by Alex Caan
‘Let’s not jump to any conclusions yet, but I think anybody is capable of anything,’ said Kate.
‘Michelle is still looking into the gem smuggling by Mrs Fox-Leakey. She could have paid Mark.’
‘Possibly. The question is: how do we tie all these pieces together, and follow that link to the source?’
‘I’m only a humble DS, boss. You get paid the big bucks to figure shite like that out. Was there anything from Mark’s post-mortem?’
‘No. His toxicology tests are still not back, but Dr Kapoor did some rapid tests on a urine sample for TTX. Nothing showed up. She does think he was drugged though. There were physical symptoms of some type of anaesthetic. Where are you going now?’
‘There’s a war-games club on tonight that Mark used to frequent. I’m going to talk to the person who runs it, see if they can give us any more background. Let us know who Mark Lynch was away from the lab.’
‘War games? Isn’t that for well . . .’
‘Hey, I used to be into it at school.’
Kate choked on the line. ‘Sorry. Really?’
‘Yeah, it’s a lot of fun if you know what you’re doing.’
‘I’m sure. I just can’t imagine you being a part of something like that.’
‘Yeah, well.’
‘How did you leave them back at UCL, anyway?’
‘Professor Keller is in shock, I think. He doesn’t have a clue what to do next.’
‘He has his work, I’m sure he will be OK.’
‘Is that what people say about us?’
‘There is truth in it.’
She was right. For all the trauma Zain had been brought by his work, it was also the only place he felt some sense of belonging and purpose. The job kicks you in the stomach and then gives you the cure. Nothing else would ever come close. It was in his blood.
*
The war games society was held twice a week on the second floor of the Seven Dials club, opposite the Donmar Theatre in Covent Garden. It was a community centre, rumoured to be owned by a philanthropic billionaire, which was why it was so cheaply available and able to thrive in the middle of Covent Garden.
Zain didn’t think it looked like any community centre he’d ever been to, with its exposed brick walls, polished wood floors and art deco wall paintings. There was a main room with a bar, a library, and a large room at the back where the war gamers were holding court. Or battle.
The members were mainly men, with a few women. They were of varying ages and attire, from casual to smart city types. People on the outside never really understood the appeal. Zain felt the urge to join in, seeing the tables with green felt cloth on them to act as grass, the miniature plastic armies all lined up in battalions. Tape measures and manuals out, to orchestrate what would be a game of skill and chance.
‘DS Harris?’
The young woman running the club, Yvonne Hall, held out her hand to him. He shook it, and she directed him to the library to talk. It was empty, so it was just the two of them, sitting on a sofa that sank too low with their weight, surrounded by books. Zain spotted everything from Jilly Cooper to Dostoevsky.
Yvonne was probably early twenties, straight black hair, and dressed in a Metallica T-shirt.
‘It’s not mine, it’s my brother’s. I picked it up in haste while getting ready.’
‘I wasn’t judging. They’re pretty cool,’ he said. He must have sounded like a dick. You didn’t say cool to young people, you just didn’t. ‘Thank you for speaking to me.’
‘You wanted to know about Mark?’
‘Yes. Did you know him well?’
‘Not really. We all meet here, we go to war, we don’t really talk about our personal lives if you know what I mean. It’s not the place, really.’
‘For forming friendships?’
‘Those things happen outside of here. There are much easier ways now to do that. We have a WhatsApp group for example, Facebook and Twitter. Here, we focus and we use our skills.’
‘I understand. Was he particularly close to any of the others?’
‘We all get on, we’re here for a shared purpose, Detective.’ Yvonne had that conviction of ‘I know it all’ that only the young can carry off. Zain was too burned out to even fake that sort of optimism.
‘Yes, but did he spend time with any of them in particular?’
‘I can’t say, not any one person. No, I can’t think of anyone.’
‘How was he when battling? Did he show any signs of being over competitive?’
‘Yes, then again everybody does. When defeat is biting you in the ass, or when you smell victory. Everyone gets passionate.’
‘Yes, I remember that thrill.’
‘You battle?’
‘Used to, haven’t for a while. Well not these sorts of battles anyway. Plenty of others though.’
Yvonne stared at him. She wasn’t his therapist, she probably wasn’t interested in his dramas.
‘Did he ever get into arguments with anybody? Heated ones?’
‘We keep our violence for the theatre of war. The aggression stays there.’
‘So nothing odd about Mark then?’
‘Not really. He was extremely clever, you could tell by the things he knew. He could give you precise measurements without even using the tapes or rulers we have. He could calculate the casualty rates, the strengths and weaknesses of formations. It was a bit off-putting actually, made it difficult for the less experienced members to spar with him.’
‘Was he controlling at all? Show any signs of wanting to dominate conversations or activities?’
‘No, not at all. He was the opposite, quite shy. We went out for drinks occasionally, and he would always be quiet.’
There were shouts from the next door room, and some applause. A battle well fought had just finished.
‘Was there anything unusual about him of late? Did his behaviour change in any way?’
Yvonne considered his question before replying. ‘Not his behaviour as such. But he did change, in subtle ways. I don’t think the others noticed but I did. He changed the way he dressed, became a bit smarter. Started wearing aftershave, putting product in his hair. Stopped going out with us.’
‘Do you know what brought about these changes? Was there someone in the group he was trying to impress?’
‘No, not in the group. It all happened when he got a girlfriend.’
Zain tasted breakthrough. A piece of Mark Lynch’s life that no one had yet mentioned.
Chapter Fifty-Nine
Zain bought Yvonne a latte. It was the least he could do after her help. He got himself a Red Bull, his teeth protesting as the sugar coated them. It tasted like vomit, he thought. Still, he gulped it down. It didn’t provide the kick his tablets gave him, but it was something, and he needed to cut down on the pills.
‘When did Mark start seeing her?’
‘Maybe three or four months ago. It might have been longer; that was just when she started coming here.’
‘She was part of war games?’
‘No, but she would meet Mark after we finished, and they would sit in the bar room next door. That was him keeping himself to himself, or rather staying in his couple unit.’
‘Can you describe her? Do you have a name?’
‘I never met her. She would text him when she got here, and then he would leave pretty quickly and join her in the bar. I saw them when I was walking past to go home.’
‘How do you know she wasn’t just a friend?’
‘He had his arms around her once. I don’t know, it seemed very intimate.’
‘Can you describe her to me?’
‘Hard to say. She had a long coat, black or navy, her hair was always falling into her face, and she wore sunglasses often.’
Zain could recognise a disguise when one was described to him.
‘Hair colour?’
‘Blonde. I didn’t get a look at her eyes, and can’t really tell you more.’
‘When was the l
ast time she was here?’
‘She was here with Mark last week. She joined him after we’d finished gaming.’
‘How were they? Was their behaviour odd in any way?’
‘No, not at all. They were their normal clingy selves.’
‘Did you never ask him about his new acquaintance?’
‘Why would I? Our personal lives stay private, generally.’
Zain appreciated adherence to information governance and data protection and rules that kept people safe, but he didn’t think there was the need to guard your personal space with so much force.
‘Is there anything else you can tell me about her?’
‘No. But the bar staff or manager may know more?’
*
The staff didn’t really remember Mark Lynch or his girlfriend. They were just customers, and the club had plenty of regulars. A couple that generally kept to themselves weren’t going to raise an alarm.
Zain asked if he could access the CCTV to the club, but it only covered the entrance, not the main rooms. Zain looked through footage of the war-games evenings for the last month, and asked Yvonne if she could identify the woman that might have been Mark’s girlfriend.
‘That’s odd,’ she said, as they sat in a backroom off the library, where the club manager had his office. ‘Her hair, coat, sunglasses. They are so distinctive. If she came in through the front door, wearing all that, I would spot her on the CCTV.’
Zain checked to see if there was another way in at all, but the club team assured him the only entrance was via the front. Whoever Mark’s girlfriend was, she was coming in to the club wearing something totally different, or she had discovered another way in.
Zain asked for the CCTV to be sent over to Unit 3, and asked Michelle to have it analysed. Anyone who fit the visual description and arrived alone would be a potential suspect. The fact was, nobody at UCL had mentioned a girlfriend. Mark’s next of kin was also a mystery. UCL’s HR files had no one listed, not even his parents or siblings. A Midlands address was only found when they managed to access his undergraduate application to Imperial College, but that property had changed hands twice since Mark had last lived there.
Michelle was carrying out a deeper dive to try and identify contact details for Mark’s parents, but nothing had come up so far.
‘What about medical records? Can we get access to those?’
‘I’m on the case,’ Michelle told him, when Zain called her on his way back to his car.
‘It’s late. Why don’t you go home?’
‘DCI Riley is still here, briefing PCC Hope. I’ll wait until she leaves.’
‘OK. I’m heading home, I need some sleep. I think tomorrow’s going to be a long day.’
Zain sped towards Waterloo, thinking about the mystery woman. That night, his dreams were plagued by visions of her, but her face was always obscured and out of reach. When he finally managed to grab hold of her, he removed the glasses only to see her face was Kate Riley’s.
Chapter Sixty
Kate was at home, stirring hot chocolate, watching her mother and thinking about work. It was a ritual she tried to maintain if she could, sharing drinks before bed with Jane. It was a moment in the day when the two of them could come together, and Kate could be herself.
Her mother was used to calling her Kate now, but in these moments at night, Jane would drop the pretence and use her birth name. It felt good to be Winter again, even despite the baggage and vandalised history that came with it.
Yet these last few nights, Jane had been off key. She wouldn’t make eye contact with Kate, barely spoke to her.
Her mother was staring in the direction of the TV but didn’t appear to be watching it. What was she thinking?
‘Mom, is everything OK?’ she asked tentatively.
Jane didn’t hear her. Kate asked again.
‘Yes, all just fine. You?’
‘Yes. Is there anything you want to tell me?’
Jane looked at her, her mouth open. Kate knew this was one of the effects of prosopagnosia. Kate’s face would be invisible to her mother for the rest of her life. It hurt to think that, and yet what was the point on dwelling on something that couldn’t change?
In those seconds though, it felt as though her mother was shocked. Did she think Kate knew what was going on? That just worried Kate more. What was her mother so concerned about?
‘Tell me, what’s wrong?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Mom . . .’
‘I’m not a child. Leave me be. If I need your assistance I will ask for it. I can’t breathe sometimes in this place.’
There was another sign. Her mother only got into a bad mood when she was under pressure, or seriously worried about something.
Kate picked up the cups of hot chocolate and took them over to the sofa, giving her mother one.
‘This is a very small flat, Mom. There is nowhere to hide. Tell me, what’s happened?’
She hated buried secrets. Her father had plenty of those, and he had ended up destroying them all because of them.
Jane looked at her, and Kate saw in her eyes the effort again to try and focus and put her features into place. To once again see her daughter completely. It wasn’t going to happen, and Jane’s shoulders sagged. A regular defeat that happened every day.
Jane took her phone from inside her dressing gown. She unlocked it, and handed it to Kate, who started to scroll through her mother’s message history. There were texts, WhatsApp messages. All from the same number.
Kate read them, her blood heating with each one. She was shaking with rage when she had read them all.
‘What did you do?’ she said, her voice more steady than she felt.
‘I’m sorry my darling,’ said her mother. ‘How can I refuse?’
‘You can refuse, because that bastard nearly destroyed us. Because look at you, what he did to you. Mother, what the hell have you done?’
Jane started to cry, and Kate knew then, her world had just been tilted off its orbit. The past was going to burn her again, and she didn’t know if she had the strength to survive it this time.
*
Zain was sprawled on his sofa, naked. He had been practising his Krav Maga and then started using his weights, trying to tire himself out. It was his usual one o’clock wake-up, the insomnia kicking in. Having worked out, he had showered, and then lain down on his towel in the lounge to dry and try to relax. Sleep had overtaken him eventually, and he was awake now, frozen and aching.
He checked the display on his TV. It was six-thirty. He had managed a good few hours at least. He got up to take himself to bed, and checked his phone. There were two missed calls, both within minutes of each other. That’s what had woken him up, he realised. Then it rang again.
‘Stevie,’ he said. At least in his head. His voice was thick with sleep, and his dry mouth meant all he had managed was a mumble. He repeated her name again.
‘Wake up pretty boy. We’ve found Natalie.’
Zain listened, dressed, and rushed to the address.
Chapter Sixty-One
There was a row of houses boarded up just off Victoria Street, terraces all waiting to be remodelled or demolished: either way they’d been sold off for a vast fortune. This was prime Westminster property right in the heart of Belgravia, close to Victoria Station.
No door was apparent as he walked to where Stevie had told him to go, the plasterboard intact as far as he could see. He called her, and watched as one of the boards was lifted, to reveal her standing in the doorway of one of the houses.
She was dressed in a forensic suit.
‘I guess I know what that means,’ he said. Stevie nodded and threw him a suit to put on before gesturing for him to follow her in.
*
Dr Kapoor had already processed the scene by the time he got to her. There was a brief moment of awkwardness, but it passed quickly. Zain had apologised to her for his outburst, but embarrassment remained on both their parts.
‘She struggled, tried to escape. I found bits of wood and brick under her broken nails.’
‘Who found her?’
‘Building inspectors. They check regularly in case squatters have moved in, and for gas leaks and the like. This is going to be millionaires’ row soon enough.’
‘My new place then,’ he quipped.
‘You wish,’ Stevie told him. ‘Unless you mean they’re hiring cleaners? Or gigolos?’
‘My jeans aren’t that tight.’ He had slipped on the first pair that came to hand, a pair that had shrunk a bit in the wash.
‘Poor cow,’ said Stevie.
Natalie’s face was contorted in horror. It seemed unfair to Zain that she had been through so much, and that her last moments were just as violent and painful. And why her? She had been destroyed by Julian Leakey, so whoever had got rid of him should have been on the same side as Natalie, if it was personal.
And then he thought about Anya Fox-Leakey. There was a woman who would gladly have killed both Julian and Natalie. But how did she connect to Mark Lynch, and how did she connect to the dead woman they had found? The one that Julian had killed.
Zain couldn’t make sense of it. There had to be a link somewhere, and when that final piece fell into place, the whole thing would become clear. Until it did? There was a killer somewhere in London armed with a weapon Unit 3 couldn’t stop or control.
Chapter Sixty-Two
Kate was still fuming from the night before. How could her mother have done what she did? After the sacrifices that Kate had made, the effort she had put in to moving them to a new place, a safer place. Her mother had jeopardised all of that in a moment of weakness. Deliberately making contact with Kate’s brothers, and worse than that, agreeing to help the man who had destroyed their lives. To help reduce her father’s sentence. The very idea sent fire through Kate. She had to physically swallow the anger back each time she thought about her mother’s reckless actions. And for what? Sons that had done nothing for her. Sons who had taken the side of her monster husband, who had carried on living their lives in the corrupt safety he had built for them. They were still there in New England, still in the police force, and no doubt spending their father’s cash, waiting for his return. With no thought for their mother. Did Kate not mean anything to her?
