The Mourner

by Susan Wilkins

  46

  Nicci Armstrong took the bus to Hackney. It was packed with kids who’d just got out of school. She watched them joshing each other. Seeing them en masse always made her think of Sophie – this is what she should be doing now: coming home from school with her mates, texting on her phone. Sometimes it felt to Nicci as though her heart had been ripped out. But somehow she was still alive. It seemed the undead came in many guises; mostly they passed unnoticed and didn’t have fangs.

  DS Delgado had finally responded to her several messages and invited her to come in and talk. The local CID operated from a two-storey office block in a new business park on the edge of Hackney Marshes. The reception area was tiny with no seating. Nicci folded her arms and leant against the scuffed wall.

  Delgado emerged from the lifts, greeting her with a polite smile. ‘Thought we’d go round the corner for a coffee.’

  ‘I was chucked out on health grounds, not for misconduct.’

  This earned her a sardonic glance from the cop. ‘Your ex is upstairs, talking to my boss. Didn’t think you’d want another encounter.’

  Nicci huffed out a sigh. ‘Okay. Fair enough.’

  They headed out of the door and across the car park of the adjacent plumber’s merchants, Delgado leading the way. Nicci took the opportunity to observe him; same rank as her when she’d left, but their paths had never crossed. He was older – around forty was Nicci’s guess – tall, maybe six three or four, rake thin, his dark hair receding at the temples, a small tonsure at the crown.

  As soon as they were clear of the building he pulled out a pack of cigarettes. A heavy smoker, the smell of nicotine hung on him like an acrid aftershave. He offered the packet to Nicci. She hesitated then took one; he sparked up his lighter and applied the flame to her cigarette, then his own. This brief ritual was wordless, but the act of sharing eased the awkwardness between them.

  Delgado strode on. He walked in loping strides, shoulders hunched, one hand in his trouser pocket, the other carrying the fag up and down to his lips. Nicci wasn’t a slow walker, but she found herself having to make an effort to keep up.

  When they reached Homerton High Street he stopped outside one of the big coffee chains. ‘This okay?’

  Nicci nodded, they discarded their cigarette butts and he held open the door.

  Once they were finally settled in a corner with their drinks, the cop rested his elbows on the table and opened his palms. ‘Well, you know the drill. You tell me what you know. I listen. And I tell you nothing.’

  Nicci tipped a sachet of sugar into her double-shot espresso and gave it a stir. ‘As I explained last night, Ethel was my neighbour, I didn’t know her well. But she and I were involved in an incident at the bus stop.’

  The DS took a notebook from his jacket pocket and flicked over the pages. ‘With this teenage boy?’

  ‘Leon. No last name. But he must be local.’

  Delgado squinted at his handwriting and gave a dry chuckle. ‘Nowadays I can’t read a bloody thing without my glasses.’ He drew a leather spectacle case from his inside pocket. ‘You’re probably still a bit young for such an affliction.’

  Nicci smiled. ‘I have others.’

  The DS rested the glasses on his nose and peered over them. ‘Yeah, I gather.’

  ‘Listen, I don’t mind you checking me out. It’s what I’d do in your place. But don’t just rely on my ex-husband. Please.’

  Delgado was scanning his notes; his dark, deep-set eyes and sharp features gave him a foxy air. He didn’t look up. ‘A colleague of mine knows Bill Mayhew. We had a word.’

  Nicci turned the coffee cup in its saucer. That was a stroke of luck. Mayhew was her old DCI, she knew he’d have given her a good rep.

  ‘Haven’t seen Bill in a while.’ She smiled wistfully. ‘But I hope you’ll take his word rather than Tim’s.’

  Delgado laid his notebook on the table, took off the glasses and rested them on top. There were legions of blokes like him in the Job – steady, competent officers, not particularly ambitious, but behind the easy manner was a wary inscrutability. Nicci admired that brand of masculine professionalism: solid, efficient, unemotional. In a tight spot, he’d have your back.

  He seemed to be considering his words carefully, but when he spoke the flip tone took Nicci by surprise. ‘I hate to think what my ex-wife would say about me. We manage to be civil, y’know, for the kids.’

  She smiled, wondering if he’d say more. Her own divorce was still a sour memory – the rows, the anger, the painful compromises. She’d hated it every time Tim had come round to collect Sophie. Much as she’d wanted her daughter to have a proper relationship with him, she still resented it. Resented the trips with the new girlfriend, Sophie’s excitement and pleasure at the treats Tim arranged for her.

  Delgado was on the other side of the equation – the weekend father, the dispenser of delights. Nicci realized he was scrutinizing her. If he’d talked to Mayhew presumably he knew. She hoped he wouldn’t refer to it. Any mention of Sophie at this point would be likely to crack her open. Then he would end up thinking she was an unreliable basket case.

  He shook his head sadly. ‘My ex-wife thinks I’m a loser. We’ve got two boys. The youngest was a toddler when I found out she was screwing my best mate. He’s a chef. Pretty good one too. Started a chain of tapas restaurants. He’s made a mint. They live in the Cotswolds now. Boys have got horses, quad bikes, go to a posh school with a bunch of rich kids.’ He grinned. ‘They probably think I’m a loser too.’

  Nicci felt she was being played. Why was he opening up to her in this way? She hadn’t come here to share painful confidences or hear about other peoples’ messy lives. It was just irritating. She was there for Ethel Huxtable, to get justice for a feisty old lady who could’ve given them all a lesson in courage. The rest was bullshit.

  She took a sip of coffee, set the cup back on the saucer. ‘Was she stabbed?’

  ‘They’re doing the PM this afternoon. Then we’ll know for certain.’

  ‘But you’re working on the assumption?’

  ‘Yeah, I guess.’

  ‘So where are you up to? If Tim’s still around, are HAT and the borough running the inquiry jointly? When’s the murder team taking over?’

  He gave her a pleading look.

  ‘Oh, come on, Delgado . . .’

  ‘Jack.’

  ‘Jack the lad?’ She laughed. ‘Yeah that figures.’

  ‘My name’s actually Joaquin. When we first came over, kids in my class couldn’t pronounce it. But they could manage spic. I preferred Jack.’

  More personal trivia. Nicci had to contain her annoyance. It was his way of processing her, being sympathetic – because she was an ex-cop with a dead kid – while skilfully avoiding the nitty-gritty.

  Fixing him with a piercing stare, she leant forward. ‘Come on, Jack, I just want to know what’s going on. I’m sure you and your team know what you’re doing. But my ex – and I don’t say this with any bitterness – is a crap detective.’

  ‘Well, I can tell you what I’ve been doing. Spent the morning talking to the victim’s family. Seems she was quite a character.’

  ‘I know.’

  He nodded wistfully. ‘They showed me this scrapbook. She was a real firebrand in her youth. Worked as a bus conductor, started campaigning for equal pay and that got her into trade unionism. She was on Hackney Council for years, became an alderman, back when they still had all that.’

  None of this surprised Nicci, but it left her with an even greater feeling of stupidity and guilt. ‘I wish I’d taken the trouble to talk to her more.’

  Delgado sighed, checked his watch. ‘Okay, so you think this kid Leon is a possible suspect.’

  ‘It’s definitely where I’d start.’

  Reaching for his notebook, the DS uncapped his pen. ‘Run through the incident at the bus stop again. I want to make sure I’ve got an accurate note.’

  ‘We were queuing. Ethel had one of these little sh
opping trollies on wheels. The boy accidentally kicked it over. Ethel had a go at him. He gave her some lip. I intervened.’

  Delgado wrote rapidly in a small, neat hand. ‘You intervened? How?’

  Nicci found she had to swallow hard, a tight knot of emotion was rising up from her stomach into her chest. It was fear – the fear that her anger, her desire to punish and hurt the boy, had got the old lady killed.

  She caught Delgado scanning her, she knew she’d set him wondering. ‘The kid got stroppy, pulled a knife.’

  ‘On you or Ethel?’

  ‘On me. I – well, basically I intimidated him into backing off. This was in front of his mates. He certainly lost face. So I think he’s got a point to prove.’

  The DS’s lip curled in amusement. ‘I’ll bet you’re a mean son-of-a-gun when you want to be.’

  ‘If the occasion calls for it.’ Was he being patronizing or admiring? You could read it either way.

  ‘Description?’

  ‘Five seven, mixed race, probably fourteen or fifteen.’

  Having completed his notes, Delgado glanced at Nicci and smiled. ‘Okay, well, we’ll look into it.’

  Nicci watched him put the notebook and pen in his pocket. He rubbed the dark stubble on his chin, took a sip of coffee. He seemed fidgety, but maybe he was just craving his next cigarette.

  They’d reached an impasse. Like any member of the public she’d made her statement, it had been duly noted and that was that. He was as good as his word: he’d listened and told her nothing. The information would be assessed and processed – in due course. But that wasn’t good enough for Nicci.

  ‘Look, if this kid decided to knife Ethel, because I pissed him off . . .’

  He frowned. ‘That’s a big if.’

  ‘Trust me, I’ve got enough grief in my life without carrying the guilt for this too.’ Feeling the tears start to well up, she cursed her own weakness.

  Delgado watched her struggling to hold it together. Women losing it, it was his Achilles heel. He took a slug of coffee and wiped a smidgeon of froth from his lips with thumb and index finger. Nicci pulled a tissue from her bag and blew her nose. If this had been a deliberate ruse to manipulate him, it would’ve been brilliant.

  As it was she simply felt like shit. ‘Sorry.’

  ‘Okay, but this is between us. It gets out, my boss’ll have my balls in a wringer.’

  Nicci looked up at him, surprised but grateful.

  ‘I’m a sucker, aren’t I? An easy mark.’

  ‘If you think this is deliberate—’

  ‘No . . .’

  Their eyes met.

  ‘Okay, what the hell.’ He shook his head wearily. ‘You don’t have to feel guilty – we’ve got a confession. Your ex and my boss are talking to the CPS, see if it’ll stand up, before they charge him.’

  Nicci stared at him. ‘Charge who?’

  ‘Another neighbour of yours – at number six – ex-soldier: Nathan Cosgrove. You know him?’

  ‘By sight, not by name.’

  ‘We took him in for questioning last night. Apparently, he and Ethel had words on several occasions.’

  Nicci frowned. ‘Yeah, and I saw one of those occasions. She told him off, but he wasn’t bothered by it. Have you seen him? He’s a big bloke, solid muscle. If he lost it, it’d be fists. He could deck anyone. I don’t see him sneaking around and knifing an old lady in the back.’

  Delgado laced his fingers. ‘Well, DI Armstrong is convinced Cosgrove did it. He had us questioning the guy half the night.’

  ‘Are you serious?’ Nicci could feel the tension in her stomach. The fury rising. ‘The time I saw Cosgrove he was high as a kite. You put some fucked-up soldier in an interview room all night and make him sweat, what kind of confession is that?’

  ‘It was done by the book. The doctor passed him fit to be questioned.’

  Nicci shook her head in disbelief. ‘Have you looked into his history? Because his defence brief will. Where did he serve and how long’s he been out?’

  ‘Three tours in Helmand.’ Delgado pushed his cup aside. ‘Came home a couple of months ago.’

  ‘Did you watch him being interviewed?’

  ‘No. My shift ended at ten.’

  Nicci raked her fingers through her hair. She knew she had to rein herself in. Blowing her stack at Delgado would get her precisely nowhere. And the fact this shit show was being driven by Tim made her even more furious. It had all the hallmarks of his stupidity and ambition. A quick result before the HAT team had to pass it on? And he gets the credit.

  She could see the cop was uncomfortable and getting ready to bail. ‘Come on, Jack, think about it.’

  ‘I don’t know the details. At the moment my DI is going along with it.’

  ‘That’s because it’s good politics. Get a result before the murder team’s brought in. Makes everyone look good.’

  Delgado had his arms folded, his long, lanky limbs drooped off the chair. Nicci could feel the exasperation pulsing off him.

  He loosened his tie, the collar was missing a button. ‘Once he’s charged, it’s out of my hands.’

  ‘Is it?’

  ‘You ever worked in the boroughs? You know the caseload they expect us to carry? Especially now.’

  Nicci’s face was sympathetic but she wasn’t about to let him off the hook. ‘Just because he’s got two arms and two legs doesn’t make him okay. A confession obtained overnight from a veteran with possible combat stress? I doubt the CPS’ll be happy with that. But the paperwork could take days. Meanwhile any forensics associated with an alternative suspect like Leon will be lost.’

  He unfolded his arms and exhaled.

  ‘By then it won’t be your problem though, will it?’

  Delgado’s dark eyes flashed with their own indignation. ‘Don’t you guilt-trip me, lady.’ He wagged a finger at her.

  ‘I’m not.’ She stared straight back at him until the hangdog expression dissolved into a wry grin.

  ‘You’re a fucking piece of work, Nicci Armstrong. You know what Mayhew said about you?’

  She smiled. ‘Probably that I was a fucking piece of work.’

  ‘He said you were the best DS he’d ever worked with, a born detective, and the Met should be pulling out all the stops to get you back in the job.’

  Nicci managed a dry laugh. ‘That’s not about to happen any time soon.’

  Delgado stood up, shoved both hands in his trouser pockets. ‘Okay, here’s the deal. You let me look for Leon. Don’t go looking yourself and don’t interfere. Stay right out of it. Wait for my call. Agreed?’

  ‘Absolutely.’ Nicci beamed. ‘Thanks, Jack.’

  47

  It was five thirty, which gave Kaz two and half hours and the clock was ticking. She swallowed down the bile stinging her throat. The video clip of Yasmin being tortured had nearly made her puke. This was all her fault. Now an acid tension was thrumming through her.

  She didn’t really have a plan, it was more a crazy idea born of desperation. It required a ton of luck and a car. The voice on the phone was Tevfik Kemal, she was pretty certain of that. But was he acting alone or with the backing of his uncle? Sadik was the one to fear. If this was a freelance piece of revenge from the miserable little scrote, she had the ghost of a chance. However, she doubted Tevfik had the balls to damage an asset like Yasmin without the tacit approval of his father.

  The last time she’d driven a car she was seventeen. She had no licence and had never taken a test, but she’d omitted to mention these things to Julia. The Figaro was garaged at the end of the garden in a lock-up, which had access into an old mews running along behind the houses. Julia fitted a Yale key in the wooden door and opened it. The car sat there small and round and pink, like something out of a cartoon.

  Kaz glared at it – a motorbike would’ve been better, she could definitely ride a motorbike – but this? ‘Does this bloody thing even go?’

  Julia shot her a glance, she was even more jittery than K
az. ‘It’s just retro styling, course it goes.’

  ‘I’ll take your word for it.’

  Julia’s face was tense with concern. ‘This is madness. You can’t deal with these people yourself. We have to go to the police.’

  Kaz squeezed down the side of the garage, ran her eye over the stupid little car. ‘And say what? Cops won’t get within a mile. These people are serious villains, don’t you get it?’

  ‘All the more reason—’ She stopped herself, decided to change tack. ‘Okay, let’s call Nicci Armstrong. She’ll know what to do.’

  Kaz ignored the comment. Julia was right about one thing – this was madness. She was Clare O’Keeffe now, an ordinary student living a blameless and untarnished life. The problem was Clare O’Keeffe couldn’t help Yasmin. It required a gangster mentality to front up to other gangsters. Joey’s sister, Terry Phelps’s daughter, she had that mindset, she’d grown up with it. It had also landed her in jail.

  To deal with the Kemals she had to become that person again, the old Kaz Phelps. After Joey’s trial she’d vowed to herself that she’d never go back, never cross that line again into her father’s murky violent world. But if she did nothing, her friend would die.

  She smiled cynically to herself, the likelihood was she and Yasmin would both be murdered. She’d shamed Tevfik, offended his father’s vicious, misogynistic code. They were out to get her. She had a choice – face them now or run. If she ran back to Glasgow her new identity would probably protect her. But what would happen to Yasmin?

  She peered through the side window at the dash. It was a very long time since she’d been behind the wheel. Still, how hard could it be?

  Julia was right behind her. ‘You sure this friend can help?’

  ‘No. Fuck me, Julia! Are you gonna lend me the car or not?’

  ‘When did you last drive in London?’

  Tension and anxiety burnt off Kaz. ‘I ain’t got time for this.’

  ‘Okay, look, I’ll drive you to your friend’s.’

  ‘No. I don’t want you to get involved.’

  ‘I am involved. Either I come with you, or I call the police.’

  Kaz huffed. ‘I ain’t got time to argue.’