It was clear now that he wasn’t the same man who first drew her into CID work. The one she decided after just one week was as good a role-model as she was likely to get for the career she realised could be hers, provided she was willing to learn. But then again, how could he be? Given what he had been through the past couple of years, it would be more surprising, perhaps, if he still was. But she didn’t let herself dwell long on the events that had shaped both their lives over that time, and certainly not on the decision that led them to engage the aid of someone who might point them towards the Worshipper Killer in the first place. She had done plenty of that over the past twelve months, and it had taken her precisely nowhere. Right now her concerns were with Jamie - which reminded her she was due to ring him.
She was certain now that his seemingly easy-going, ‘I’m fine’ assurances, were just a front. Before their meeting with Doctor Kahramanyan, he had spoken a couple of times about getting back to, ‘proper investigation work’, but seemed reluctant to put a time-frame on it. ‘When I’m finished here,’ was the best she got out of him. The past couple of weeks, she had sensed an underlying disquiet, mixed with over-interest in hearing about how the old team at Warrington were doing, what they were up to. The relaxed smile and easy banter almost convinced her she was mistaken, especially when he mentioned how things were better with Rosanna now they weren’t suffering the sort of regular disruption CID brings. But his lack of real enthusiasm for getting back to operational work had set her thinking. It was similar to the sort of disillusionment she saw, now and then, in officers nearing retirement. Only Jamie was a long way off retirement age. And it was something she never, ever, expected she would see in him. It scared her.
The day he took Kahramanyan’s call, then went and turned up the Durzlan case, he was as animated and focused as he’d ever been. The old Jamie Carver. But she had seen little of it since. Take that afternoon. Presented with the ideal opportunity to get involved in something substantial - his previous involvement in the Durzlan case alone would have justified it - he passed, and more quickly than she would have expected. It was almost as if he could not wait to run Kahramanyan back to his hotel, like it was just the excuse he needed to duck out. It made her wonder what else might be going on with him she didn’t know about.
The trouble was, there was little she could do. Apart from anything, Jamie had obviously been given clear advice – maybe even threatened - about not getting involved in SMIU affairs. She didn’t want to risk tempting him into going against whatever he’d been told. That could only make matters worse. No, there was nothing for it but for her to stay alert and be ready to help him deal with whatever he was going through. Besides, it wasn’t as if her life was entirely problem-free right now.
At that moment, an image of her mother loomed large. She was due to ring her as well, sometime. In fact she was supposed to have rung the previous week but never got round to it. Following her father’s death, Jess had promised she would stay in regular contact with her mother. But she had always struggled to find the time to get down to the family home in Kent, and was now finding it equally hard to fit in phone calls. The trouble was, her mother’s dull-as-dish-water accounts of the church meetings and WI gatherings that were now her life, didn’t exactly fire her with enthusiasm for conversation. And then of course there was Howard Leather, and the fact she was yet to say anything to her mother about seeing him.
Based in London, Howard was one of her father’s former business associates. He and her mother still shared the same legal adviser, her avuncular Uncle Arthur. Jess knew that her mother often called in at Arthur’s city offices during her regular shopping and theatre sojourns into the capital. ‘Keeping in touch with your father’s affairs,’ she called it. But it meant there was a better-than-fair-chance that she would, eventually, bump into Howard. And Howard wasn’t to know Jess had never told her mother about their occasional meetings when business brought him up North, despite them both agreeing that no one could read anything into him taking her out for dinner now and again. If he ever mentioned it to her mother, Jess could imagine her reaction.
Now in his mid fifties, Howard’s reputation amongst her parents’ former social circle had been tarnished by the disclosure that, throughout his thirty-year marriage to the universally loved and admired Amanda, daughter of one of Her Majesty The Queen Mother’s Ladies-In-Waiting, he had availed himself, every Tuesday afternoon, of the services of a Mayfair-based dominatrix who traded under the name, Mistress ‘Trixie’ Timberlane. Now divorced, and with ‘Trixie’ having retired to marry a wealthy American client, Howard’s oft-heard declarations that he had now come to his senses and turned over a new leaf, still drew sceptical looks from those who knew him best. When Jess first made contact with him - having seen his name on a, ‘To be eliminated’ list during the Worshipper Enquiry, she found the subsequent meeting and Elimination Interview embarrassing, to say the least. But she found his openness about his exploits, as well as his frank honesty about his marital shortcomings - ‘What can I say? I loved Amanda and always will. But I had certain needs she could never satisfy,’ disarmingly refreshing. He certainly must have charmed her enough that when he rang her a few weeks later to say he was visiting Manchester and would like to take her out to dinner, ‘Just so that we may revive some memories of your dear, old Pa-pa,’ - she accepted with good grace. She even managed to resist, during that first date at least, investigating his inferred claim that he no longer felt the needs to which ‘Trixie’ used to administer. And Jess was in no doubt that if and when her mother did get to hear of it, she would be straight onto her, pointing out how ‘wholly inappropriate’ such a relationship was; how Howard was old enough to be her father.
She was on the point of picking up the phone, Jamie first then mother, when it rang. It was Jamie. She listened as he explained his dilemma over Kahramanyan.
‘Take him for something to eat?’ She tried to make it sound like she might already have plans: in truth she didn’t. In any case, she’d actually found the quietly-spoken psychiatrist charming in a ‘Howard Leather-ish’ sort of way. It wouldn’t be too much of an ordeal. He explained further. After a couple more minutes she said, simply, ‘You owe me.’
It prompted garbled words of gratitude, followed by a not overly-sincere sounding ‘You’re the best,’ before he rang off.
Wow, she thought. He must be in trouble. She had been expecting he would fish for some indication as to how things had gone after he left, some acknowledgement at least that they had missed his input, his expertise in the area. But brief though the call was, it was also telling.
Jess knew all about Sarah. Carver had confided in her long ago about his troublesome sister’s problems. But Jess couldn’t ever remember him taking her kids weekends just to give her a break. And though he hadn’t said much about what had happened, she got the impression that things were certainly no better in that department - worse, if anything. Jess had also been surprised to learn that Jason’s situation remained unresolved. The last she’d heard - a couple of months after Paris - Jamie and his former girlfriend, Angie’s, parents, were working towards some sort of permanent, shared custody arrangement. Which raised the question of what had happened to stall it? Not just the fact of his move to North Wales, surely? Okay, it’s a bit of a way from Oldham for grand-parenting visits and such, but it’s hardly the other side of the world. Then she remembered. Part of the problem previously had been the opposing views between Jamie and Jason’s grandfather over the need - or not - for a paternal DNA test. Grandfather was for one, Carver against. ‘I don’t need a letter from a clinic to decide my responsibilities,’ she remembered hearing him say one time. Which was when the thought came. What if he’s taken the DNA test, and it’s come back that he isn’t the father. In which case…
Oh. My. God.
Jess never met Edmund Hart. He’d hanged himself in prison long before she started working on the Worshipper Enquiry. But she had seen the photographs - and some video. A
nd as one possible explanation for Jamie’s slump came to her, an image of Hart - bearded, sneering, horrific given what she now knew - displaced those of Jamie, Angie and Jason that had been swirling around her brain.
But even as the implications of her train of thought started to come thick and fast - not least for Jason himself - she took a mental step back, and stopped herself. Whatever pressures Jamie was operating under right now, they may be nothing to do with Jason. And her thinking about DNA tests and all that could be entirely wrong. She could be adding two and two and getting five - something she was always quick to criticise in others. Whatever was going on with Jamie, it was too soon to start making assumptions, certainly not without evidence to back them up.
Pleased for having stopped her imagination running amok, she reminded herself she needed to resist the impulses that caused her to want to pry into his private life. After all, he’d made a point of not prying into hers, several times.
About to call her mother, she realised the time. Kahramanyan would be expecting someone to pick him up in less than an hour, which meant she did not have time to drive home and freshen up. It didn’t matter. She always kept a change of clothes in her office cupboard, though not the sort of thing she would choose for a dinner date. And for all the complaining amongst the NCA staff, the on-site shower and changing facilities were quite decent.
As she left her office, heading for the Ladies, hanger with clean skirt and blouse over her shoulder, Jess tried not to feel guilty for having been so quick to put off ringing home.
CHAPTER 22
Lucy was trying to remove a stubborn bit of burnt-on grease from the roasting pot when the telephone started ringing.
‘Can you get it Mama?’ she called, trying to make herself heard above the noise of the television in the next room. She waited.
‘MAMA. PHONE.’
The game show continued to blare.
‘OHHH!’
Dropping the dish back in the water, she rolled a shoulder to wipe perspiration off her face, dried her hands on her apron, and stomped through into the hall.
‘I’LL GET IT,’ she shouted through the living room door.
‘WHAT?’ came the reply.
A flyer was hanging out of the letterbox. Lucy snatched at it as she grabbed the handset off the hall table.
‘Hello?’ As she waited for a reply she glanced absently, at the paper. Something to do with roof repairs, the disclaimer, WE ARE NOT TINKERS, in a box beneath.
‘Is that you Tamara?’ A woman’s voice, heavily accented.
For some reason, Lucy imagined her as old, frail. ‘No. This is her daughter, Lucine. Who is this?’
‘Ah, Lucine. Yes. I remember. You were only a child when I saw you last. This is Nunofar, your mother’s cousin, from Cyprus.’
‘Cyprus?’ Lucy vaguely remembered her mother speaking about family there one time. As far as she knew there had been no contact for many years. Certainly not since they’d arrived in England. ‘Hang on. I will get Mama.’
‘WAIT LUCINE.’
The abrupt way the woman barked out the command took Lucy by surprise. How rude, she thought.
‘I am sorry,’ the woman said. ‘I did not mean to shout. Are you still there? Lucine?’
For the first time, Lucy heard the anxiety in the woman’s voice. Something was wrong. ‘Yes. What is it?’ But she was already thinking someone must have died. At least it shouldn’t be too hard on her mother. They couldn’t have been that close.
‘First, please tell me. How is your mother?’
Lucy frowned. What to say? How much does this Nunofar know?
‘She is not too bad… but getting older, you know? She does not get out much.’
The woman didn’t seem surprised. ‘No. She was never strong….’ There was a moment’s hesitation. ‘And… your father? Is he…?’ Lucy’s heart skipped a beat. There seemed to be something more than just family interest in the voice. ‘Is he still… alive?’
Lucy swallowed. ‘Yes.’
‘Ahh….’
‘What is it Nunofar? Why are you calling? Has something happened?’
There was a long sigh, then. ‘Yes Lucine. Something has happened. Something very bad.’
Lucy’s stomach started to flutter; a feeling of dread beginning to take hold.
‘Tell me what is wrong, Nunofar. I will tell Mama. What is it?’
There was a pause as the woman spoke with someone - a man’s voice - in the background. The voices were muffled, like her hand was over the mouthpiece, but Lucy thought she heard, ‘Does she know?’ Eventually Nunofar came back on the phone.
‘It is probably best if I tell you. Are you sitting down Lucine?’
‘I am alright. Just tell me.’
The woman took a deep breath. ‘I have-.’ She started again. ‘Your mother and I, we have-. We had another cousin. Ashken. She and your mother used to write.’
Lucy thought she remembered the name from when she was young. Before they left Armenia. ‘What about her?’
There was a long sigh. ‘Ashken has been… killed. Her husband too.’
Lucy dropped into the chair next to the table.
Not died. Killed.
‘I only heard from the police yesterday.’ Nunofar’s voice started to tremble. ‘It is terrible, Lucine. You must tell your mother.’ Her voice became urgent, a note of panic entering. ‘You must warn her.’
‘Warn her? About what Nunofar? I don’t understand? How did your cousin die?’
The woman started wailing. ‘Oh poor Lucine. May God protect you and your family.’
Lucy’s heart froze as the woman’s wails increased in pitch and she started babbling in Turkish, almost hysterical now. Lucy breathed deeply, forcing herself to stay calm. She needed to know what had happened.
‘Nunofar,’ she called down the phone, trying to draw the old woman back.
There was a scramble at the other end, shouting, followed by Nunofar’s wails, only now she was in the background. A man’s voice, gruff, determined said, ‘Are you the daughter?’
‘Yes.’ Lucy was scared now. What was going on?
‘You must listen to me.’
More wailing, then Nunofar calling into the phone. ‘I will pray for you Lucine.’
‘GET AWAY WOMAN,’ the man shouted. ‘I told you to leave it to me.’ Lucy heard a sharp ‘crack,’ and the wailing stopped. ‘Are you still there girl?’ the man said, calmer. Like he knew he would not be interrupted again.
‘Yes. Please, just tell me what has happened.’ Lucy was almost in tears, the waiting too much to bear.
‘Ashken and her husband were murdered. Worse than that. They were butchered.’
Lucy’s hand went to her mouth. Oh Great God no. It cannot be.
‘Now listen closely Lucine. Your life, and those of your mother and that bastard father of yours, may depend on it.’
CHAPTER 23
By the time Carver parked his Golf under the ramshackle car port that had once been a stable at the back of the house, he was expecting he would be walking into a war-zone.
He was surprised, therefore,when he stepped from his car and the evocative strains of, ‘Povo Que Lavas No Rio’, came to his ears. The kitchen window was open, allowing Rosanna’s voice to echo around the courtyard, enveloping him like a warm duvet in winter. Instantly, he was back in Barco-Negro’s smoky depths.
Lisbon’s famous back-street nightclub was where he first came across the flame-haired beauty whose rendition of the heart-rending ballad – not that he understood a word – rooted itself in his memory and stayed - unlike the rest of his and Gill’s abortive, make-or-break holiday. They’d parted soon after. ‘Povo’ was also the one she was singing when he chanced upon her again a couple of years later. It was in the aftermath of the Hart case. A well-meaning lady police doctor friend decided it was time he re-entered the real world and dragged him out to a Liverpool Music Festival event - something called The Fado. He didn’t make the connection until he sa
w Rosanna.
He’d always remembered her, but that evening, in a sparkling white gown split dramatically up the side, she looked stunning. Like everyone else he couldn’t take his eyes off her and afterwards waited at the side door, feeling a bit like a stalker. But he managed to catch her eye as she came out, and when he mentioned having seen her in Lisbon she was interested enough to join him for a drink, the following night, dinner. The memory of her face next to his on the pillow the next morning was one he hoped would remain with him forever.
Since then the only times they’d been apart were when he couldn’t get out of some training course, or her recitals took her too far away to get back home the same night. One of only a handful of Fadistas in the UK, Rosanna never refused an invitation from the surprisingly numerous groups of ex-pat Portuguese living in Britain.
The music stopped, and as the sound of clapping and the children’s excited voices broke the spell, he crossed the cobbles to the back door and walked in.
She was standing in the middle of the roomy, unfinished lounge, looking radiant in the trailing, red dress that was his favourite. The three children were sitting in line on the sofa, still clapping. It brought the fleeting thought that he had wandered onto the set of some Sound of Music revival.
‘Uncle Jamie,’ Patsy squealed, sliding off the sofa to run to him. ‘Rosanna’s been singing for us. She’s ace.’ The two boys came to join them and as the children bombarded him with questions; ‘Would you like Rosanna to sing one for you Uncle Jamie?’ ‘Are you staying home now Uncle Jamie?’ ‘Where did you and Rosanna meet?’ ‘Can we play football?’ – the last from Jason - he looked across at her, and raised a questioning eyebrow. She gave a resigned shrug of her shoulders.
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