Ask No Questions

by Hartley, Lisa

  ‘Whoever’s behind this, they can’t be working alone,’ she said softly. ‘Sam didn’t hang himself, and one person couldn’t have lifted him up there.’

  Adamson flinched, no doubt visualising the horror of Sam’s last moments. ‘Who, then? Walker and a partner?’

  ‘I see Walker as a follower, not a leader.’

  ‘Lambourne wouldn’t kill his son.’

  Adamson was definite, and Caelan wondered why. He hadn’t worked on the Charlie Flynn case, not closely. He shouldn’t know what Lambourne would do, unless … Adamson saw her staring, raised a hand to his mouth.

  ‘Even Seb Lambourne wouldn’t kill his own flesh and blood,’ Adamson said quickly. Caelan was quiet, and he gave a nervous laugh. ‘If you’re trying to unsettle me, Caelan, it’s working.’

  ‘How did we know that Lambourne was back in the country?’ she said.

  ‘I don’t know. Elizabeth Beckett told me when she asked me to find you.’

  ‘And I’m wondering who told her.’

  * * *

  Fifty minutes later, Caelan was outside Michael Nasenby’s home in Fulham. The house was in the centre of a block of terraces, but Caelan knew that Nasenby and his wife had extended and improved the property extensively in the thirty years they had lived there. The surrounding houses were well maintained, the area having an air of prosperity. Exactly the kind of street Caelan would expect Nasenby to call home. She decided to ring his mobile rather than knock on the door and set the neighbour’s curtains twitching. Nasenby answered on the fourth ring, his voice heavy with sleep.

  ‘Caelan?’

  ‘Morning, Michael. I need to speak to you.’

  A yawn, some muffled conversation. Nasenby’s wife had woken too. Caelan waited.

  ‘I was asleep.’ The note of reproach in his voice was subtle but unmistakable. Caelan noted it with interest. Nasenby had encouraged her from the first day she’d met him to phone if she needed to, no matter the time of day. Another sign that she was on Brady’s team now, not his own?

  ‘I’m sorry, Michael, but this is important.’

  A harrumph from Nasenby’s wife, his voice placating her.

  ‘Can’t it wait until the morning?’

  ‘No.’

  He sighed. ‘Fine. Where do you want to meet?’

  ‘Your living room?’

  A pause. ‘What?’

  ‘I’m in your driveway.’ Caelan looked up at the windows above her. Sure enough, the curtain moved aside and Nasenby’s face appeared.

  ‘Christ, Caelan. What are you doing here?’ He sounded appalled. Caelan beamed up at him with a wave.

  ‘Wanted to save you the trouble of getting your car out. Are you going to let me in?’

  She had to appear normal, not give him any idea of the grey desolation she had been shrouded in since finding Sam’s body. The horror of witnessing Nicky’s death, never far away, was back within touching distance. She had to keep going, keep fighting. Nicky and Sam both deserved justice. Ronnie Morgan, Charlie Flynn. Suzanne Morgan.

  ‘I hadn’t … I mean, we weren’t expecting visitors,’ Nasenby said quickly.

  ‘I need a word, then I’ll be on my way.’

  A sigh. ‘All right, give me a moment.’

  Remembering their last conversation, when Nasenby had arrived at her door in the early hours, Caelan smiled to herself. Serve him right.

  When he opened the door, Nasenby wore a pair of navy chinos, an England rugby shirt, and slippers. Caelan smiled.

  ‘You don’t, then.’

  He stepped away from the door, bemused. ‘Don’t what?’

  She followed him inside. ‘Sleep in a suit.’

  ‘Never off duty, Caelan. You know how it is. We can talk in the kitchen.’

  He led her towards the back of the house. The room they entered was dark, but when Nasenby flipped on the lights, Caelan took a step back.

  ‘Wow.’

  The ceiling was double height, the room an expanse of glass, stone and exposed brickwork. The cupboards were a glossy grey, a stainless-steel range dominating one corner. Nasenby smiled.

  ‘I’m glad you approve.’

  At the back of the room, the windows looked out onto the darkened garden. Caelan watched a white cat flit past the glass, ghostly in the shadows. The room was perfect, but clinical, resembling an operating theatre more than a room in a home.

  ‘Coffee?’ Nasenby raised his eyebrows.

  ‘No thanks.’

  ‘Then come and sit down.’

  The dining table was made from polished black granite, reminding Caelan uncomfortably of an oversized headstone. Nasenby pulled out a chair, waved her into it. Caelan sat gingerly. The chairs were angular, designed for aesthetic appeal, not comfort. Nasenby settled opposite her. He smiled, totally relaxed, waiting for her to speak. Caelan leaned forward, setting her elbows on the cold glossy surface of the table.

  ‘Michael, Sam’s dead.’

  The reaction was instantaneous. Nasenby shoved back his chair, blundered to his feet. He turned away, his eyes half closed as though he had taken a physical blow. Caelan watched as he straightened his back, took a few heaving breaths. When he turned back, his face was calmer, though his hands were shaking as he gripped the back of his chair.

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘I found him.’

  ‘Shot?’

  ‘Hanged.’

  ‘Suicide?’ Nasenby gave a violent shake of his head. ‘No, not Sam. Not now. If he was going to kill himself, he’d have done it before.’

  ‘Nothing’s been confirmed.’

  ‘But you’ve made up your mind.’

  She nodded. ‘He was murdered.’

  ‘Disguised as suicide.’ Nasenby was nodding. He sat again, ran his hand around his jaw.

  ‘Like Charlie Flynn’s parents.’ Caelan sat back, waited. Nasenby didn’t react.

  ‘You know they’re dead?’ he said.

  ‘Hanged too. Quite the coincidence.’

  ‘The Flynns’ deaths were suicide, Caelan.’

  ‘Because the coroner said so?’

  ‘And the pathologist, and the evidence.’

  A silence stretched, Caelan unwilling to break it, wanting Nasenby to speak first. She was treating him as she would a suspect. The trouble was, he knew how to play the game too. A minute passed. Eventually he smiled.

  ‘I wouldn’t mind going back to bed.’

  Caelan stood. ‘I’ll see myself out.’

  He followed her to the front door, opened it wide. As she stepped onto the gravelled path outside, he cleared his throat.

  ‘Who told you about the Flynns?’

  She turned back. ‘Why?’

  ‘The list of people who know about their deaths is exclusive. I understood it was to stay that way.’

  ‘Must have been one of the people on that list then.’ Caelan smiled.

  Nasenby was unamused. ‘Brady?’ Caelan didn’t reply. ‘Beckett?’

  ‘Why don’t you ask them? Goodnight, Michael.’

  She walked away, not looking back until she reached Ewan’s car. Nasenby stood watching her, leaning against the door frame. Their eyes met, and Caelan knew that their easy relationship, that of pupil and mentor, had changed.

  * * *

  Back in the car, Caelan rubbed her eyes. She wanted to go home to bed, but she had to speak to Penrith before the news of Sam’s death became public. She knew it would, no matter how careful they were. Sam Clifton had been blamed for Charlie Flynn’s death as much as Seb Lambourne himself. The press would delight in reporting his suicide to the nation. Sam’s parents lived in Canada, and had escaped much of the furore. Caelan hoped they would be left alone now to grieve for their son. Somehow she doubted it.

  ‘Where does Ian Penrith live?’ asked Ewan.

  ‘Hammersmith.’

  ‘Not far.’

  ‘No, but …’ She gave him the address. ‘It’s a huge block of flats next to a dual carriageway.’

 
‘Not in the same league as Nasenby’s place, then?’

  ‘I prefer Penrith’s, they’re lovely apartments. I’ve only been there once, to pick him up. We were on a job he hated.’

  ‘Why?’

  Caelan laughed at the memory. ‘He had to pretend to be my dad.’

  ‘Your dad? Is he old enough?’

  ‘Nasenby thought so. Ian didn’t find it as funny as the rest of us.’

  ‘How was Nasenby?’

  ‘Shocked to hear about Sam.’

  ‘I’m sure. Listen, Caelan, I can’t imagine what it was like for you, finding your friend like that.’

  ‘You can, Ewan. We’ve both seen worse, had friends killed in front of our eyes. Heard the screams, felt the blood spattering your face. The guilt when you realise you’re still alive.’ She rubbed the back of her hand over her mouth. ‘You know.’

  They didn’t speak again until they arrived outside Penrith’s home. Caelan climbed out of the car, looked up at the twelve storeys in front of her. Gathering herself, she blinked back the exhaustion.

  ‘I’ll get a taxi home,’ she said again. ‘Get out of here, Ewan.’

  ‘No, I’ll wait.’ He didn’t look at her, kept his head turned away. Caelan slammed the car door, annoyed, knowing she was being unfair. Ewan was doing what she had asked him to. She couldn’t punish him for his loyalty.

  Should she ring Penrith, or hammer on his door? Marching into the building’s lobby, she decided on the latter. No concierge here, though a security camera blinked in the corner. She glanced at the lifts, headed for the stairs. Penrith’s apartment was number 610 – the sixth floor. One final treat after a long and difficult day.

  Penrith’s floor was silent, Caelan’s steps muffled by the navy-blue carpet. The doors were a lighter blue, the air a pungent mix of air freshener and curry. Maybe someone had been having a late-night takeaway.

  She halted outside Penrith’s door, saw the peephole. She had no fear he wouldn’t open the door. He would relish seeing her, would enjoy having the chance to needle her again, even at this hour. She tapped on the door. When he didn’t appear, she thumped it.

  Footsteps.

  ‘Caelan? Is it Hallowe’en again?’

  ‘Ha bloody ha. Open the door, Ian.’

  It swung open to reveal Penrith bare-chested, his belly hanging over the waistband of a pair of baggy blue boxer shorts. ‘To what do I owe the pleasure?’

  ‘Sam Clifton’s dead.’

  Penrith’s eyes bulged. ‘Sam? Jesus. Tell me you’re joking!’

  ‘No, Ian, I’m not.’

  He lunged forward, hauled her inside. As the door slammed behind her, Caelan said, ‘You’ll wake your neighbours.’

  ‘I don’t give two shits about my neighbours. Tell me what happened.’

  Caelan explained how she’d discovered Sam’s body. Penrith listened, hands on hips. When she fell silent, he pointed to his left.

  ‘Kitchen’s through there. In case you’ve forgotten: tea, no sugar, splash of milk. I’ll get dressed.’ He stomped away.

  Mechanically, Caelan did as she’d been asked, too tired and empty to take umbrage. Penrith’s kitchen was spotless, with a pristine white cloth on the table and a teapot by the kettle. When he came in, now dressed in jeans and a polo shirt, she said, ‘Do you live with your mum?’

  ‘My mum?’

  Caelan nodded at the teapot. Penrith smiled.

  ‘Only way to make a decent brew.’

  ‘I’m afraid I didn’t use it.’

  He tutted. ‘Tea’ll be awful then.’

  ‘I’ll take the risk.’ Caelan picked up a mug, wrapped her hands around it, savouring the warmth. Penrith picked up his own cup and peered inside, wrinkling his nose at the contents.

  ‘Worst cup of tea I’ve ever seen. Shocking.’

  Caelan drank. ‘I thought you’d be more upset that one of our colleagues is dead.’

  Penrith heaved his bulk into a kitchen chair, ignoring her comment. ‘Sit.’

  She did as she was told. ‘I must admit, I’d expected you to have accused me of killing him by now.’

  He studied her face, took a cautious sip of tea. Winced as he tasted it. ‘Would you blame me? You’re as common as blood spatter at crime scenes these days. Have they found Walker yet?’

  ‘No.’

  He bared his teeth. ‘No. Why did you come here at this hour to tell me about Sam?’

  Caelan was thrown. Adamson had asked the same question, Nasenby hadn’t. She’d told Adamson the truth, but she couldn’t do the same with Penrith.

  ‘I wanted you to hear it from me, rather than in the news tomorrow.’ It wasn’t a total lie, but Penrith’s sharp glance told her he wasn’t fooled.

  ‘Who told you to tell me?’ he said.

  ‘No one.’

  ‘Not dancing to Brady’s tune tonight?’ He watched her over the top of his cup. Caelan stared back, unfazed. ‘Who else knows? Michael?’

  Caelan nodded. ‘And Richard.’

  ‘I’m your last visit? I’m hurt.’

  ‘No you’re not. And I didn’t say I was the one who told them.’

  ‘You did, though, didn’t you? You went and knocked on their doors, disturbed their sleep.’ He tapped the side of his chin with his forefinger, making a show of considering what Caelan had said. ‘Interesting. Sam’s flat is in Battersea. If I’d found his body then decided to break the news to his former colleagues, I’d have crossed the river to Fulham to talk to Nasenby first. Geographically, it makes sense. Then a quick stop here before travelling on to Adamson in Kentish Town. But you didn’t.’

  Heat was rising in Caelan’s cheeks, but she was damned if she was going to allow Penrith to see it. ‘No, I—’

  ‘Which either means,’ Penrith interrupted, ‘you went elsewhere before going to see Nasenby, or you left me until last deliberately. Which?’

  ‘Ian—’

  ‘Or is it both?’ Caelan said nothing, and Penrith chuckled. ‘Both then. Shall I keep guessing, or are you going to tell me what’s really going on here?’

  ‘What do you expect me to say?’

  ‘The truth would be nice.’

  ‘When you’ve spent the past few days spouting lies about me to anyone who’d listen?’

  ‘Tit for tat, is it? Very professional.’

  ‘Takes one to know one.’

  ‘And you’ll get me at playtime? Come on, Caelan.’

  She stared at him. ‘What, you expect me to forget what you’ve said, the accusations you’ve made? You want me to confide in you?’

  He pounced. ‘So you do know more than you’re saying.’

  ‘About what?’ Fury rose in Caelan’s chest. The secrets, the lies, the two-faced deceit of it all. Now Penrith had the gall to suggest she was concealing information from him?

  ‘Can I ask a question?’ He took another swallow of tea, creasing his face theatrically as he swallowed it.

  What was he up to now? ‘Go on.’

  ‘Do you trust me?’

  She shrugged. ‘About as far as I could throw you, as the saying goes.’

  ‘Which, I think we’ll agree, wouldn’t be far.’ Penrith looked down at his belly. ‘Why?’

  ‘Why don’t I trust you? Because you’ve lied about me, about Nicky, about …’ She shook her head. ‘You’ve suggested I’m unprofessional, corrupt, both to my face and behind my back. Tell me why I should trust you.’

  He stood, went to the sink, set his empty cup in it. ‘Biscuit?’

  ‘It’s four in the morning. No thank you.’

  Penrith shrugged, opened a cupboard. Found a packet of chocolate digestives, held them up like a gleeful child. ‘What has the time to do with it?’

  ‘Ian …’

  He removed three biscuits, bit into the first. ‘You should trust me, Caelan, because I’ve been telling the truth.’

  Caelan shoved herself away from the table, stood, and strode towards the door. ‘Goodnight, Ian.’

  ‘Come back.�
�� His voice was steel, all pretence at light-heartedness gone. ‘If you value your career, your life, you need to listen.’

  She paused. ‘I took you seriously there for a second. You sound as though you’re in a TV show.’

  ‘If I was, I’d be five stone lighter and you’d be six inches taller. And we’d probably be in bed by now.’

  Caelan couldn’t help laughing, despite everything. Let him say his piece. What harm could it do? She dropped back into the chair.

  ‘I need you to trust me,’ Penrith repeated.

  ‘I can’t. I did, but not anymore.’

  ‘Because of what I said about Charlie Flynn?’

  ‘And about Nicky. You had Adamson follow us, follow me. He took photographs, for Christ’s sake.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘And now you’re going to tell me you were trying to protect me? It wasn’t about collecting evidence to discredit me and to raise suspicion against me?’

  He shoved a whole biscuit into his mouth. Chewed, licked the chocolate from his fingers. Sat back down. ‘No, that’s exactly what I was trying to do. And it worked.’

  Caelan sneered. ‘Yeah, well good for you. Hope you’re happy.’

  ‘Why do you think I did it?’

  ‘Because you’re a twat?’ Caelan didn’t miss a beat.

  Penrith laughed. ‘That too.’

  ‘Is there another reason?’

  He ate the final biscuit, his eyes on her face. ‘No, there are several. One being because I wanted to be free to do some poking around while everyone’s attention was diverted.’

  Caelan rubbed her forehead, a headache gathering momentum behind her eyes. ‘Don’t tell me. Another conspiracy theory.’

  Penrith’s eyes narrowed. ‘For the best undercover officer we’re supposed to have, you’re giving away a lot of information tonight.’

  ‘Yeah, well, I’m tired.’ She looked at him from beneath her eyelashes. He grinned.

  ‘As if you’d tell me anything you didn’t want me to know.’

  She ignored him. This conversation wasn’t going as she had planned. Penrith in this mood was slippery, and she was exhausted. He would outwit her at every turn. She held up her hands.

  ‘I don’t understand what you’re saying, Ian.’

  ‘Me neither, not all of it. The accusations I made against you were true, but I know you’re not the guilty person.’