‘I am. And I would urge him to turn himself in. So if you or members of your family have any contact with him—’
‘Oh, come on, Neville – I grassed him up. You can’t have forgotten that. I’ve got a new name and a new life under the witness protection scheme. If Joey finds me, I’m dead.’
It was only when Mike grasped her by the elbow that Kaz realized she was shaking.
‘I’m certain, Mr Moore, that as a respectable member of the legal profession you would not do anything to compromise Karen’s safety.’ Mike fixed the lawyer with a penetrating stare.
‘Of course I wouldn’t,’ Moore huffed. ‘But I’ve known Joey Phelps since he was sixteen years old. He’s a complicated young man – as I’m sure you know, Karen. He understands the danger and penalties involved in the life he’s chosen. And I wouldn’t necessarily assume that he’s bent on vengeance.’
The courtroom had almost emptied. The three of them remained standing in the aisle.
Kaz gave the lawyer a steely glare. ‘Give him a message from me, Neville. We had a deal and he could’ve stuck to it. He could’ve stopped the killing. But he didn’t. He broke the deal. I got no regrets.’
‘As I’ve already said, I have absolutely no means—’
Kaz stepped forward until she was right in the lawyer’s face. ‘Bullshit! You think I don’t know how it works? Oh, you’ve got plenty of respectable clients and big posh offices now. But push comes to shove, you’re still a villains’ brief. Transfers between offshore accounts, contact through intermediaries? There’s serious money to be made in that game – and you’re not about to say no to that, are you?’
Neville Moore didn’t waiver. He met her ferocity with raised eyebrows and a mild look of scorn. ‘Is this what Helen told you, in your more intimate moments?’
‘You know fuck all about me and her!’
The lip curled to match his gimlet eye. ‘Oh really? It may surprise you to know I enjoyed Helen’s confidence on a number of matters.’
‘I didn’t know it was a competition.’
He took a step back, shaking his head as if to reprimand himself. ‘It isn’t. Look, I have no wish to quarrel with you. I’m here out of grief and concern for a valued former colleague and friend.’
Kaz met his eye and was nonplussed to see the hint of a tear. The notion that Neville Moore even had feelings came as a surprise. He’d been Helen’s boss. He was still Joey’s lawyer. He was a pompous prick. Apart from that, she knew nothing about him.
‘Strange times, indeed. I never imagined it would come to this.’ A haunted look flickered across his features. ‘I wish you well, Karen, I really do.’
He gave them a thin smile, turned and headed for the door.
41
As they came out of the court building, Kaz’s phone buzzed in her pocket. Having asked to meet Julia, she’d supplied Nicci Armstrong with her number, although she hadn’t expected such a swift response. Nicci’s text suggested a venue round the corner in Borough Market.
Kaz hesitated. The encounter with Joey’s lawyer had unnerved her. She knew the sensible thing to do would be to rip the SIM out of her phone and take the next train back to Glasgow – that was her safe haven. The longer she remained in London, the more she was at risk.
As a convicted criminal she’d been released from prison on licence to serve out the rest of her sentence in the community, but technically she wasn’t free. If the authorities in Glasgow weren’t fooled by her email and realized she was off the grid, she’d be in breach of her licence and in danger of being recalled. But by far the greater risk, the thing that really scared her, was being tracked down by Joey.
She glanced up from her phone to see Mike watching her.
‘The ex-cop,’ she explained. ‘Wants me to meet Helen’s partner in a coffee shop at quarter to eleven.’ She checked the digital clock on her phone. ‘Twenty-five past now. Whad’you think?’
‘I think you’ve already made up your mind.’ He flashed her his lopsided grin. ‘So let’s go.’
The place was easy enough to find, located in a cobbled lane on the edge of the market. High-ceilinged, walls stripped back to the soft and yellowing London stock brick, with a carved oak counter salvaged from some East End boozer running the length of one side. A sumptuous array of cakes and pastries covered its top.
Kaz scanned the room: no sign of Nicci yet. Then she looked at the counter. She’d avoided breakfast, psyching herself up for the inquest and the ordeal of having to listen to the grisly details of her lover’s demise. Now she was ravenous.
Mike peered over her shoulder. ‘Chocolate brownie looks good.’
‘You want one?’
‘You do. I’ll just have a camomile tea.’ He thrust a tenner in her hand.
‘No, Mike!’
He wiggled a finger dismissively at her. ‘I need to sit down. Over in the corner, that okay?’
As Mike wound his way round the tables, Kaz ordered a chocolate brownie, a large cappuccino and a tea. She was just picking up her tray from the counter when Nicci Armstrong came through the door, followed by a small, mousy-haired woman in a short, collarless leather jacket. Kaz stopped in her tracks. Was this really Julia?
In her mind she’d formed an image of someone large, blonde and Junoesque, full of posh confidence and lethal on a hockey pitch. How could this be the woman Helen Warner had chosen? This tiny person with the snub nose and pinched face of a scared rabbit.
The awkwardness of the moment wasn’t lost on Nicci. She painted on a smile. ‘Julia Hadley, meet Clare O’Keeffe.’
Kaz stood rigid and tall, holding the tray. ‘My real name’s Karen.’
‘Yeah I know.’ A crease gathered between the woman’s brows. ‘You’re really beautiful. But then, I knew you would be.’
Kaz blinked, took a breath. She’d imagined this moment on many a sleepless night. But she’d imagined it with a Sig Sauer in her hand and Julia’s blood splattering across the white walls of Helen’s tasteful flat.
So this was the lover Helen Warner had preferred, the woman she’d elected to share her life with. It didn’t make sense, and yet it made complete sense. Julia Hadley matched the decorous restraint of every other aspect of the lawyer’s life.
A fist of pain travelled up from Kaz’s belly into her chest, she tasted bile in her throat. She wanted to cut and run, but the sorrow in Julia’s eyes mesmerized her.
Feeling tears pricking her lids she thrust the tray into Nicci’s hands. ‘Could you just grab that, go and sit down with Mike. I’ll get some drinks. Coffee? Tea?’
Taken by surprise, Nicci almost dropped the tray before recovering enough to respond. ‘Yeah, er – double espresso.’
Julia seemed to be the only calm one. Oblivious to her surrounding, eyes riveted on Kaz, she smiled. ‘I’d like a still mineral water. But let me help you.’
42
He was a big-hearted bloke, a firm friend, a reliable colleague – Eddie Lunt appreciated these qualities in himself and it came as a surprise when others didn’t perceive them. Nicci Armstrong had a tendency to treat him like shit on her shoe – hard to say why – but it was a fact of life since he’d joined SBA.
The inquest had been adjourned and at half twelve she’d come steaming back into the office and laid into him for having a pre-lunch coffee break.
‘Don’t you ever stop eating?’
His eyes nearly crossed as he focused on the Jammie Dodger that was en route to his open mouth. The news of Ray’s death had been niggling at the back of his mind all morning and when he was upset, he ate. He popped the biscuit in whole then pursued her across the office to her desk, flinching as she hurled her bag at the chair. That wasn’t a good sign.
Mouth oozing Dodger and jam, he attempted a smile. ‘You got a mo?’
‘Fuck off, Eddie, I’m busy.’ She pulled out her mobile.
‘Only I been—’
‘Are you deaf?’
‘Only—’
Caught in her u
nremitting, icy stare, the words froze in his biscuit-filled mouth. Then without warning her expression softened to a frown as a thought arose.
‘Actually, Eddie, there is something useful you can do.’
Brushing the crumbs from his lips, he signalled his willingness to assist.
‘I want you to go to Glasgow. Know it at all?’
‘Yeah, it’s in Scotland.’
She drummed her fingers on the desk. Was this his idea of humour? You could never tell with Eddie. She knew only too well she was being a complete bitch. Having a go at him had become a habit, a default setting to relieve her general level of stress and irritation. But she wasn’t about to beat herself up – he was after all a scumbag – he deserved it.
The morning had been frustrating in the extreme. Hanging around outside the Coroner’s Court her head had been full of Ethel Huxtable. The old lady’s body, her waxen face, the blood on the pavement. Delgado had promised to get back to her. But the likelihood was Tim had bent his ear, explained man-to-man that his ex-wife was mental. An alchy, retired on medical grounds for the excellent reason that she no longer knew which way was up. In his shoes, she’d have done the same.
Juggling all this with the Warner case had left her feeling ragged and emotional. She dragged herself back to the matter in hand and focused on Eddie. ‘I need you to check something out for me.’
He beamed. ‘It’s what the man pays me for, Nic.’
The temptation to whack back a sarcastic riposte was overwhelming, but Nicci resisted. ‘Okay. Helen Warner went to Glasgow a month before she died. Stayed at Malmaison, we think. The supposition is she went to meet up with Kaz Phelps, a former client. I met Phelps at the inquest this morning. Phelps insists she had no idea Warner was in Glasgow or that she might have been looking for her. Claims she hadn’t seen her in over a year.’
‘You wanna know if she’s telling the truth?’
‘Exactly. And if she is, then why did Helen Warner take a secret trip to Glasgow which she felt the need to lie about?’
Eddie folded his arms across his ample paunch as he pondered. ‘I got an old mate on the Herald, been there years. Knows every concierge in every hotel in the city, probably every pimple on their arses too.’
Nicci gave him an acid smile. ‘That’ll be useful.’
‘If we’re talking about evidence, like hanky-panky on hotel CCTV, then yeah, it will.’
Licking her index finger, Nicci held it up. Point to Eddie.
He checked his watch. ‘Must be a train an hour. From Euston it’s probably just under five hours. I can be up there by teatime. Meanwhile I’ll speak to my mate, get him on the case.’
Eddie Lunt in brisk, enthusiastic mode was something she’d never witnessed before. Was he trying to impress? Or could it be genuine excitement at the prospect of a trip to Glasgow? Nicci didn’t much care, so long as he cleared off and left her in peace.
‘Good. Keep me posted.’
‘You’ll let Simon know?’
‘Yep. And don’t rack up the expenses or Simon will be pissed.’
The pixieish grin spread across his chubby face. ‘As if.’
She’d turned back to her desk and was checking her phone again so she didn’t immediately see what prompted his explosion.
‘Awww, fuck me sideways with a fucking bargepole!’
Nicci glanced up and followed the direction of his gaze. At first all she could see was Simon Blake, standing in the reception area shaking hands with someone. Then the other man turned and she saw the horribly familiar features of former Detective Superintendent Alan Turnbull, once her boss and almost her nemesis.
Nicci stood rooted to the spot; she could feel the blood in her ears surging, the anger rising.
A voice drifted over: Eddie again. ‘Looks like even fucking Abu Dhabi didn’t want him.’
She took a deep breath, glanced at Eddie in surprise. ‘How do you know Turnbull?’
‘Fucker nicked me for phone hacking, which on the one hand was fair enough. Except that at the time he was dining out with every editor in Wapping and taking bungs like they was going out of fashion. So I call it a bit of a fucking cheek.’
Nicci didn’t respond. She was fixated on the fact that Blake had started to walk across the office towards them, Turnbull following in his wake, glancing from left to right with a smirk on his face.
Eddie slipped sideways round the desks to make his escape. ‘I got a train to catch. Good luck.’
As Blake approached, Nicci could see the tension in his face. He stepped aside and waved Turnbull forward with a diffident smile. ‘I think you two know each other.’
‘Nicci, how are you?’ Turnbull loomed over her, his hand outstretched, a lairy grin on his face. ‘I must say, one of the bonuses for me of joining SBA is that we’ll be working together again.’
43
When she’d first got out of jail, the summertime city had been one of Kaz Phelps’s chief pleasures. She’d walked and walked, from the riverside eyrie where her brother Joey had lived, to the mansion block in Bloomsbury that had been Helen’s home. The hot pavements and cool gardens – back then she’d observed every detail with a fresh, curious eye. The plane trees in full leaf – she remembered sitting in their generous shade in Russell Square as she got up the courage to go and ring Helen’s doorbell.
But her lawyer had ended up with a different doorbell, and she was facing it now. Julia had invited her round so they could talk privately.
In the coffee shop, with Nicci Armstrong playing detective and firing questions at her, she’d found it hard to get the measure of Julia. As well as the lover they had in common, they also shared the belief that there was no way Helen Warner had killed herself. So, at the very least, there was stuff to talk about.
Still, standing on the black-and-white-tiled path, Kaz hesitated. This was probably a mad idea. On the other hand, she was hoping Julia would have answers to some of the many questions that had been running through her mind. Whether she’d share them remained to be seen.
Kaz glanced up the street. It was predictably posh. The houses were large Edwardian semis, worth possibly a couple of million in London’s over-inflated property market.
She tried to imagine Helen coming and going from her new home, exchanging friendly greetings with her equally affluent neighbours. Julia and Helen, two middle-class professional ladies – no one would’ve called them dykes – living in leafy Wandsworth. A respectable, virtuous, contented couple? Something must have gone awry though, breaching the walls of Helen’s refuge, tipping her over the line into the world Kaz knew. How else could her bloated corpse have ended up in the river?
Although she hadn’t seen her lover’s body, it was the image that had stuck in Kaz’s mind. She wondered if Julia shared that too.
She took a deep breath and pressed the doorbell. It was set in a brass surround, which someone obviously took the trouble to polish. A chime sounded within and a few seconds later a figure appeared behind the glass. Kaz guessed that Julia had been waiting.
The door opened and they exchanged tentative smiles. Julia was wearing faded jeans and a loose silk shirt – it was meant to look casual, except the shirt was unbuttoned, revealing a low-cut vest. And she was barefooted, which sent a jolt through Kaz. Helen had padded barefooted through her flat the day they’d slept together; Kaz could still remember her feet on the honeyed wooden floor and how seductive she’d found this first glimpse of naked flesh.
Julia flapped her hand. ‘Come in, come in.’ She had none of Helen’s grace.
Following her into the house and down the hall to the kitchen, Kaz sneaked a look into the sitting room. The sofa was one she remembered from Helen’s old place.
On the massive granite-topped counter there was a bowl of olives, a bottle of white wine and two glasses. A nervous tension was burning off Julia.
Kaz could feel it, and she watched Julia’s hand tremble as she picked up the bottle. ‘My father always says once the sun’s over the ya
rd arm – but that’s bollocks really if it’s not going to get dark until nine o’clock.’
Kaz shook her head. ‘I don’t drink.’
‘Oh well – a cup of tea then?’ She put the bottle down.
‘Yeah. But don’t let me stop you.’
Julia gave an airy wave. ‘I can take it or leave it. Brought up with ridiculous middle-class notions of hospitality, I suppose.’
Eyes surfing round the immaculate kitchen – very Helen – Kaz managed a wary smile. ‘Oh, my old man served booze any time of the night or day. Mostly whisky, usually straight from the bottle.’
Julia’s gaze turned wistful. ‘We come from very different places, don’t we?’
‘Yeah, we do. Which is why I was her client and you was her partner.’
Julia raised her chin; she was ready to be polite, friendly even, but not challenged. ‘Helen was quite a socialist. I don’t think a person’s class was ever an issue with her.’
Kaz chuckled, she couldn’t help it. ‘You serious?’
The comment wasn’t intended to provoke, but Julia bridled. ‘Her political commitment was—’
‘I’m not talking about that.’
Their eyes met, anger crackling on both sides. She wanted her, not me – Kaz wondered if that was yet another thought they shared.
It was Julia who turned away. Cheeks flushed, hand trembling, she reached for the bottle of wine, unscrewed the top and sloshed a hefty measure into one of the glasses.
She gulped down a large mouthful. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t mean to – all this has been, so difficult, so painful.’
Kaz sighed, she hadn’t come for a row. ‘Yeah, I do know that.
Another mouthful. ‘I’m sure you do.’
Folding her arms Kaz perched on one of the high leather stools. ‘You got any idea at all what could’ve happened to her?’
Julia shook her head slowly. Her face settled into the mask of sorrow that Kaz had seen in the coffee shop. Her words were slow and deliberate. ‘I have no fucking idea. None at all. Not even a theory.’ Her gaze zoned in on Kaz. ‘I was wondering if you had.’
The Mourner Page 18
