She licked the corners of her mouth; a hint of nausea rose in her stomach, but she decided to ignore it. ‘Where’s he live?’
‘Still studying. At the San Francisco Art Institute.’
Leaning back in her chair, Nicci reflected on the privileged education available to the moneyed; not so much billionaires, but that upper-middle-class strata who were comfortably rich. Nicci had worked her way through uni, received a bit of help from her parents, but had still embarked on her working life as a police officer with a pile of debt. Juggling the payments on three or four credit cards was simply a way of life. Buying Sophie a bike one Christmas then a mini iPad the next had only been achieved by jacking up the amount owed.
Helen Warner’s affluent background had provided her with every advantage, yet she’d made the choice and the political commitment to campaign for the underdog. Nicci appreciated that. Moreover, the respectable strait-jacket of her family and the injunction not to upset her distinguished father had exposed her to abuse. And she’d decided to fight that too. Embarking on such a parlous course without any obvious support was courageous, even foolhardy some might say.
Nicci’s time as a homicide detective had involved some of the most challenging work of her police career. She’d been on several different murder teams, providing rapid response and also taking part in any number of in-depth investigations. She’d learnt to hold her empathy for the victims in check. Sometimes that was tough. Cases involving murdered kids particularly had the potential to crack open even the most experienced and hard-bitten officers.
In her own mind, Nicci had come to divide victimhood into different categories. There were the complete innocents – victims of malign fate who found themselves in the wrong place at the wrong time. Then there were those who’d spiralled to a violent end through broken lives peppered by bad decisions. This category trickled over into the out-and-out villains, those who’d chosen to get their living on the wrong side of the law.
But there was another category, rarely encountered and set apart, in Nicci’s mind, from the rest. These were individuals who’d taken a moral stand and risked their own neck to do the right thing. Nicci’s dead colleague, DC Mal Bradley, fitted into this group. And, in her opinion, so did Helen Warner. Although all murder victims deserved justice, there was an added imperative in these instances. Someone had to pick up the baton, if only to affirm that civilized values must triumph and that making the choice of right over wrong continued to matter.
Nicci was debating whether to start on the family-size bag of Maltesers when Liam came across the office carrying two takeaway coffees.
His face broke into a boyish grin at the sight of her. ‘What did Calder say? Does she know who killed Warner?’ He had none of Pascale’s style or restraint.
Catching the arch look Pascale was giving him, he changed tack. ‘Want a coffee? You can have mine. Salted Caramel Mocha.’
Nicci smiled grimly. ‘Thanks for the offer, but any more liquid, I’ll probably puke.’
Both researchers continued to gaze at her expectantly.
She rubbed the back of her neck and embarked on a succinct summary of Fiona Calder’s revelations. The Assistant Commissioner hadn’t been told specifically that the politician in question was Robert Hollister. But when the circumstances of Helen’s teenage years were factored in, it could only be him.
Pascale pursed her lips and shook her head in disgust.
Liam, as usual, tended more to the crass. ‘Well that shortens the odds on his chances of becoming the next but one Labour Prime Minister.’
Nicci smiled; Liam’s laddish bravado reminded her of the black humour of the murder teams. It was an attempt to restore normality, ring-fence the unacceptable in order to get on. All the same, she was about to issue a teasing rebuke when her attention was drawn to an altercation in the reception area.
‘Just tell me where she is!’ The raised voice belonged to DI Tim Armstrong and he was holding his warrant card several inches from the end of Alicia’s nose.
‘What the fuck?’ Nicci got up and glared at him.
Catching sight of her, he flipped his ID shut and strode towards her. They met in the middle of the office.
He looked hot; his collar was unbuttoned, tie askew, his face sweaty and ugly with rage. ‘You’re just out to fuck me up, aren’t you?’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
Flinging his arms out, he encompassed the room. ‘Look at this, bunch of fucking con artists and gravy-trainers! You are not the police.’ He jabbed his index finger in Nicci’s face. ‘When you gonna realize that? You’re the fucking rejects.’
Liam came up behind Nicci. ‘Want me to call security?’
Tim rounded on him. ‘Yeah, call fucking security, you streak of piss. And I’ll nick you all for obstruction.’
Curious eyes were peering above screens in the computer section; Alicia was speaking rapidly on the phone. Hugo got up from behind his desk and put his hands on his hips.
Nicci fixed her ex-husband with a penetrating look. ‘Whatever it is you’re here to say, would you like to come in the conference room and say it?’
Her composure seemed to rile him all the more. He was gearing up for another explosion when Nicci turned her back, walked towards the corner meeting room and held the door open for him.
He had no choice but to stomp after her.
She shut the door behind him with a gentle click. ‘So what’s rattled your cage?’
‘You think I’m stupid, don’t you?’ His eyes narrowed to peevish slits. ‘The case was solved. We were going to the CPS for the go-ahead to charge. Then you stuck your oar in. Now Delgado’s running round every fucking school in Hackney, looking for some kid. You tell me that’s not you trying to fuck me up?’
A smile spread over Nicci’s features. Delgado was following the lead she’d given him, bringing the arrest of Ethel Huxtable’s murderer a step closer.
She folded her arms. ‘I know you’re going to find this hard to believe, Tim, but this is not about you.’
‘You think you’re a better detective than me, don’t you? You always did.’
‘It’s not about you. It’s not about us.’ She shook her head wearily.
Shoulders hunched, his lip twisted into a sour curl, part smile and part grimace, he leaned towards her. ‘Amy’s having a baby. Is that why?’
Nicci raised her eyebrows. She felt curiously detached from any connection she might’ve once had to this man. The fact she’d loved him was a poisoned memory. He stood before her like an aggrieved adolescent.
‘One kid dies, you replace it with another? You really think that’s going to work?’
Face flushed, he took a step towards her. ‘You Godless bitch! If you’d been a proper mother, it would never have happened. My daughter would be alive.’
She met his fury with an icy stare. ‘I had no idea Amy was pregnant. How would I know? As for Sophie’s death, you think I don’t feel guilt? It’s torn my life to shreds, no question of that. But it was an accident and a tragedy – I have no need for revenge.’ She took a breath and exhaled a sigh. ‘What I hadn’t appreciated until this moment is just how unhinged it’s made you. Look at yourself, Tim. You’re so fucked up, you can’t even see it.’
He raised his clenched fist and for an instant it seemed it might be coming her way. He swayed on the balls of his feet and she saw his eyes were glassy with tears. Then, giving her a wide berth, he dived at the door and wrenched it open.
‘Stay the fuck out of police inquiries!’ he shouted over his shoulder.
On the threshold he almost collided with Alan Turnbull, who stepped back to let him pass.
Turnbull gave her a quizzical smile. ‘Everything all right?’
71
Kaz had remained at the pub with Julia. She knew that Simon Blake wanted to get shot of her, but that suited her fine. Julia was in shock. The realization she’d probably been kept in ignorance by Helen to protect her gave her no
consolation.
One question consumed Kaz: was Helen looking for help, someone to share her secret, when she tried to get in touch via witness protection? The niggling guilt that Kaz had been feeling since she first learnt of her former lover’s death had now ballooned into devouring self-reproach. At the time of receiving it, Helen’s card had merely fuelled her anger. Kaz had tossed it to one side; she was fucked if she was going to dance to Helen Warner’s tune again. She’d been led on before, only to be dumped when their liaison no longer suited the lawyer’s convenience.
Now, with the benefit of hindsight, Kaz was eaten up with regret. Could she have saved Helen? It was a question that would never be answered. The fact remained, Helen had saved her. When she first walked into the visitors’ pen at Styal, Kaz had been just another teenage junkie whose life was caught in a downward spiral. Falling in love with her lawyer had been the catalyst that helped Kaz turn her life around. Her decision to go straight had been self-interested rather than moral. She’d wanted Helen Warner, it had been as simple as that.
Glancing at Julia – poor, respectable, broken Julia – Kaz understood why Helen hadn’t confided in her. Julia was part of the politician’s image, the most acceptable face she could put on her lesbianism. With Julia at her side, there was no danger of frightening the horses. But when it came to dealing with her life’s more unsavoury aspects, with the skulduggery festering below the surface, she’d needed someone tougher. Kaz knew she’d let Helen down when she was still alive and she vowed to make up for that now.
Nicci Armstrong had come up with crucial information, but how zealously would she pursue it? Kaz wasn’t impressed with her boss, Blake. Though they’d been hired by Julia, they were cops in all but name. They talked and acted like cops; for them it was all about evidence. They were following a process. But as far as Kaz was concerned, that was all too fucking slow.
Tolya had been sitting at an end table on the pub’s pavement terrace throughout the round-table discussion. He’d smoked and slowly ploughed his way through a copy of the Sun with the aid of the dictionary on his phone. None of these brilliant detectives had given him a second glance.
Far from seeing him as an encumbrance, foisted on her by her brother, Kaz was beginning to think that she might turn the situation to her advantage in her quest to find Helen’s killers. Tolya and his elder brother, Yevgeny, were guns for hire; Joey had used them and relied upon them increasingly in his business because they were more than thugs. Much more. They were resourceful and smart. However, their loyalty came with a price tag – a hefty price tag. That was the problem.
A minicab pulled up at the main entrance to the pub and Blake, who’d been making phone calls, shepherded Julia towards it. With the back door of the cab open, Julia hesitated. She looked in Kaz’s direction, face pale, frowning.
In all the weeks since Helen’s death she’d remained tough, insisting her partner did not commit suicide, demanding that someone find her the truth. But now, with the revelations about the Hollisters, she’d hit a wall. The relationship she’d thought she had with Helen was a sham. Helen had excluded her from the real emotional issues in her life. Julia, with her PR woman’s confidence and her arty friends, was simply Helen’s mask. The bombshell for Julia was the realization she hadn’t known her partner at all. Now all the fight had left her. What seemed to her Helen’s total lack of integrity was the ultimate betrayal. It destroyed everything.
Kaz gave her a nod. ‘I’ll call you, Julia.’
The reply was a ghostly smile. Julia got into the cab and was gone.
Blake turned briskly to Kaz and offered her his hand. ‘We will of course keep you posted, Karen. Nicci has your number?’
Her hand wasn’t large but she returned the dry, masculine grip with some force. ‘She has.’
His smile was shrewd, he knew she didn’t like him. ‘Are you headed back up north?’
‘Yeah.’
‘We’ll be in touch.’
Kaz could tell he was lying to her as much as she was lying to him. She watched him and his computer geek cross the road and head off on foot in the direction of Julia’s house.
Tolya folded his newspaper and gave her a grin. ‘She very sad your friend.’
Kaz sighed. ‘Yeah, she is.’
‘We go now?’
‘If it’s all the same to you Tol, I’d like to make a detour. Only if you think Joey wouldn’t mind . . .’
The Russian shrugged, but Kaz could see he was intrigued. Acting as a minder must get boring at times, she figured a bit of variety might appeal to him.
He got up. ‘Okay. Where we go?’
‘To see a man about a memory stick.’
72
Eddie Lunt stepped off the train at Euston and walked up the ramped platform to find Nicci Armstrong waiting – arms folded, scowl on her face – the other side of the barrier.
She greeted him with a curt dip of the head. ‘Did you talk to her?’
‘Left a couple of messages, finally she picked up. She’s not in a good way.’
‘But she’s agreed to see us?’
‘Half five.’
A brief smile of acknowledgement spread across her features as she started to walk off. Pale, pouchy-eyed, he’d seen her look better. She had a fondness for the sauce that was apparent. He hoisted his bag on his shoulder and followed.
Stopping abruptly outside one of the station’s coffee franchises, she turned. ‘We got time for a coffee?’
‘Yeah, she’s out at North Finchley. Allow half-hour on the tube to Woodside Park, ten-minute walk.’
Nicci veered off into the cafe. ‘What you having?’
Eddie shook his head, gave her a sunny smile. ‘You sit down, boss. My treat.’
Typical of Eddie to insist on playing the gentleman. Nicci asked for a double-shot espresso and plonked herself down at a corner table. She pulled out her notebook and flicked through the pages. Escaping the office and Alan Turnbull’s mocking eye had been her first priority. Witnessing her rowing with her ex-husband must’ve afforded him some amusement.
Nicci dismissed him from her mind. She had a job to do. Her task now was to move things on. Following leads, asking questions, this was the process she knew. The Assistant Commissioner had handed her the end of a delicate thread. If she could just track it through the labyrinth of lies and obfuscations without breaking it, the identity of Helen Warner’s killer would be revealed.
She gazed out on to the station concourse at the ebb and flow of travellers passing by. A welter of busy lives and private concerns swirling round each other, maybe touching for an instant before sweeping on. Crowded places bothered her more than they used to. Back in her uniformed days she’d done her share of public order policing; from moshes to football mobs, she’d been in the thick of it, holding the line. Maybe she was developing some kind of creeping agoraphobia? Or perhaps it was just that London and its torrent of passing strangers made her feel all the more alone.
Eddie beamed as he set down a tray on the table and unloaded two cups of coffee, then held up a plate containing two chocolate muffins.
‘Can I tempt you?’
His impish grin still annoyed her, but Nicci managed a smile. ‘Cheers.’
Her blood sugar level was probably bordering on the diabetic, but her brain was back in gear and the headache was fading. She peeled the paper wrapper off the muffin and took a bite. The chocolate filling oozed and she caught a drip with her tongue.
‘Good, innit?’ Eddie smiled. ‘My old mum reckons I’m a chocoholic.’ He patted his ample girth and sighed. ‘But what you gonna do? You only live once. You gotta enjoy life, else what’s the point?’
Brushing crumbs from her mouth, Nicci realized that, aside from his criminal past, she knew next to nothing about Eddie Lunt.
‘You married, Eddie?’
‘Divorced.’ He chuckled. ‘Well, who’d stay married to me, eh? I live back with Ma now. She’s getting on. Means I can keep an eye on her.’ He nodded, p
artly to reassure himself.
Nicci watched him thinking of his mother, the tightening of the jaw, the bobbing of the Adam’s apple as he swallowed his emotions; a son caring for an elderly parent didn’t quite accord with her image of him.
She sipped her coffee. ‘You know what you said about Helen Warner – you thought Hollister was “giving her one”, to use your elegant turn of phrase. Turns out you were more than right. He’d been abusing her since she was fourteen.’
‘Stone the crows.’ Eddie’s cup stalled between saucer and mouth. ‘Didn’t have him pegged as one of them.’
‘She decided to try and turn the tables on him. So on some political beano to Brussels she set up a camera in her hotel bedroom and waited for him to pounce. She got it all on film – him raping her.’
He frowned as he digested the information. ‘Where d’you hear all this? The girlfriend?’
Nicci shook her head. ‘She had no idea. Warner visited a former colleague of mine for advice.’
‘She was planning to go public?’
‘More than that. She wanted to know what would be needed for a successful prosecution.’
A low whistle issued from Eddie. ‘That would’ve set the cat among the pigeons. Specially since some of the top brass in the Met are looking to Hollister to save their bacon.’
‘And Helen would’ve known that, obviously. So she must’ve had some plan to go to the media if the Met blocked an investigation.’
Eddie nodded enthusiastically. ‘And you’re thinking that’s what she was up to with old Ray?’
‘Well, what do you think?’
‘Ideal choice. His press connections were mint, that’s why the Labour Party hired him.’
‘But when she died, he did nothing. Several weeks went past.’ She opened her palms. ‘What was he waiting for?’
‘Either he didn’t know the full story or he didn’t have the evidence.’ The chocolate muffin sat uneaten on his plate.
The Mourner Page 29
