by Linda Coles
Amanda looked at him in surprise. Mrs Stewart’s cleaning habits were rubbing off on him.
“What time is the press conference?” Jack asked.
“Around four pm. ‘Jim-lad’ Japp will be front and centre, and no doubt I’ll get roped in alongside him.”
“Lucky you. Don’t forget your lipstick.”
Amanda turned and raised her eyebrows at him menacingly. Jack quickly stepped off ahead to avoid a swift slap. He teased Amanda mercilessly about her looks. She was a good-looking woman but rarely spent the time to accentuate her features. On the odd occasion she did, she looked knockout. It had come in handy when she’d ventured undercover in the past.
Back at her desk, Amanda watched her friend and colleague sift through the file he’d shown her over lunch. Michael Hardesty’s file was clearly intriguing him: she watched his body language as he scanned the pages, thumb and finger twiddling the left side of his moustache. His reading glasses needed updating, she mused. He lifted his chin and looked off into the distance, past his colleagues and through the window on the opposite side of the office. She could see the smear marks and streaks he’d referred to earlier. She wondered what he was thinking, what was rolling around in that exquisitely educated, fact-filled head of his. Maybe he was reminiscing about the good old days when a cop could get right up close and in the face of a suspect.
Jack’s hunches and keen nose for clues often got him in trouble. But he was also often right. Maybe she’d look at the case herself.
And maybe she’d organise a window cleaner.
Chapter Nineteen
Brian Parker stood at the side of the road, staring at the spot where his son had met his killer, and wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. It felt like leather on the much thinner and finer skin of his face as he brushed the tears away.
He turned slightly at the sound of a male voice beside him.
“I can’t imagine how tough this is for you and your wife,” the man said solemnly.
Brian turned fully to look at him now; it was the same man who had been in their house only last night.
“How did you find me here?” he asked, surprised.
“I live nearby. I was out for a walk.”
The man stared straight ahead as he spoke, not looking at Brian at all. Brian, however, kept watching the man, studying his features as he stood there quietly, like he was a statue in a stately home garden. His nose was huge and bulbous—a drinker’s nose, it was called, though the condition generally hadn’t much to do with drinking. Brian’s father had had the same condition, and he had never touched a drop except at Christmas, christenings or funerals. Tiny red blood vessels burst under the skin, giving it a bumpy, swollen appearance. It had been ugly on his father; it was equally ugly on the man standing beside him now. He was tempted to tell the intruder to get it looked at before he got much older, but he knew he would sound cruel. Besides, Brian doubted he’d give a damn anyway; he was dishevelled and stank of ancient cigarette smoke.
“You came to my house last night. Why?”
“Thought you should know.”
“You think there’s a cover-up going on?”
“Oh, undoubtedly. Best you’re aware so you can do something about it.” The man still hadn’t turned to face Brian yet; he seemed to be finding the hedgerow across the road of great interest.
“May I ask why you think they’ll cover up my son’s death? I’m sure there are good coppers on the force these days.”
“Some, yes, I grant you. Not like the old days.” He smirked at the hedge. “I would know, I guess.”
“Oh?” enquired Brian. “Did you have dealings with a bad one back then?”
“You could say that, yes. More than one, actually.”
“What’s your interest in this, can I ask?”
“History. I’ll leave it at that.”
The man began to walk back towards the row of houses further along the lane. Brian stood watching as the man faded into the distance and then rounded the bend. It was quiet once again, and Brian sat down on the grassy bank for a while to lament his lost son. He had fallen into the ditch only a few feet away, then got back up and called for a lift home.
And died.
“What happened to you, son?” Brian asked the breeze. “You were fine when you arrived home.” He dipped his head and let the tears roll away down his cheeks again. When the natural flow eased, he wondered again about the man and his motive. He silently reprimanded himself for not asking the man’s name or getting a telephone number. But he knew he must live nearby; he was on foot, after all, and had said as much. Perhaps he should try and catch him up, get his card, find out who he was. He struggled to his feet and hurried back to his car. He could drive down the lane after the man; he’d soon catch him up.
He climbed inside, pulled the door closed and started the engine, lowering the driver’s window to feel the warm air on his face. Winter would be along soon enough; best to enjoy the summer warmth while it lasted. His Jag cruised around the corner, the dappled effect of the sun through the trees dancing on the car bonnet and turning the silver paint almost a deep moss. There was nobody about. Brian carried on, slowly, watching front pathways for the man walking to his door, but there was nothing. Curious, he thought. The man couldn’t have got very far on foot in this short time, and there were no other houses on the stretch before the few in front of him now.
He carried on; maybe the man had run on ahead, though he’d been wearing sandals and shorts, not exactly running attire. There was still no sign of him, so Brian pulled in to the side and prepared to do a three-point turn and head home. Jean would be disappointed he’d missed the opportunity to get the man’s details; he knew she’d be as curious as he was about why the man was involving himself. Jean was the one with conspiracy theories in her head, though; she had her theories about Princess Diana’s death, about the missing airplane with hundreds of people on board, and of course she had her answers to them all.
“I doubt you’ll find the answer to this one,” he said gloomily as he headed for home.
Chapter Twenty
DCI Japp looked like he had a broom handle wedged up his backside. In immaculate police uniform, buttons gleaming in the afternoon sunshine, he stood on the steps of the station and addressed the nation via the cameras and microphones that were set up before him. Past President Obama would have been proud of his poise and delivery. Jack watched on from the sidelines, keeping cool in the shade of the building as his boss tried not to melt in the heat. The thick fabric of uniform dress was not the most pleasant thing to wear during the summer months, and Jack was glad he didn’t have to suffer it.
“Let me make myself crystal clear,” Japp boomed to the journalists gathered. “As with every case, we do our utmost to get to the truth. Simply because an off-duty officer has found himself involved does not mean anything will change. Every case gets thoroughly investigated.”
“What do you say to those who are crying ‘cover-up,’ Detective?” It was Dan Smart from The Courier, a skinny, nervous-looking man whom Jack knew to have particularly sweaty hands. Even on a warm day like today, Smart kept his sleeves long; his mousy brown hair, which needed washing and styling, hung limply on his collar. He held a microphone with a smartphone attached to it in the air. “Readers have a right to know.”
Jack grimaced at the cliché; why did journalists always haul out the public’s right to know? What good did it do? “Ask a proper question, would you?” he mumbled under his breath.
Japp, also clearly annoyed by Smart’s statement, raised both hands slightly as if pacifying a large, unruly crowd. “Let me assure you, there is not and never will be a cover-up. The officer involved is cooperating fully, and we are in the process of investigating this terrible event. I am not able to tell you any more at this time, as the investigation is ongoing.”
“The Parkers say they’ll sue. What do you say to that?” Dan tried his luck again. His whole body seemed to shake as he shouted his qu
estion from near the back of the crowd.
“That is up to the Parkers. We’ll know a good deal more when the autopsy results are all back and we have the facts to work with. I really don’t have much else to say until then.”
A barrage of questions flew towards Japp now; he stood stunned for a moment, looking like he’d been slapped. The gathered press were not ready to leave with the little they had. Silvery microphone heads waved erratically in the air like magpies. Jack tittered quietly to himself as he unwrapped a Werther’s Original and slipped it into his mouth, sucking on it loudly. The crowd in front jostled, and again Japp did his best to quiet the chatter with his hands.
“Please, one at a time.” He pointed to a local female journalist who had a TV cameraman with her. Her bright red lips had caught his attention, though he wasn’t sure which channel she was from. He rarely saw anything other than the 10 o’clock news. The lens swung towards the woman as she asked her question.
“Who leaked DI Dupin’s name to the family? Did it come from inside? Wasn’t he a popular man, Chief Inspector?” The camera swung back towards Japp now, almost hitting another young reporter in the side of his head. Jack winced as he watched and sucked on his caramel.
“We are unsure at this time. Again, it’s part of the investigation. DI Dupin is a popular man.” Japp nodded to another reporter, avoiding eye contact with the red-lipped woman and moving swiftly on. “Last question. Yes?”
“DI Dupin is in custody currently. Surely, you’ll be sending Internal Affairs in, won’t you?”
Japp tugged uneasily on his collar. He needed to end this, to get back into the safety of the building behind him. Sweat was beading on his brow, not just from the sun but from the questions he’d rather not answer.
“That’s all I can say for now. We will, of course, update you when we have more information…”
The crowd shouted last-minute questions over his words as he turned to go back inside. Realising the DCI wasn’t going to answer any more, however, they began to stow their notebooks and microphones away with a chorus of unsatisfied rumblings. They looked like disappointed concert-goers, Jack thought. They’d driven all the way to see their band and they hadn’t played the hit song they’d wanted so desperately to hear. Jack swallowed down the last of his caramel and smiled to himself, folding in through the front doors a few steps behind Japp. Just enough to keep out of earshot and out of his sight.
Watching the whole affair was another man, an ever-present cigarette burning between his cracked lips. He looked like an older version of the nervous young journalist; he was almost 50, not far in years from Jack. Had Jack lingered long enough after the journalistic vultures had packed up and left, he might have noticed him. He was skin and bones now; his face was older but largely unchanged, aside from the hideous bulbous nose. His hair was still mousy and now sported salty streaks courtesy of Mother Nature. He smiled to himself now; he’d fancied a spot of afternoon entertainment, and he hadn’t been disappointed. DCI Japp had looked hot and uncomfortable, particularly when questioned about Dupin being arrested.
He sipped from his ever-present hip flask and then slipped quietly away.
Chapter Twenty-One
The early evening sun was still warm as DS Amanda Lacey headed home, windows down, enjoying the rush of air on her face. Traffic was moving for a change, and the light breeze had worked wonders in clearing off the lingering exhaust fumes. Public transport was a godsend, and environmentally friendly, of course, but the black plumes of diesel exhaust from the buses made her gag.
However, it was a necessary component of London life.
Take away the Tubes and buses, and Greater London would grind to a standstill. It was home to nearly 9 million people, Croydon housing 400,000 of them all on its own. Unless scooters were made legal and then weatherproofed with neat little plastic covers like mobility scooters, what was the alternative for getting from A to B? Amanda coughed as a bus pulled out in front of her, as if to prove a point. She wound her window up and turned the air con on, something she detested doing. The temperature was either freezing or stifling hot, without a great deal of satisfaction in between.
“Thanks, Mr Bus,” she said sarcastically, wafting her hand in front of her face. The air cooled dramatically within a couple of minutes, and she went back to readjusting the fan speed and temperature to find the sweet spot. By the time she’d arrive home, it would be about right.
Her car filled with Ruth’s allocated ringtone now, the familiar bing-bong opening bars of Ed Sheeran’s “Shape of You.” She smiled as she always did; the song was perfect for Ruth. She had one for Jack too, ELO’s “Mr Blue Sky”—his thinking song, he called it. She also had ones for Dupin and Japp, though she knew she’d be in trouble if either one was in her space when the other rang. Disney’s “Dopey” was the obvious choice for Dupin, while “Drunken Sailor” was what she used for Japp.
“Hey,” Ruth’s voice cooed over the speakers. “Are you on your way back or still fighting criminals with your bare hands?”
“They’re all tied up with rope and sitting in a cell back at the station. The streets are clear for the next few hours. What do you need?”
“Pi-zza!” Ruth said in a loud singsong voice.
Ruth was definitely the more youthful of the two, although not by much. A talented businesswoman running her own tech company, she enjoyed her down time just as much as her working day. Pizza or crispy pork balls from Wong’s were her favourite foods, either to celebrate a successful day or provide comfort when major sustenance or a cheer-up were required. She never worried about what she ate, knowing she’d run it off again the following morning.
Since Ruth had squealed the word “pizza” like a ten-year-old just now, Amanda knew it had to be the successful day option.
“Good day?”
“You bet! I might even open a bottle of wine.”
“Eh? On a school night?”
“Why not? Big contracts should be celebrated, and that’s what I’m going to do.”
“Pepperoni to go with it, then?”
“With extra cheese.”
“Must have been a good deal.” Amanda smiled. Ruth had been worrying about getting this contract and hadn’t been her normal chirpy self while the details were pored over and agreed. Thankfully, it sounded like normal service had resumed. “Well, I’m glad it’s all worked out for you. Extra cheese it is. I’ll stop and get it. Where are you?”
“Home. Just walked in and thought ‘I fancy pizza.’”
“Great—then I shall provide. See you shortly. Ciao.” Amanda rang off and altered her course to the nearby pizza place. She looked forward to relaxing with Ruth tonight; she knew Ruth had been preoccupied lately, not only with the deal but with her father’s move to a new flat closer to London. After Madeline had gone, it had made sense for him to downsize a bit, but they both knew it was going to take some getting used to. Now, though, his commute would be halved, the maintenance on his home would be negligible, and his social life might just get a boost. He’d joined a tennis club, and he’d been out for a drink with a woman other than his Maddie. Amanda knew he’d felt a bit weird about it, of course, but a widower had to start somewhere. And drinks didn’t have to mean sex, something else Ruth had had a chat with him about. She’d mused about it with Amanda later—“It’s usually the dad telling the offspring about the birds and the bees, not the other way around!” To the best of their knowledge, Ruth’s dad was still a one-woman man, certainly within the last thirty-odd years. Before that, though, Gordon Simpson had been like any other regular hot-blooded single male, and Ruth had been the result, conceived up a Croydon nightclub toilet wall. Ruth quipped that it made her feel special—at least she hadn’t been washed down the loo.
Amanda pulled up outside Peri Pizza. The aroma drifted her way as she stepped out of the car, a good deal more pleasant than the black bus fumes. Hot garlic butter hung in the air, and the side street smelled more like Florence than Croydon. A queue had
formed out on to the pavement; it seemed others had the same idea on a nice evening. Amanda wondered if they were celebrating too. She joined the rear of the line and waited her turn, surfing through her phone to occupy her mind and idle away the time.
She didn’t hear her name being called at first, but something or someone caught her attention and she finally looked up and refocused, her eyes adjusting after the silvery glare of the tiny screen. An older woman stood before her and was smiling straight at her. She had a pleasant face, though the wrinkles and laugh-lines around her eyes could have held a pencil in place. Her expertly streaked greying hair in a neat bob style told Amanda she was well into her 50s, and she looked vaguely familiar. Whoever the woman was, she knew Amanda. When she spoke, her voice was like whiskey-coated ice cubes—smooth and cool, but with an edge.
“DS Lacey, isn’t it?” She held her hand out. Amanda took it politely and the two women shook briefly. The woman had a powerful grip, and she hung onto Amanda’s hand for a moment longer than she was accustomed to.
“Yes. Hello.”
“I’m a friend of Jack’s,” the woman said. “Vivian. I met you once when you worked on a case. You were investigating the death of my friend James Peterson, the book club fellow who died a couple of years ago.” She waited for Amanda to remember the case and when it registered in her eyes, she carried on. “How is Jack? I’ve not seen him for a long time.” The woman was still smiling; Amanda found it infectious and smiled along with her at the mention of their mutual friend.
“Oh, he’s still the same Jack. Loves his bacon sandwiches and his ELO. Not much changes there. I’ll tell him we bumped into each other; he’ll be pleased, I’m sure.”
“Yes, please do. Tell him it would be nice to see him again, too; he knows where to find me.” Vivian flashed expensive dentistry and moved off slightly. “Nice to see you again!” she called lightly as she carried on past, on her way home most likely. Amanda waved back cheerfully.