The Mourner

by Susan Wilkins

  ‘I gotta say, Mike, that was wicked. My mum tried to make pancakes once – remember, Kaz? Stuck to the pan like fucking glue. She went mental, chucked the frying pan at Kaz and the batter at me.’ He grinned and pointed in his sister’s direction. ‘You was quick, you ducked. Me, I ended up with the stuff in my hair, eyes, up my nose.’ His face twisted into a sour smile. ‘Funny now. It weren’t at the time.’

  Mike gave Kaz a surreptitious glance then smiled at Joey. ‘Glad you enjoyed them.’

  Joey eased back in his chair but there was a tension, a rigidity to his movements. Kaz had noticed the care he took when he first sat down. His eyes seemed over-bright and when he removed the cap his forehead was plastered with sweat. He was toughing it out, being jokey. But she knew him. Something wasn’t right.

  Now that her panic had subsided a few notches a new question was dominating her thoughts – if he wasn’t here to kill her then what did he want? Or was this all just an elaborate tease? Did he want the power trip of fooling her? Did he need to prove how clever he was before he could take his revenge? If there was one thing she’d learnt about Joey, it was that he was capable of anything.

  He reached into his jeans pocket and pulled out a silver blister pack of tablets. ‘You got some water, Mike?’

  As Mike went to the tap and filled a glass, Joey snapped three tablets out of the pack.

  Kaz watched in silence. Joey liked to be the centre of attention, so the best way to get him to open up was to say nothing.

  He popped the first pill into his mouth. ‘Ain’t you gonna ask what it is?’

  She tilted her head. ‘None of my business.’

  ‘Diclofenac. Painkiller.’

  He pulled up the front of his polo shirt to reveal a white adhesive dressing about fifteen centimetres square on the left side of his torso just below the ribs.

  ‘Set up a knife fight, that’s how I got out. Smart, eh?’

  She met his gaze but said nothing.

  His face crumpled into a brittle grin. ‘Bastard was only supposed to nick me. Fucking hurts, I’ll tell you that much.’ For a brief instant she was reminded of little Joey, the needy child he’d once been.

  ‘Well, it would.’ Her face remained impassive, but there was a lump in her throat. Stab wounds could be nasty. And the sight of him in pain, her little brother, her precious Joey, it hit her on a visceral level in spite of herself. She’d spent her entire childhood and adolescence loving him, protecting him, and she couldn’t switch those feelings off, however much she wanted to.

  The startling blue eyes zoned in on her. ‘Ended up in Basildon Hospital.’ He chuckled. ‘We been there a few times over the years, you and me, in’t we? They sorted me out.’

  How he’d managed that while on the run, his face plastered all over the media, was a mystery to Kaz. But she wasn’t about to pander to his vanity by asking the question. Then there was Tolya. How had Joey managed to hook up with the Russians again? The last she knew, they’d walked away from Joey and been happy to do so.

  He raked back his tangled hair. ‘I’ll be glad to get a haircut, I can tell you. And all this face fuzz makes me feel like a fucking tramp. I’ve never trusted blokes with beards, have you?’

  Another tease? With Joey it was impossible to tell.

  She tossed her head defiantly; she feared him, that was only sensible, but she was damned if she’d show it. ‘What you playing at Joey? What is this? What do you want?’

  He finished popping the painkillers, washing them down with several large gulps of water. Then his brow puckered. ‘You done what you had to. I get it. In your shoes, I’d’ve probably done the same. Things had got out of hand. I’ve had time to think and I can see that now. You was right, the Old Bill was on my case. They weren’t gonna give up. I should’ve stuck to business like you said.’ He gave a nod in Tolya’s direction. ‘They knew it too, that’s why they buggered off. You’re a smart girl, I should’ve listened to you.’

  The face was mature but the eyes carried the innocent, angelic look of the little Joey. His tone was apologetic. No doubt about it, he was trying to hook her.

  He smiled wistfully. ‘Before, when we was teenagers and I fucked up, you went down. You took the fall for both of us. Okay, so I fucked up again. This time it was my turn, I took the fall. Far as I’m concerned, we’re square.’

  Her eyes met his. Did he really think he could sucker her like this? Lying was second nature to him. Maybe he even believed it himself. For as long as it suited his purpose.

  There was a heavy silence in the room. Mike stood by the kitchen sink, watching the discussion unfold with an eagle eye. Tolya sat at the table; it was hard to tell if his English had improved sufficiently for him to understand. But he was a huge, potentially threatening presence. He understood enough to follow his boss’s orders.

  ‘You still ain’t answered my question. What the fuck d’you want? My help? My advice?’ Kaz swept her hair back from her forehead. ‘Here’s my advice: if you don’t wanna go back to jail, get out of the country now.’

  ‘I plan to. Gonna run the business from Amsterdam.’

  ‘So what’s stopping you?’

  He dipped his head, peering up through the sandy lashes. ‘I’ve missed you, y’know.’ He glanced at Tolya. ‘He’s here ’cause there’s a hundred-grand bonus waiting for him and his brother once they get me away and set up with a new identity. But who the fuck do I talk to? You’re right, I should just go. But I’m putting myself on the line here. I need you, Kaz. I don’t mean you no harm.’ His smile was magnetic. ‘When I say we’re square, I mean it. Lot’s happened since Dad died. I seen the inside of a nick and I learnt my lesson.’

  She pulled out her phone and plonked it on the table between them. He wasn’t the only one who could play games.

  ‘What if I call the Old Bill right now, tell them where you are? You gonna stop me? You’ll have to hurt me to do it.’

  He raised his palms in mock surrender. ‘Look, I know I’ve taken you by surprise and I can see why you don’t trust me. So let’s make a deal. You like deals.’

  She shook her head wearily. ‘This is fucked, Joey.’

  ‘Doesn’t have to be. I got this special private doctor I need to see. Harley Street. Practically round the corner. He’s gonna check me over, make sure I’m fit to travel. Day or so, I’ll be out of your way.’

  ‘You can’t stay here.’ She shot him a challenging look. ‘No fucking way.’

  He winced as he turned in his chair towards Mike. ‘Play cards do you, Mike? Poker maybe?’

  Mike raised his eyebrows. ‘Poker?’

  Joey turned back to his sister. ‘See, what I’m thinking is, I could stay here and rest up and Mike could keep me company. Just ’til the doc signs me off and I get my passport sorted.’

  ‘What? You’re holding us hostage?’ Kaz huffed.

  ‘Nah, course not. If you go out, Mike stays here with me. Just a little bit of insurance. Given your record, you can see why, babes. Just ’til we can trust one another again.’

  Kaz glanced at Mike, one of the few people in her life who’d treated her with kindness and decency and she’d visited this on him. Whether it was out of guilt or anger or both, a sudden fury engulfed her.

  Grabbing the phone, she jumped up, kicked back her chair, and started to punch in the digits. ‘Fuck you, little brother!’

  Tolya was out of his seat in a flash. For a large bloke he had lightning reactions. He seized her wrist and flipped the phone out of her hand. It clattered to the floor.

  Joey simply grinned and turned to his host. ‘You gotta hand it to her, Mike. She’s got balls, my sister. It’s what I love about her.’

  63

  Nicci slumped back in the seat of the taxi. The tube would’ve finished her off – she’d’ve puked – and the bus wouldn’t have been much better. So she was putting this on expenses. Blake owed her that much.

  As she gazed out of the window watching the belching traffic, the scramble and sc
urry of London sliding by, she wondered if she’d become an alcoholic. But surely addiction wasn’t just something you acquired through bad habits. Addiction was about the brain, defects in the hedonic neural systems, she’d read that somewhere. It was more than a lack of willpower, it was a disease, that had been scientifically proven. Not that people like Tim’s parents would agree; with their religious certainty and snap judgements, they’d see it as weakness of character. Nicci wondered if she did lack moral fibre, or was her problem with booze simply the product of grief?

  Before she’d lost Sophie, even with all the stresses of divorce and single parenthood, she hadn’t been much of a drinker. She’d enjoyed a glass socially, but juggling the job and caring for her daughter she’d needed to keep her wits about her. Since Sophie’s death, drink had crept up on her, becoming her stealthy comforter, her reliable and uncritical companion.

  Still she had to face facts. An invisible line had been crossed and she was making herself ill. It was the middle of the morning, an ordinary working day, and she wanted desperately to go home to bed. And what was stopping her?

  She had the odd sensation that her toes were touching the edge of the precipice. Easy enough to tip forward and let go. If her life was in freefall she wouldn’t need to worry any more. She wouldn’t have to argue about Turnbull or work out what had happened to Helen Warner; she wouldn’t have to feel guilty about Ethel. She wouldn’t have to bother with any of it. Eventually she’d hit bottom, crash onto the rocks below. By then oblivion would’ve engulfed her, booze anaesthetizing the pain.

  The irony was she’d been feeling marginally better just prior to Ethel’s murder. It was the sight of the old lady bleeding out on the pavement that had catapulted her back towards the abyss. She’d felt responsible and impotent. What could she do to bring the culprit to justice? Hope that Delgado would do his job?

  Giving up and giving in took many forms. She considered the possibility that straight suicide might be the braver option. A clear decision followed by decisive action. Maybe that’s what Helen Warner had opted for. If she’d got involved in a silly affair with a politician’s wife that would end up hurting those she cared about and most likely ruin her career, maybe she had chosen to simply exit the scene. Her text message to Julia was certainly full of guilt.

  Nicci wondered about guilt. Was it a corrosive enough feeling to drive a person to suicide? In some people it could be. Her thoughts drifted back to her own situation. If she were going to kill herself, she didn’t think jumping in the river was a particularly easy way to go. How long would it take to drown? She’d been on a course once where they reckoned two to three minutes to unconsciousness, around five minutes to death. That was too scary, that amount of time, fighting the body’s own reflexes as they struggled to stop water flooding the lungs. It was much easier to just drink yourself to death.

  The taxi pulled up outside a branch of Patisserie Valerie on Marylebone High Street. Nicci got out and paid the cabbie. Checking her watch, she saw she was ten minutes late. Did she care? She decided she didn’t.

  Inside she threaded her way through a smattering of customers – middle-aged lady shoppers, bags embossed with designer logos heaped at their feet, a party of rowdy Chinese tourists – towards the back of the cafe where Fiona Calder was sitting. It was the seat Nicci would’ve chosen herself, tucked away, but a good view of all the comings and goings.

  As Nicci walked round the tables towards her old boss she felt the tension taking hold in her stomach, gripping it, twisting it. Calder looked up and smiled. It all appeared quite casual, but Nicci knew full well Calder would’ve clocked her as soon as she got out of the cab.

  Though she was loath to admit it, Calder still made her nervous – it was a reflex action.

  She just about managed a smile. ‘Sorry I’m a bit late. Traffic.’

  ‘Not a problem. I’m afraid I’ve been indulging myself. The treacle tart was just too tempting.’ Calder’s tone was breezy, as if they were simply friends meeting for coffee and a gossip. ‘What can I get you?’

  Nicci settled into the chair opposite. ‘Just a cup of tea.’

  ‘Builder’s brew, herbal?’

  ‘Actually, camomile’d be nice.’ Not so much nice as a way of calming her nausea.

  Calder summoned the waitress and placed the order, then sat back and cast an eye over Nicci.

  Nicci shifted in her chair, her hungover state would be unlikely to escape Calder’s alert eye. Struggling for an air of normality, she slipped off her jacket and slotted it over the back of her chair.

  ‘I owe you an apology.’

  Nicci looked up sharply. ‘Really? Why?’

  ‘I had no idea you worked for Simon Blake. When we last met . . .’ She hesitated. ‘Well, let’s just say it wrong-footed me.’

  Nicci had already decided that she wasn’t making herself a hostage to fortune again. ‘You had every right to be pissed off. Blake knew you wouldn’t see him. He sent me in the hope we could exploit your sympathy.’

  Calder smiled ruefully. ‘Well some might call it a smart move.’

  Nicci was on a roll. Now she just wanted to get it all out. ‘He’s also hired Alan Turnbull.’

  The Assistant Commissioner’s brow darkened. ‘I thought he was in Abu Dhabi.’

  ‘He’s back. It wasn’t Simon’s choice; the main investor in the firm forced his hand.’

  ‘Let me guess: Duncan Linton.’

  Nicci nodded. Her stress was subsiding now that she had nothing else to lie about.

  ‘And what are your feelings about Turnbull?’

  The waitress arrived and set down a small pot together with a cup and saucer.

  It gave Nicci a chance to consider her answer. ‘I need the job. Obviously. But I’ve told Simon I won’t work with Turnbull. Sounds as if I won’t have to – he’s supposed to be doing some strategic-planning bollocks.’

  ‘Will he have any involvement with the Warner investigation?’ A sharp unease had crept into Calder’s voice. Nicci shot her a look, was she really going to open up about the Warner case?

  ‘Not if I have anything to do with it. And to be fair to Simon, he’s not Turnbull’s biggest fan. He was railroaded. If he can, I think he’ll keep Turnbull well away from investigations.’

  The Assistant Commissioner stared into space and pondered. Finally her gaze travelled back to Nicci. ‘This is complicated. Originally I thought there’d be a way to deal with this whole situation.’

  ‘We are talking about the death of Helen Warner?’

  ‘Yes. I suggested to Julia Hadley that she go to a private investigator because I realized there might need to be a plan B.’

  Nicci poured her tea but her eyes were on Calder’s face. This in itself was a major admission. She was taking quite a risk, talking to Nicci in this way.

  ‘Why SBA?’

  ‘I respect Blake. He was a good officer and a particularly good detective. It was the politics that defeated him.’ Her expression turned doleful. ‘Which can easily happen in an organization like the Met.’

  Nicci waited, knowing it was important to let the Assistant Commissioner do this at her own pace.

  ‘Okay.’ Calder sat forward, as if she’d come to a decision. Her tone was now resolute, all hesitation gone. ‘I became acquainted with Helen Warner through various policy discussions instituted by the Home Office on the subject of drugs. Several months ago she came to see me to seek my advice on another matter. A more personal matter. This meeting was private and confidential – as far as I know.’

  Calder took a sip of her coffee. Behind the professional facade the strain was beginning to show. Nicci noticed the weariness in her eyes, the web of fine lines either side of her mouth.

  She dabbed her lips with a napkin. ‘I’ve been backed into a corner, Nicci. I think it extremely unlikely that Helen Warner took her own life. Some sort of bizarre accident?’ She shook her head. ‘Also unlikely.’

  ‘You think she was killed?’

 
; Calder fixed her with an intent stare. ‘If I tell you what I know, what will you do?’

  ‘Depends what you tell me. What do you expect me to do?’

  The Assistant Commissioner sighed. ‘Life hasn’t been kind to you, I know that. In different circumstances I would’ve expected you to become a senior detective, probably chief superintendent by the time you were forty.’

  Was this flattery, Nicci wondered, or a poke at the mess she’d ended up in? ‘Have I fucked myself in the head with booze? Is that what you’re asking? Can I still cut it as a detective?’

  ‘I’m asking whether you and Simon Blake have the will to follow this investigation through and bring Helen Warner’s murderers to justice?’

  Nicci opened her palms. ‘Tell me what you know and we’ll find out, won’t we?’

  64

  Even after her angry outburst, Kaz had found it surprisingly easy to strike a bargain with Joey. Turning up as he had at Mike’s, minder in tow, appeared at first to be threatening; yet his manner bordered on the conciliatory. What did he really want? She was all too familiar with his mercurial temper and its dark undertow. Joey had been made a criminal by circumstance, but he was a killer by inclination. It would be foolhardy to regard him with anything less than total suspicion. All the same, she couldn’t help wondering whether the stab wound had shaken his confidence. Or maybe it was the jail time, facing the harsh reality of being a lifer?

  He was working hard to keep it under wraps but she knew him well enough to get a whiff of his underlying desolation. It reminded her of how he’d been as a boy after their father had given him a thrashing. Emotionally and physically battered, he’d always run to her for comfort. Was that habit, that default setting, just too hard for him to resist? In spite of the fact she’d testified against him, maybe there really was no one else. Could it be that deep down he was simply lost and lonely?