indeed it is, sir.’ Unruffled, Slattery looked Hollister in the eye. They both knew the politician was huffing and puffing because that’s what politicians did. There would be a private discussion later, but this was neither the time nor place. They were simply going through the motions for the old man’s sake.
Julia Hadley edged along the row and placed her hand on Warner’s arm. ‘Charles, we’ve got a taxi for you.’
Hollister shook his head vehemently. ‘No no! Charles can come with us. We insist.’ He turned and sought out his wife. ‘Don’t we, darling?’
Paige Hollister was standing slightly apart from her husband, her face blank but composed. She seemed to be sealed in her own private bubble, disconnected from her surroundings.
‘Darling?’ Hollister’s tone carried a hint of petulance. ‘We’re offering Charles a lift.’
Her soft grey eyes slid slowly round to settle on her husband. ‘Absolutely, darling.’ Then she remembered to smile.
Kaz and Mike had found a seat in the back row. The decision to adjourn puzzled them both. They continued to sit, unsure how to react.
‘I don’t get it.’ Kaz scanned the room. ‘Why this farting about? The cops must’ve known before this that they weren’t ready.’
‘You would think so.’ Mike leant back in his chair.
‘So what’s going on?’
‘Beats me. We could ask your friend the ex-cop.’
A bottleneck had formed at the exit as an impatient knot of bodies tried to make their way out. Kaz thought she caught a glimpse of Nicci but it would’ve been impossible to reach her. As she gazed around the room, her eye travelled to the front row and the old man being helped to his feet by Robert Hollister. Presumably this was Helen’s father. He’d been mentioned by Hollister when he did his spiel for the cameras. But what about the rest of the family? Helen had never talked about them beyond the bare facts: no sisters, maybe two brothers, and her mother was dead.
And what about Julia? Which one was she? Had she been accorded a place in the respectable Warner clan?
Following Mike, Kaz got up and began a slow shuffle along the row towards the exit. They were approaching the doors when she felt a hand on her shoulder. Habit made her flinch and turn, ready to lash out, ready for anything.
A smile and chuckle greeted her. ‘Goodness me, Karen – you do look fierce! I didn’t mean to startle you.’
It took her a moment to recognize the assured lizard-eyed smirk of Helen’s old boss. But Neville Moore wasn’t only that; as far as Kaz knew he was still her brother’s lawyer. And if Joey had indeed escaped abroad, you could be sure of one thing – he’d be in touch with his brief. Beneath the good humour, Kaz was aware of an underlying tension as he leaned towards her to murmur conspiratorially: ‘You’re about the last person I expected to bump into here.’
39
The Audi drew away from the kerb leaving Julia Hadley on the pavement. Although her shoulders were slightly hunched, she looked every inch the businesswoman, a practised professional smile holding back the grief.
‘What now?’ She turned briskly to Nicci.
Nicci took a swig from her plastic bottle of water while she pondered the options. The pain across her forehead had settled into a muted ache. ‘Well, there’s someone in the Met wants to keep the investigation open, so that’s probably a good thing.’
‘Not for Charles it isn’t. This is killing him.’
‘How are you doing?’
‘I’m fine.’
That seemed fairly improbable. Nicci had watched Julia bustling round, trying to play the role of dutiful daughter-in-law to the suffering patriarch. Now that he’d been swept off in Robert Hollister’s car, she seemed lost, standing there nervously twisting the rings on her left finger.
It was hard to discern what sort of relationship really existed between the dead woman’s father and lover. Nicci suspected that, like many ageing parents, Charles Warner had only been granted snapshots of his daughter’s life. He was mourning his little girl, the child who’d sat on his knee and whose innocence he could still believe in.
Nicci tossed the water bottle into a bin and checked her phone. She was waiting to hear back from Delgado, the Hackney DS investigating Ethel’s murder. All she’d got was a curt text from Blake saying he was busy and would see her back at the office.
Juggling thoughts about Ethel and the Warner case was scrambling her brain. It was also stopping her heading for the nearest pub. Hold it together, just a bit longer, she told herself. She didn’t want to let anyone down.
Glancing at Julia, she decided to go for broke: ‘There’s someone who’d like to meet you.’
‘I’m not talking to
any more bloody journalists.’ Julia scowled.
‘Someone who knew Helen.’
Was it Nicci’s slight hesitation or maybe her tone of voice? Julia was on it straight away. ‘You’ve found her, haven’t you?’ A faint flush crept up her cheeks.
‘She found me really. I was hoping she might turn up today.’ Nicci took a breath. ‘So, how do you feel about meeting her?’
It was hard to read the look that slid into Julia’s eyes. Nicci realized she had her own mask of inscrutability.
When she finally replied, her tone was firm but detached. ‘I’m sure it’ll be fine.’
40
Kaz’s priority was to escape from Neville Moore before he could prise any information out of her, information that would be relayed straight back to Joey. But the shuffling crowd waiting to squeeze through the narrow exit held them all like a net. And the last thing she wanted was to introduce Mike. Unfortunately both he and Neville Moore shared the same class confidence and manners – they immediately exchanged handshakes and names.
‘I’m guessing you’re an artist, sir.’ The lawyer’s eyes flicked back and forth from Mike to Kaz, reading every detail. ‘One of Karen’s teachers, perhaps?’
Mike fixed him with a beady eye. ‘Former teacher. I’m retired.’
Left with little choice, Kaz decided to take the bull by the horns. ‘Listen, Neville, I know Joey’s gonna be looking for me—’
Moore’s palm flew up in front of him. ‘Hang on! Let’s get one thing clear. Your brother is an escaped convict and I have absolutely no knowledge of his whereabouts.’
If she hadn’t been feeling quite so apprehensive, this would have amused Kaz. But she’d had enough experience of lawyers, Helen included, to know how they operated. The weasel words cut no ice with her. She gave him a cynical smile. ‘Whatever. But you’re still his lawyer?’
The Mourner Page 17
