by Ed James
Fenchurch tapped Loftus on the arm. ‘I’ll be over by the car, sir.’ He turned to leave.
The door clicked behind him. ‘Simon, it’s okay.’ Mulholland had opened the door and Fenchurch could see her face now.
Her two cheeks looked like they belonged to different people. A couple of years since the incident now, but Dawn Mulholland was still suffering the after-effects of a kerosene attack. An attack on duty. And an attack Fenchurch could’ve stopped. Or that he kept telling himself he could’ve lessened the impact of. Her grey roots had grown out, and her hair was long and wild, like she couldn’t find anyone to cut it, and maybe didn’t trust herself with a pair of scissors. ‘It’s good to see you.’
‘And you, Dawn. Been too long.’
She nodded, and kept stroking her injured cheek. It lacked the smooth contours of its sibling, instead lay sunken like she’d taken up heroin addiction as a lifestyle, and was cracked like the heels of Fenchurch’s feet. So the skin grafts weren’t taking too well. And that was just the surface. God knows what it would’ve done to her psyche, to be off work for over two years. In fact, no supernatural beings needed to be involved, as it was clear DI Dawn Mulholland had become a recluse.
Mulholland fixed Loftus with a hard stare. ‘What’s this about, sir?’
‘Do you mind if we come in?’
Fenchurch couldn’t sit, but didn’t know where to stand either.
Mulholland’s living room seemed to belong to an earlier age. A brick fireplace with a three-bar electric heater stuffed in the middle. No photos on the mantelpiece, just a carriage clock that had stopped ticking at seventeen minutes past eight. A bottle green three-piece suite crowded around a frail-looking coffee table. The sofa was covered in two blankets. And the ashtray was overstuffed with cigarette butts, the smell hanging heavy in the air. Fenchurch could taste the acrid smoke every time he opened his mouth. It felt like it was seeping into his pores, and spreading all over his clothes.
Fenchurch settled for leaning against the windowsill. He could see their cars parked down the street, which was the only comfort he could draw from the situation.
Heavy footsteps thudded through from the hallway. ‘I’m sorry, but I stopped taking dairy milk a while ago.’ Mulholland laid the tray out on the table. ‘This oat milk is surprisingly nice, though.’
‘Thank you, Dawn.’ Loftus was sitting on the armchair nearest her chair. ‘Do you mind if I play mother?’
‘Be my guest.’ Mulholland collapsed into the sofa, and the mechanism rattled. She pulled her blanket over her knees. Some housebound people turn to skin and bone, but Mulholland had put on weight. Every part of her seemed thickened and heavy, especially her movements. ‘This is my mother’s home. She bought it after her divorce and I spent my teenage years here, though I was in boarding school for most of that time. I was in the middle of renovating when… When…’ She gasped.
Loftus gave her a kind smile, then poured tea into the three cups. ‘I’m sorry I haven’t been in touch as often as I should.’
‘Julian, I’m the one who hasn’t been returning your calls.’ A shadow of the old Dawn Mulholland appeared there. That knowing smile, hidden behind her sunken eyes. ‘It’s not been easy for me.’
‘No. No, it hasn’t.’ Loftus nudged her cup over the table. ‘Milk?’
‘No, thank you.’ She looked over at Fenchurch with that same smile. ‘But I gather that Simon should be my line manager now?’
Loftus passed Fenchurch a cup. ‘I’ve maintained the status quo to ensure continuity throughout your treatment and eventual return, Dawn. We’ll cross the Rubicon that happy day.’
‘Well, I want to extend my congratulations, Simon.’ That empty smile now, like she knew just how badly Fenchurch was toiling with the role. Who was he kidding? If anyone would know, it would be her. And she’d enjoy every second of the torment.
‘Thank you, Dawn.’ Fenchurch poured oat milk from the carton. It was nothing like he expected. It looked like it had come from a cow. Smelled like it too. He took a sip and it wasn’t too bad, just a bit bitter. ‘How’s your treatment going, Dawn?’
She pulled her blanket up over her torso now. ‘My scars are healing, but the consultant thinks it’ll be another six months at least before I look like a human being.’
‘It doesn’t seem that bad.’
‘It’s appalling, Simon.’
‘But you’ll be coming back, right?’
She shrugged.
Loftus sipped his tea, but the grimace betrayed how little he liked the oat milk. ‘You know your position’s still open, Dawn. Uzma Ashkani’s an Acting DI in your absence.’
‘You’re assuming I either want to come back, or will be capable of it.’
‘Simon and I are sure you’ll be more than capable of doing your old job.’
She put her teacup back on the table, then adjusted her blanket again. ‘Why are you here?’
‘Micah Wiley.’
She frowned. Her ordeal had clearly dampened her sharp mind, as much as it had damaged her body. But her forehead cleared after a moment and she nodded. ‘What about it?’
‘Well, you were Deputy SIO on that. Trouble is, we’ve got a crime scene with a dead body and a lot of Micah’s father’s blood.’
‘Oh my lord. What happened?’
‘I shouldn’t really tell you but, suffice it to say, Tom Wiley’s missing and very badly injured.’
She looked over to Fenchurch in the window, but it was like she was staring through him. ‘Those poor people.’ Her throat swelled up. ‘You know that whole cliché about those cases that got away from you, about taking them to the grave? Well, that’s my life now.’ She shut her eyes. ‘I didn’t catch Micah’s killer. I can only imagine what… What Micah’s poor mother is going through.’
As much as Fenchurch wanted to point out how it wasn’t that different to what Mulholland herself endured on a daily basis, coupled with the fact she seemed to be on her own, even he wasn’t that crass.
‘Of course, Alan wanted to have you on the case, Simon. But he’d shipped you off to Miami because of the business with your daughter. How is she?’
Time was, Mulholland would be able to leverage that giant hole in Fenchurch’s life. And she would. Always twisting the knife. And the things he’d discovered about her, about how she could’ve rescued Chloe years earlier… Well. He was just grateful to have her back in his life. And maybe he could use her nosiness to leverage her. ‘She’s good, Dawn. Had a job for a while. Applied to join the police too.’
‘Really?’
Fenchurch nodded. ‘I’m not mad happy about it, have to say. It’s just like when I joined up. Mum was distraught. She put up with so much from my father, the endless nights where he was stuck in the station, and she didn’t know if he was dead or alive. Then seeing that worry transferred on to me. That’s what I’ll face, isn’t it?’
Mulholland cast her blanket aside and sat forward. ‘It can’t be easy.’
‘It’s not. Not at all. And that case, Dawn, Micah’s murder, it has very similar elements to what happened to Chloe. I mean, he was a lot older and his body was found, so they didn’t have that whole hope thing but… It’s the answers that you search for. Who did this? Why?’
‘I speak to Tom on occasion.’
Bingo.
‘Tom Wiley, he kept visiting me over the years. How long has it been?’
‘Over five years, Dawn. August 2014.’
Her fingers caressed her injured cheek. ‘Where does the time go…’
‘Back then, did you have any suspects?’
‘Nothing.’ Mulholland sipped her tea. ‘As hard as we tried, we found absolutely nothing that could pin down Micah’s killer.’
‘Dawn, the reason we’re here is that Tom Wiley thinks his son’s murder may have been connected to Hermione Taylor.’
Mulholland sat back on her sofa, cradling her cup. Her forehead twitched for a few seconds, then she took a sip. ‘Tom didn’t talk to me
about it.’
‘Okay, but do you think it’s possible?’
‘Look, I’m going to speak candidly here. I definitely think it’s possible.’ She looked over at Loftus. ‘I even opened a HOLMES action to connect Hermione’s killer to Micah.’
Loftus rested his cup on the table, his eyebrows raised high. ‘And my team discounted it due to both obtaining valid alibis and a lack thereof.’
Fenchurch tried to process it. ‘How solid is that conviction?’
Loftus didn’t even look at him. ‘Solid.’
Mulholland shook her head slightly.
‘You’re not convinced, Dawn?’
‘I wasn’t back then, no.’
‘And now?’
She shrugged.
‘What was the lead?’
Mulholland looked at Loftus, then licked her lips. ‘We heard that Micah and Hermione were friends on Schoolbook.’
‘That’s it?’
Another shrug.
‘And were they?’
‘Well, you know how insecure that platform is, Simon. The security is appalling. They could’ve had anonymous accounts. Anything.’
‘So what happened was a witness told you that they were friends, and you raised an action?’
‘It’s standard procedure, yes. We investigated, but we didn’t have Micah’s computer and he didn’t own a smartphone.’
‘What, someone took his computer?’
She nodded. ‘He had a laptop. An Alienware one. I don’t know why I can remember that, but it was with him when he was last seen at school. And we never recovered it.’
Fenchurch focused on Loftus. ‘And from your side, sir?’
‘Of course we investigated it. Nothing came up.’
‘Did you have Hermione’s laptop?’
‘We did. And we had actually had full access to Hermione’s Schoolbook account. She’d written her password down on a Post-it stuck to the back of her desk. Her father gave us written consent to use it. Long and short of it, Hermione wasn’t friends with Micah, and hadn’t sent any messages to anyone who could’ve been.’
‘Did you back it up on the other side?’
‘What, the Schoolbook side?’
‘Correct. Did you?’
‘This was before we had access to standard warrants and data feeds.’
Fenchurch felt like he was dealing with his son, who had just learnt the word “no”. ‘And there were no friends linked to any accounts connected to Micah?’
‘Not that we could ascertain, no.’ Loftus swallowed. ‘Besides, like I said, we had our killer. He murdered Hermione Taylor. He had an alibi for Micah.’
Fenchurch sat back in the chair and tried to puzzle it out. It did seem like the scantest of clues. But it had riled Tom Wiley enough to get him to pay a PI or PIs to investigate, then to raise it with Liam to get him on it. ‘What about talking on the phone? What about texts? WhatsApp? Emails?’
‘If Julian’s team investigated this lead and concluded it was a dead end, then there’s nothing else to consider, is there?’
Loftus was drumming the fingers of both hands off the arms of his chair. His phone rang and he checked the display. ‘Sodding hell. Back in a sec.’ He pushed up to standing and stormed through the house. ‘Millie, what’s up?’
Fenchurch looked over at Mulholland. ‘Dawn, have you been speaking to Tom Wiley?’
‘I haven’t seen him in a long time.’
‘Honestly?’
‘That’s the truth.’
‘We spoke to Liam and it appears that he has a source on the investigation. Was that you?’
‘If you’re going to be my boss when I return, then no.’
‘And if I’m not?’
‘Then of course I have been.’ She was shaking her head. ‘Loftus needs taking down a peg or two.’ A Walthamstow accent erupted from her. ‘He’s let me down. I’ve been hung out to dry here. He’s not visited, won’t return my calls.’
‘Well, you know how the Met is, Dawn. They reward spreadsheet monkeys.’
‘That’s not what you are.’
‘No, I’m the idiot who shouldn’t have accepted the promotion.’ He noticed her raised eyebrow. ‘All above board, interviews and all that, but still. It feels like a mistake.’
Mulholland finished her tea and set it back on the table. ‘Listen, I’m due in hospital again this afternoon for another skin graft. But if there’s anything else you need, Uzma Ashkani worked for me on this and knew the case inside out.’
‘Thanks, Dawn.’ Fenchurch nodded slowly. ‘Look, I know we’ve not been friends, but that guy… I’ll make sure I come around here every few weeks. I’ll call in advance. I don’t want you to suffer in silence again. Okay? You shouldn’t be going through this alone.’
‘Thank you.’ She couldn’t look at him. For the first time, he saw an emotion in her that wasn’t schadenfreude.
‘Dawn, if you’re being honest with me, should I be investigating this connection?’
Mulholland stared over at the window again and this time she glanced at Fenchurch. ‘I suggest you speak to the people involved, Simon, and make up your own mind.’
14
Where the road forked, Fenchurch took the left entrance into Kenwood House and followed the road through the woods, the trees all thinned out for winter. The car park was empty, not exactly unexpected on a December Friday. He pulled up in a space, just about fitting his car between the half logs, and let the engine die. ‘It’s strange seeing Dawn Mulholland again.’
‘Tell me about it.’ Loftus let his seatbelt ride up. ‘You know that none of that was your fault, Simon.’
‘Doesn’t stop it needling me when I’m trying to sleep, sir. I see it over and over again in slow motion.’
Loftus opened his door but didn’t step out into the misty rain. ‘Dawn’s exactly the kind of cop you should have in your team, Simon.’
‘Are you sure about that?’
Loftus gave a brief chuckle, but he kept his focus on Fenchurch. ‘Look, I know you and Dawn have had your moments over the years. As you would say, no love lost between you. But you always need honest voices in any team, even dissenting ones like Dawn.’ Loftus got out first, tugging his cap on before Fenchurch even opened his door.
Fenchurch took his time getting out. Dissension was one thing, but obstruction as a foundation to promotion was quite another. Before her accident, Dawn would have sold her grandmother if it meant climbing higher.
Not that Loftus was that dissimilar.
And not that Fenchurch would say anything remotely like that to either of them. Still, her injury seemed to have changed her. Or maybe the lack of support during her long recovery. Either way, she seemed to want to burn all the bridges she wasn’t building to old enemies like Fenchurch.
Maybe she was just leading him down a path to screw with Loftus. But maybe there was something in all this noise. At the kernel of it, if they found Micah’s killer and got justice, then that was a good thing.
They needed to find his father.
Fenchurch stepped out into the rain and tugged his collar up. ‘I’ll have a think about it, sir. Maybe I get enough dissension from Uzma.’
Loftus walked over to a pair of pillars leading to the house. ‘Ah yes, well, she did work with Dawn for a long time, didn’t she?’
‘Maybe too long.’
‘And why’s that an issue?’
‘Toxic influences, maybe.’ Fenchurch pointed at the fence at the side, that sheered-off wood stuff that he could never remember the name of. ‘Hermione was found just here, right?’
‘Correct.’ A dark look passed over Loftus’s face. He took off his cap, as if to respect Hermione’s memory. ‘A dog walker found her. Poor woman was running, in training for the Boston marathon I think, and her dog slipped off and found Hermione’s body in the undergrowth.’ He was staring around the space, but judging by his frown, something was irritating him. ‘That bloody ivy wasn’t there last time I was here. It grows so quic
kly, doesn’t it?’
Fenchurch could only nod. Seeing where Hermione Taylor had been killed, dumped and found certainly added a bit of colour to the crime, but not to her life. ‘Tell me that I’m wasting my time here, sir, and I’ll get back to the office.’
Loftus was looking around the dead space. ‘It would be inappropriate of me to steer you.’
‘Why?’
‘Because I have a vested interest? This was my case, I led it, built a promotion from it. And now you’re digging around in it. If I were to suggest you refrain, then how would that appear?’
‘I don’t care about appearances, sir. I care about the fact Tom Wiley’s missing, presumed dead. And I care about the fact him and his wife never got justice for his son’s life. Is it possible his son’s murder was connected?’
‘It’s not even that, Simon. He was rooting around in some unsavoury aspects of our city’s life. If he was speaking to the wrong people about his wild theories, then it might be smart to investigate.’
‘Look, I’ve got a team working on that case right now. Doing their best to find Mr Wiley and to find out what the hell happened in that brewery. Right now, I think it’s important we see if what he was investigating is related to his disappearance.’
‘Do you want me to phone Hermione’s father?’
The last time Fenchurch had driven through Hampstead, he had visited the bigger mansions, where rock stars, film producers or the landed gentry lived, hidden behind their massive walls. New money mixing with old, seeking the same level of privacy and seclusions.
This time, though, it was a case of the worst house in the best street. The Taylor family lived in a block of flats on the main drag through the area, though it was like an old hotel had been converted and subdivided into flats. And it was not too shabby.
The biggest problem, as ever, was where the hell to park round here. Double yellows on both sides of the road, and the bollards and railings prevented senior officers from bumping up and using their “On Official Police Business” signs. Yeah, Hampstead was definitely an area where people didn’t want anything in their back yard.