‘I trusted you, Molly,’ he said, tears smarting his eyes. ‘I let you into my life, open my heart and soul to you, and you go behind my back and rake up all this shit about me. Shit that was dead and buried.’
Molly took a deep breath. ‘She alleges that you assaulted her, Jon.’
‘That’s bullshit. If you’d bothered to check your facts, DS Fisher, you’d know she dropped the charges. And the reason she dropped the charges is because she lied. I never assaulted her. We argued and she hit her head against a bookcase to make it look like I’d smacked her. I thought you would have twigged by now: Magda Kilbride is a serial fantasist. She wouldn’t know the truth if it slapped her on the arse. She’s taken you in and played you for a twat.’
Molly stared at the plate of half-eaten pasta. It looked like it had been reheated in the microwave, possibly more than once. Jon was pathetic and hopeless and could no more manage to look after himself than he could fly to Mars and back in a Cessna aeroplane. What had once seemed endearing now seemed annoying. But what was worse, what really rankled with her, was that he hadn’t thought she’d deserved to know the truth about his relationship with Magda Kilbride. It was as though she didn’t matter.
‘I think you’re the one who’s playing me like a fiddle. You’ve lied to me and that hurts. What else haven’t you told me? I want to know what else you’ve kept from me.’
‘What the fuck is this? I didn’t tell you about me and Mags because it’s irrelevant; she’s irrelevant.’
‘Irrelevant? You had a relationship with her and now you’re saying it was irrelevant.’
‘Jesus, Molly. This is taking the piss.’ He blinked at her, fighting back his tears, trying hard to remain in control.
Jon, who so easily lost control… Jon who may or may not have assaulted Magda Kilbride during an argument… Jon who hated Mags, who hated women…? Hated them enough to kill them…?
She could feel her head spinning, the room blurring. Jon’s voice was inside her head now, shouting accusations through tears and snot.
‘I’ve only come back to collect my stuff,’ she heard herself say. ‘I’m moving out. I’m going to stay with a friend until I can get my head sorted.’
‘Molly, this is ridiculous. I’m sorry I lied about Mags, and I swear I didn’t leak that story to the press. Get this in proportion. If we split up, it means she’s won. It means Mags has got what her twisted little mind wants and it’s the end of you and me.’
Molly tried to stand, but her legs seemed to belong to another body. Her head was awash with noise and light. She grabbed hold of the kitchen table and pulled herself to her feet. She turned towards the door into the hallway, but as she did so the world seemed to swim around her. She heard Jon’s voice shouting out her name, then the whole kitchen began to spin a dervish, getting giddier and giddier. She felt Jon’s hand on her shoulder then her knees buckled and the floor tiles raced up to meet her. The last thing she remembered was the side of her head connecting with the corner of the kitchen table.
Chapter Fifty-Six
‘DI Denning? It’s Barry Thomas. I think I’ve found the name you’re looking for.’
Denning had only been at his desk for less than half an hour when Thomas phoned.
‘Go on.’ He scribbled the name on a piece of scrap paper: Daniel Placzek.
‘He ran a small outfit based in Lewisham,’ Thomas continued. ‘I can’t remember the company name, and we haven’t used him for years, and I’ve got no idea if he’s still around. Sorry I can’t be more helpful.’
Denning thanked him and ended the call. He entered the name into the Police National Computer database, but nothing came up. Next he did a QUEST search – Query Using Extended Search Technique, despairing yet again at the Met’s obsession with silly acronyms. He entered a general description, with what few details he had about Placzek, hoping something might have been flagged up that would point him in the right direction. Still nothing. Whoever Daniel Placzek was, he didn’t have a criminal record. He decided a more lateral approach might work. He logged out of the PNC and clicked onto the internet. The Met had recently introduced a monitoring system to ensure officers weren’t misusing the internet in work time, but trying to identify the whereabouts of a possible killer was hardly a misuse of his time. He typed ‘Daniel Placzek, Lewisham builders’ into the Google search box. No website came up, suggesting the business was no longer active, but a couple of sites listed the name along with a phone number and an address in Lewisham. Denning tried the phone number but the white noise from the other end suggested the number was no longer active. He wrote down the address: 5 Catford Road, Lewisham SE13.
His team had begun drifting in shortly after he’d arrived at 8:30 a.m. He noticed that Molly Fisher hadn’t turned up yet. So much for trying to make a good impression. He needed to know if there was any progress with the Transit van from the CCTV footage. Someone needed to get onto traffic as a matter of urgency and get it followed up.
A van, a van used by a builder…?
He was about to head out of the office when Trudi Bell grabbed him. ‘It’s about Molly,’ she said, her face tight with tension. ‘She’s had an accident.’
Chapter Fifty-Seven
Molly rubbed the bruise under her left eye. It still felt sore to touch. The harassed young doctor who’d treated her in A&E last night told her there would likely be a mark there for a good few weeks. She’d tried not to grimace when he’d told her.
But there was no serious damage. A blood test had shown that she was slightly anaemic. That, combined with a lack of fluid intake over the past couple of days, had resulted in her dizziness. She’d been advised to rest and take things easy, and make an appointment with her GP for the next day.
Her remaining memories of the previous evening were still slightly hazy. It seemed Jon had phoned for an ambulance as soon as she’d hit the deck. She half-remembered him staying with her in the ambulance, sobbing his apologies for how he’d treated her, for lying to her, and for being a general shit. He’d offered to stay with her once they’d reached the hospital, but she’d asked him to call Trudi. To his credit, he had. Trudi had arrived fifteen minutes later, full of concern, and throwing recrimination at Jon.
Some strong painkillers and a good night’s sleep had helped. Although she still felt sluggish this morning, she felt confident enough to head into work later.
And now she was waiting. Counting the slow-moving minutes with a mixture of apprehension and self-doubt.
Her voicemail was clogged with messages from Jon: a heady brew of further apologies and promises to change his ways. He begged for another chance and wanted her to move back in. But she needed time to think about where her future lay and whether Jon was going to be a part of it. In her heart, she didn’t want to end it, but there was so much to consider.
She checked her watch again. Another hour and she could take some more ibuprofen.
It was another warm and sunny day. The heat showed no signs of abating. The forecasters said it could last for another week, with a possibility of thunderstorms in the south. There was already talk of hosepipe bans, and the supermarkets were running out of bottled water. Molly had spent a number of years living with her father in Sydney, where hot summers were par for the course and rarely made the news.
‘That looks nasty.’ Molly looked up. Silhouetted against the sun, Magda Kilbride was dressed in her standard garb: black Levis, black boots, a black and grey striped blouse and, despite the heat, a black gent’s blazer. The silver dagger brooch was on her right lapel. Her voice was emotionless. It reminded Molly of the voice at a self-service check-out dispassionately informing you that there was an unexpected item in the bagging area.
‘I wasn’t sure you’d come,’ Molly said. She’d been surprised when Mags had agreed to meet her so early; there was something about Magda Kilbride that made Molly think she wasn’t a morning person.
Mags sat down next to her. They were sitting on a bench in Hyde Park, overloo
king the Serpentine; sunrays dancing brightly on its surface. It was early, and the park wasn’t busy: a couple of joggers and a dog-walker were the only other people she’d seen since she’d got there.
‘What do you want this time?’ The voice was still cold, devoid of anything faintly human. But Molly didn’t care. She no longer feared Magda Kilbride and her little bottles of poison.
‘I want to tell you you’re a bitch. And I wanted to say it to your face.’
Mags laughed, not the usual half-cackle/half-bray that signified her amusement, but a rather forced titter. She pushed her sunglasses onto her forehead and Molly noticed her eyes were bloodshot. She suspected Mags was on some sort of comedown from the night before.
‘You could have texted me to tell me that. You don’t need to drag me out here to tell me something I couldn’t give a shit about.’
‘I’ve been digging around, Mags. You’ve got a pretty colourful past: arrested for drug-dealing when you were seventeen; cautioned for assault when you were twenty, possession of cocaine six years ago. Then there’s the soliciting. Don’t get me wrong, we’ve all got a living to earn, and Christ knows I’m not one to judge, but it’s a bit of a career change from hooker to journalist.’
The journalist’s face remained impassive. ‘What can I say? I’m a woman of many talents.’
‘And then there’s the real reason you were sacked from the Echo. A costly libel case concerning a story about a pop star and a rent boy, which you as good as admitted in court had been nothing more than a product of your disturbed imagination.’
An elderly cyclist in a Panama hat smiled as he passed them. To the casual passer-by they doubtless looked like nothing more than two friends having a morning catch-up.
‘Is that all?’ she said. ‘I thought you were at least going to mention Jon. I mean he’s the real reason you’re here. I expect you’ve worked it all out about me and him: that little brain of yours whirring away like a demented hamster on its wheel, trying to connect all the dots; finally realising Jon’s been playing you for a fool all this time. I take it he’s responsible for that.’ She jabbed a finger at Molly’s cheek. ‘Well, get it off your pathetic chest then. Have a little rant. And try and find something more original to call me than a bitch, for Christ’s sake. In my line of trade, that’s practically a compliment.’
‘Why did you do it, Mags? Why did you give that story to the Echo? You knew we were trying to keep it quiet.’
Her blood red lips made a little moue. ‘How did you know it was me?’
‘I was obviously meant to think it was Jon, but he wouldn’t do that. He might have the morals of a dog but, like a dog, he values loyalty. This was the work of someone bitter. Someone who enjoys stirring shit simply because she likes watching people squirm.’
Mags made a noise that sounded like ‘Pah’. She turned to face Molly, the sun bouncing a searing glare off her shades. ‘Jesus. You only know about Ferguson because I pointed you in the right direction. If it hadn’t been for me you’d still be struggling to find your own backsides with two hands. You owed me, and I always collect.’
‘I owe you jack shit, Mags. I should arrest you for disclosing confidential information about an ongoing police investigation to a third party.’
She laughed again, still not quite her usual animalistic ejaculation, but with more conviction than the previous lame titter. ‘You are having a joke, aren’t you? I’m a bloody journalist, it’s my job. Besides, this isn’t schedule D or anything, and there’s nothing to suggest this information isn’t in the public interest. Besides, some hack would have put two and two together sooner or later. Three murders, all within a few weeks of one another. The press aren’t stupid, you know.’
‘Later would have suited us.’ She shot Mags a sharp look. ‘You’ve jeopardised a major investigation, and for what? To try and split up me and Jon? If that’s the case, then better luck next time. Not that there’s going to be a next time, because if you try anything like that again, we’ll come down on you like a ton of bricks.’
‘When will you get it into your thick skull? I couldn’t give a stuff about you and Jon. He’s nothing to me. He was a rubbish shag then and I expect he still is now. We only got it together back then because we were both in a bad place at the time. Trust me, I wouldn’t have gone near the twat otherwise.’
‘And vice bloody versa, I’m sure.’ Molly stood up. She’d had enough. She had said what she’d come to say. Now she’d find a café, buy some water and take another two painkillers. Then she’d head into work and do her job. ‘I feel sorry for you, Mags. I have a job I love, a man I love and a life I love. What have you got?’
She turned to leave.
‘Before you rush off on your merry way, you ought to know: I’ve been doing some digging myself.’ She waited a second, just enough to let the words sink in. ‘I know all about you, DS Fisher. I know what’s driving your obsession with Anthony Ferguson.’
Molly stopped in her tracks. She wanted to turn back and face Mags, but she wasn’t sure if she could stop herself from punching her in the mouth. Instead, she decided to walk away. But she could still hear Mags shouting at her back. ‘I know the truth, and I think it’s time DI Denning did too.’
Molly was trembling as she walked. She hurried her step until the voice became too distant to hear. She hated Mags, but she hated herself even more. Hated herself for being naïve and trusting. Of course Magda had given the story to the press: that was the main reason she’d agreed to meet Molly in the first place. She’d as good as admitted that: the tape recorder on the table had been evidence of her intent. But Molly, blinded by her own crusade, had ignored the implications.
She needed to find some water and take the ibuprofen; something to numb the pain.
Chapter Fifty-Eight
Catford Road was a mixture of residential properties, shops and office blocks in south east London. Denning had been based in Lewisham when he’d first joined the Met over ten years ago. Back then the area was still trying its damnedest to resist all and every attempt at gentrification. Poor transport links had always made parts of south London less appealing to the professional classes, but the inexorable upward movement of London house prices, combined with the extension of the DLR had seen the area become more desirable. As a result houses once divided into tiny bedsits had since been returned to their original purpose as family homes and once dingy pubs had been transformed into trendy gastro pubs. Smart, sparkly estate agents offices had replaced betting shops and convenience stores along Lewisham’s High Street. It wasn’t quite Shoreditch, but it was getting there.
The space where Daniel Placzek’s builder’s yard used to be was now occupied by a second-hand car showroom. Denning was casually admiring a three-year-old BMW convertible on offer at a very respectable £14K when a ferrety-looking man in a neat grey suit approached him with a cheesy smile. He had sandy blond hair, which was cut slightly too short for his long face. ‘Only one previous owner. Sold it when she relocated to Japan.’ He shook Denning by the hand. ‘We offer credit, if you’d like to take it for a test drive.’
Denning flashed his warrant card. ‘Tempting, but I’m here on business.’ He watched the man’s face drop. ‘I understand this site used to be a builder’s yard around twelve years ago. Just wondering if you know what happened to the bloke who owned it.’
He blinked at Denning for a couple of seconds as though unsure what he was talking about. ‘Before my time, mate. But you could ask the owner, Mr Jackson. He’s popped to the bank, but he should be back in about half an hour.’
Denning looked at his watch: it wasn’t worth driving back to Stoke Newington then schlepping all the way back down to Lewisham. He spotted a coffee shop across the road.
‘OK, I’ll come back at eleven. If you could let him know I’d like a word.’ He handed the man his card, who stared at it, as though it would give him the answers to all the mysteries of the universe.
Chapter Fifty-Nine
Tr
udi looked up from her desk as soon as Molly walked into the MIT suite.
‘What are you doing here? I told Denning you wouldn’t be in today.’
‘Where is Denning?’ Molly asked, ignoring Trudi’s concern.
‘He’s gone to Lewisham to follow up a lead.’ She grabbed Molly’s arm. ‘You should be at home with your feet up watching Loose Women.’
Molly was aware of the bruise on her cheek. Aware, too, that people were looking at her.
‘I’m fine,’ she lied. Besides, she’d rather saw her own head off than watch Loose Women. She looked around the office. ‘I need to speak to Denning. Do you know when he’ll be back?’
Trudi shrugged. ‘I dunno. You could text him if it’s urgent.’
Molly thought about it. She was certain Mags was bluffing about contacting Denning, and even if she did, would Denning believe her? It was unlikely, but she couldn’t take that risk.
She put the thought out of her head and switched on her PC. Since the story had appeared in the press, the other media had run with it. Consequently, the team were now inundated with calls and emails, some from people who thought they had important information that could help with the case, but many from cranks who simply wanted to share their theories about how the murders were the work of everyone from Jack the Ripper to Dirty Den. They all had to be checked, even the crank calls. It was time-consuming and it was frustrating.
She wanted to do something useful.
There were still hours of CCTV footage to pore over. The white van that had been spotted on the bridge over the canal at Hoxton had been traced as far as a junction with Green Lanes and Collins Road, just before Clissold Park to the north of Islington. The trail had gone lukewarm after that. She clicked on Google Maps, and typed in ‘Collins Road, N5’. The map showed a maze of residential roads and side streets connected with Collins Road, all with little or no CCTV coverage. To anyone who knew the area it would be the ideal place to lose a vehicle.
Know No Evil Page 26