Black Heart

by Anna-Lou Weatherley

  ‘The blonde Baxter was up to no good with—’

  ‘Care to elaborate?’

  ‘Dogging,’ she says, ‘Baxter and the blonde… they were identified up at a well-known spot near Hampstead Heath.’

  Hampstead Heath, the geographical equivalent of a pretty girl with a slag’s reputation. Such a shame the place is synonymous with sexually deviant activity because it’s a very beautiful part of London.

  ‘Identified?’

  ‘Yes… a man fitting his description.’

  Dogging. I think of Janet Baxter and close my eyes. Perhaps this unknown caller was a one of their associates, letting them know there was a meet-up.

  ‘This had better be legit,’ I say in my gravest tone, ‘you know Baxter has – had – a wife and kids.’ But my heart sinks because I know what’s coming. The Gazette will report his death as suspicious, which is fair enough, and factual. And now that they have a whiff of a potential sex scandal, they’ll be digging like JCBs on speed and they’ll quickly follow it up with a sensational piece exposing Baxter’s dirty secrets like they’re dishing out dolly mixtures at a kiddie’s party. They’ll use words like ‘allegedly’ and phrases such as ‘according to a well-placed source’, or maybe even convince someone to go on the record.

  The press, or certain members of it, are masters at getting people to cough. Like I said, the job’s not too dissimilar. Still, it amazes me how people would rather talk to a journo than a copper, because when it comes to integrity there’s no contest really. But it’s all about the story to a lot of these editors; words on a page and how many people read them; they don’t think about the ripple effect, the broken-hearted family or the shame it could bring upon them. And that’s why I don’t have too much time for them. If Nigel Baxter’s been dogging, I can’t see it’s of any public interest. But it is of interest to me.

  ‘Who identified Baxter?’

  ‘It’s come from a good source, Dan, I wouldn’t be calling you otherwise.’

  I don’t bother to ask again. She’ll never tell me. Journos protect their sources like they’re their firstborn. ‘You get an ID on the blonde he was ‘allegedly’ with?’

  ‘Sadly not, but I got a description.’

  I stay silent. Ironically, it was a journalist who once told me that silence is the best way to get someone to speak. Whenever there is silence, people will always be compelled to fill it.

  ‘Platinum blonde, white, average height – 5ft 5in maybe – slim, verging on skinny, ‘striking’ is how it was put, late twenties to early thirties or thereabouts.’

  Adrenaline, the sequel. Sounds like our girl. ‘Go on…’

  ‘My source thinks she may have been a HCB.’

  ‘High-class brass? What makes him think that? Is he prepared to talk – to us I mean?’

  She sighs. ‘It’s a she actually and put it this way, it takes one to know one… and you know better than to ask me that Dan.’

  I raise an eyebrow. ‘And you know the law,’ I gently remind her.

  She sighs again. ‘It’s possible she might talk, if it really comes on top, no pun intended.’

  ‘Liar,’ I smile.

  ‘So, we’re definitely looking at homicide then?’

  ‘You should know better than to ask a closed question, Touchy.’

  ‘Ah, c’mon Dan, work with me here. We go to print in a couple of hours.’

  It’s my turn to sigh. ‘Yes, we’re looking at homicide. All I can say for now.’

  ‘Made to look like suicide?’

  I want to trust Fiona Li but I don’t, or rather I can’t afford to, not yet anyway.

  ‘Did she slit his wrists and then make it look like he’d done himself in? Any ideas for motive? Unpaid services perhaps?’

  I shake my head. Truth is I’m as much in the dark as she is. ‘We don’t know yet, Touchy.’ I’m telling the truth. ‘I know as much as you do. But I’d like to talk to the source. Baxter could’ve been involved in a blackmail plot perhaps, maybe he saw something or someone he shouldn’t have?’

  ‘Maybe. The boss wants to go big on this, Dan… senses there’s more to come and it’s got scandal written all over it: well-to-do, middle-class married banker with a mistress and a double life – plus it’s been a slow week.’

  ‘He has a wife and two teenage children,’ I say again, not wanting to picture Janet Baxter’s face when she reads the newspaper and discovers her husband has been dogging with his mistress, but I can’t help it. And I hate to admit it, even to myself, but I suspect Fi’s boss is right and there’s more to come… much more.

  She’s silent for a moment and I’m about to say my goodbyes and hang up, when she says, ‘There’s something else, Dan.’

  I don’t like the tone of her voice, it’s uneasy.

  ‘Okaaaay.’

  I hear her draw breath.

  ‘Can we meet?’ she asks, ‘I think this would be better in person.’

  My blood runs a little cold. ‘Care to give me a clue, Touchy?’

  ‘The White Hart, tomorrow. I’ll be in there at lunchtime.’

  ‘Alright,’ I reply tentatively, ‘is this to do with Baxter?’

  ‘It’s important Dan,’ is all she says, and I believe her.

  ‘Okay,’ I say, ‘I’ll be there.’

  Chapter Sixteen

  A bloody ancient cat, on its last legs anyway, yet she had still viewed its death as suspicious. That’s paranoia for you. Danni-Jo had underestimated both Kizzy’s love for the animal and her deep-seated paranoia. Now she had a potential problem. Seems the ex-old man used to threaten to kill the damn thing all the time and so naturally Esmerelda’s sudden demise had set off alarms bells. Fuck. That was the thing about spontaneous decisions, you only got to think things through after the event, when it was already too late for regrets. Not that she regretted putting that mangy old moggy out of her misery, but she didn’t want the police coming to her door sniffing around, at least not yet, that hadn’t been part of the plan. Still, a few days had passed already and, as yet, there had been no knock at the door and Kizzy hadn’t mentioned it again, so perhaps now that her initial anger had waned and spilled over into mourning she’d forgotten about it. Kizzy had been over at her apartment more than ever, bringing watery homemade soup and dropping by for cups of tea and sympathy. She had even planned a funeral for her furry friend, which Danni-Jo had agreed to attend, pleasing Kizzy no end.

  ‘You’re such a good friend,’ she’d said, seizing Danni-Jo’s hand as she stood in her kitchen, ‘you’ve been so kind to me about Esmerelda.’ Kizzy had put her arms around her and hugged her tightly. She felt warm and had a distinctive scent to her skin, a milky, vanilla smell that was both comforting and repulsive in equal measures. Yet it had felt oddly good, such close human contact. She couldn’t remember the last time she had been hugged in a non-sexual way.

  ‘I wish I’d had a daughter like you,’ Kizzy told her as they’d snuggled up on the sofa together later that evening. ‘Your own mother is lucky to have such a thoughtful daughter. Do you see her often?’

  She’d dipped her head, allowing it to fall against Kizzy’s shoulder and onto the softness of her old cardigan, a tatty old mustard thing that looked, and smelled, like it needed a hot wash, but was comforting nonetheless. She would tell her. What difference would it make? Kizzy would take her secrets to her grave.

  ‘Mummy is dead,’ Danni-Jo had said. ‘She died when I was a little girl, when I was eight years old. I can barely remember her… Although sometimes I think I can hear her voice in my mind, but the smell of her skin and hair… her perfume… and the fairy tales she used to read to me at bedtime… I’ve never forgotten them.’

  Kizzy had stiffened. ‘Good God, you poor baby, I didn’t realise… How awful for you.’ She’d looked down at her with sad green eyes, her bushy ginger hair lightly tickling the side of her cheek. She began to stroke her hair gently. It felt soothing. ‘What happened to her?’

  ‘My father killed her,’
Danni-Jo said and she felt Kizzy flinch beneath her.

  ‘He murdered your mother?’ her voice had risen a few octaves.

  ‘Yes. But it was never proven. He never went to prison for it. One day, I woke up and she was gone, just like that. Disappeared into thin air. He removed all traces of her from our lives after that day. Burned every item of clothing and everything she owned. It was as if she never existed.’ She could tell by Kizzy’s tight muscles and body language that she was horrified.

  ‘Oh Danni-Jo, that truly is horrendous, darling I’m so, so sorry. I had no idea you’d suffered such tragedy.’

  ‘I knew he was responsible somehow,’ she’d said, oblivious to her neighbour’s sentiment, ‘Mummy would never have left me. She loved me. I know she did. She told me.’

  Kizzy started to cry then. She upset so easily, like turning a tap on. ‘Oh, she’d be so proud of the young woman you have become, believe me,’ she said, with genuine conviction, continuing to stroke Danni-Jo’s hair, a little faster now.

  ‘Yes, I think she would be—’

  ‘And what happened to your father?’

  She smiled thinly at the mention of him, although Kizzy would not have seen this. ‘I became Mummy after she went, after he’d killed her… all her duties became mine…’ Her voice had trailed off.

  ‘All of them?’ Kizzy’s voice was shaky.

  She had sighed in her lap, but largely for effect. ‘I took her place in the kitchen, did the shopping, cooking, cleaning… I was my father’s carer and when I was old enough to work I paid the bills.’ Kizzy’s stroking had ceased to be soothing now and had become irritating. She felt like cutting her hand off, imagining the look of shock and surprise on her face as arterial blood pumped relentlessly from the fresh stump.

  ‘And what about in… in the bedroom?’ Kizzy’s voice had been a low whisper, as though she had not wanted to ask the question but felt compelled to know.

  ‘Yes,’ Danni-Jo replied, quite matter of fact, ‘I became his wife in every sense.’

  Kizzy seized her then, hugging her tightly and whispering, ‘No… no… Oh Danni-Jo, I’m so sorry…’

  For a short moment she had felt on the verge of tears herself. Aside from the therapists and the hospital doctors, she had never told another soul of the atrocities of her childhood. Lying in her neighbour’s lap, it was as if she were discussing someone else. She felt no emotional response, no reaction, nothing. Just a cold emptiness that she couldn’t quite understand. All she knew, now more than ever, was that she had to kill Kizzy.

  Chapter Seventeen

  ‘I’m sorry I’m late,’ she says, blustering in and taking her coat off immediately, ‘had an issue with my neighbour, had to help her with something.’

  It’s been raining outside; I can see the droplets on her coat and a few in her hair, and I can smell it. I love the smell of rain; it evokes memories and makes me think of Rachel. But then again, most things make me think of her.

  ‘Horrible weather,’ she says, ‘shitty in fact… I’ve just washed my hair as well.’ She raises her eyebrows, which are a different colour to her highlighted hair and a bit bushy. I like bushy.

  ‘Job well done,’ I say, referring to her hair. I could’ve said it looks nice but that seems too schmaltzy and might make her think that she sounded like she was fishing for a compliment; which I don’t think she was really.

  She smiles though and it lights up her whole face.

  ‘Been here long?’

  I shake my head. ‘Not at all. Can I get you a coffee?’

  ‘Mmmm, please. A latte with almond syrup would be lovely.’ She reaches into her handbag, shuffles around for her purse.

  ‘I’m surprised you can find anything in there,’ I joke and she laughs.

  ‘I’m a woman,’ she shrugs, ‘I need things. Just in case—’

  ‘In case of what?’

  ‘In case of anything,’ she says, still rifling around. It reminds me of the bag on the CCTV footage, large and bucket-shaped, a ‘tote’, Davis called it.

  ‘Nice bag,’ I remark, ‘designer?’

  ‘Thanks,’ she beams, ‘birthday gift a few years ago. A friend bought it back from Thailand for me. Although I admit I can’t be positive of its authenticity. She brought a few back as gifts. I like it, I can get all my shi— all my stuff in it.’

  ‘It’s nice,’ I say, ‘all the rage aren’t they – tote bags?’ I wince. I sound like my father.

  She shoots me a puzzled look.

  ‘That coffee then…’

  * * *

  I make my way to the counter. I imagine she’s looking at me from behind and I wonder what she’s thinking now that she’s seen me in person, aside from the fact that I’m a dickhead who makes small talk about handbags. I didn’t think too hard about how to dress for our meeting simply because I couldn’t; I wasn’t granted the luxury of procrastination, which may be just as well. I’ve come straight from the nick and I need a distraction from the Baxter case, from teddy bears and forensic reports, CCTV and post-mortems and dead-end leads. I need a distraction full stop, either that or a real break. So, I’m dressed in my work get-up: plain shirt and black fitted trousers, a leather jacket; ‘smart casual’ I think they call it, whoever they are, the fashion police I suppose. I had a little brush-up in the bathroom before I left though, cleaned my teeth and splashed on a little Bleu de Chanel that I keep in a washbag in my desk drawer. It was the best I could do.

  My heart’s beating a little quicker than usual as I place my order with the overworked and underpaid barista. I’m not entirely sure why. I didn’t get palpitations when I met Keen Shirl, or the other two dates, if you can call them that, so I’m wondering if subconsciously I already like her. She’s very pretty. I remember the first time I met Rach; she worked in a restaurant around the corner from where I used to live and we joked about how we were so close to each other for all that time before our fates collided. It was a Thai place, Gili’s, upmarket fast food really. And, like her, it’s no longer there today. She was the head chef. My order had been messed up and she came out from the kitchen to apologise personally. That was Rach – professional, and never afraid to admit when she’d cocked up. I was kind of pissed off at the time because the service had been slow and then the wrong plate arrived… but the moment she came to the table, well, I’m not one to complain in restaurants anyway, unless it’s really dire and unavoidable because chefs are a ruthless yet sensitive bunch of bastards and I’m always of the mind that they’ll do something horrible to your food if you make a fuss. I suppose it was one of those ‘eyes met’ moments, the kind that only exist in films and books and songs, the kind of moment that you know doesn’t really happen in real life. Only it does: it did. And it happened to me. I can’t explain it any better than that and when I try to it sounds saccharine and stomach-turning, and I imagine people groaning and simulating sticking two fingers down their throats. But that’s how it happened. I looked at her face and that was that. It’s a strange feeling, when you meet a person and you know, somehow, deep inside on a level neither of you can comprehend, that you were supposed to love them. I knew all about strange coincidence and the irony of timing thanks to my job, but I’d never been big on fate, not until April 2003, not until that day. I made love to her that same night; I used to rib her about how quickly I got her knickers off, unfair of me I know, double standards definitely. But it was only playful and she knew it. Rachel wasn’t promiscuous, her morals were fierce, her boundaries well established. It had just been the logical conclusion of fate. We met, fell in love on sight, went to bed together that same night and she never left. Neither of us were ever embarrassed about admitting it; we never censored our story. That’s how it happened.

  The harassed barista slides the coffee in my direction and I make an instinctive decision not to tell my ‘date’ what I do for a living. Not yet anyway.

  She takes a mouthful of coffee, licking the milk foam from her pale lips. Her hair is different to how it lo
oked in her profile photograph; it’s darker, shorter perhaps. She glances at me from over her coffee cup with low eyes and says, ‘shall we sack coffee off and go and get something stronger?’

  Chapter Eighteen

  Her name is Florence Williams, but her friends call her Florrie or sometimes just Flo if they can’t be bothered, because it’s a bit of a mouthful, so she says anyway. Her mother named her after the Italian city where she was conceived. She’s never been but hopes to go one day soon. She’s thirty-two and was born in St George’s hospital and grew up in Clapham, although her accent sounds more Home Counties than South London, something I’m glad about I have to say. Not that there’s anything wrong with an accent, not least a London one, but I like a woman who speaks well. Rachel had a beautiful speaking voice, almost musical sometimes, and her laugh reminded me of wind chimes, tinkly and infectious. Rach laughed a lot, we both did, together. She was also great at accents. Brummie, Scouse, Manc, Scottish, Geordie, American, Australian, Irish, Welsh – you name it, she could do it. I’m crap at accents, my attempts always end up sounding like a weird hybrid of Indian and Australian.

  Florence is good at accents too, particularly Irish and American, which she demonstrates to me perfectly, making me laugh. She’s not afraid to make fun of herself either which is good because neither am I, although admittedly often it’s by default.

  She’s training to be an actress, hence the accents I suppose, and I listen as she talks about the course she’s taking and why she chose such a profession. She used to work as a legal secretary but got bored of the mundane nine-to-five and, feeling there was more to life, decided to follow her childhood ambitions. I tell her I think this is pretty cool and she seems pleased. Her nose wrinkles a little when she gets animated which I kind of like too. She’s dressed well: dark-grey skinny jeans, which are low on the waist, with a slubby white T-shirt and a blazer-style jacket that has leather detailing on the collar. Kind of understated, but at the same time pretty trendy. The biker boots steal it for me though. I’m a sucker for a girl in a pair of biker boots. Rachel lived in hers. I particularly liked it when she wore them with pretty floral summer dresses; feminine with a hard edge. That was Rach.