by Linda Coles
Amanda didn’t wait to be beckoned in. “Sorry to intrude,” she started, “but I thought you'd like to know the news.”
Japp stared at her over the top of his half-rimmed reading glasses like she had just woken him from a deep sleep. Jack wanted to rub his eyes for him. He also wanted to slap him around his jowly face. No one ever went to Japp's office uninvited unless it was important. Surely he knew that.
“What is it, Amanda?” he said gruffly.
“We have the pathology results, sir. I wanted to talk to you in person rather than on the phone.”
Japp glanced across at Jack, who’d invited himself in and was stood next to Amanda. Since there was only one chair on the visitor side of Japp's desk, he let Amanda take it by offering it with an open palm hand. She shook her head lightly preferring to stand in front of the man. He was less intimidating that way.
“What's the damage?” Japp said, taking more of an interest.
“Well, that's just it, sir. Damage is probably the right word for it.”
“What are you talking about, Amanda?”
“Well, sir, first of all, DI Dupin is not responsible for the death of Callum Parker. Without going into all the gory details, the pathology reports state that it was the actual car accident that caused a brain hemorrhage. I'll get the official report to you so you can read it in full, but basically the punch that Dupin threw was not the cause of death. He is in the clear.”
Japp sat back in his fancy leather chair; it squeaked and groaned in protest. He took his glasses off and rubbed the bridge of his nose, looking as if he was trying to get his head around what Amanda had just told him. Eventually he spoke. “Well, that is good news. Thank you. Good news, indeed. I guess we can all rest easy again.”
“Will you tell DI Dupin, sir, or shall I?”
“No, I'll tell him. It's only right. Send me the report, though. I don’t doubt the press will be hounding us.”
“If I may, sir,” Jack began. He waited until Japp glanced his way.
“Yes, Jack? What is it?”
“I thought I should mention… The doc reckoned that the family will want another autopsy. They’ll think there's a cover-up, judging by the reaction we've had from them so far. So you are aware, sir.”
Japp put his head in his hands, his elbows resting on his desk in front of him.
“Is there ever any good news?” he said.
“Dr Mitchell is certain in her work,” Amanda said. “Always has been. You know what she's like—I’s dotted T's crossed. She had specialists take a look at Parker's brain and between them they’re certain his death was not caused by a smack on the chin. If there is another autopsy, she'll be present anyway, because that's what happens. So let them request another autopsy: it will come back with the same result. Let's wait and see. Right now, getting Dupin back to work and moving forward is the important thing.”
“I've been in this game long enough, Amanda, to know that the family won't take this lying down. But we’ll be ready, because it sounds like the facts won't change, and while it's sad that they won't be able to point the finger, nothing will bring their boy back.”
Japp folded the report he’d been reading before they walked in and slipped his glasses back into their case. “Right, then. I'm off to give the good news to DI Dupin.” He got to his feet, making his leather chair groan again. Perhaps if he lost a pound or two, Amanda thought.
“Do you want me to accompany you, sir?” Amanda asked, hoping the answer was no.
“No, thank you, Amanda. I'm quite capable of telling him myself.”
“Sir,” said Amanda, for the sake of acknowledging him. She glanced at Jack and they both turned to exit his office swiftly, leaving Japp fumbling for something behind them. Without looking back, they headed straight to their desks and busied themselves with paperwork and emails until they were sure he’d left his office.
When he was safely out of the way, Jack rolled his chair across the carpet towards Amanda's desk and pulled alongside. “He’s such a stiff old dick,” he said with annoyance. “The guy just never smiles.”
Amanda was replying to an email and replied distractedly, “Some folks are just like that, and I guess he's one of them.” She carried on typing.
“Do you remember the movie Good Morning Vietnam, with Robin Williams in it?”
“Hmmm?”
“There's a scene in it where Williams is getting frustrated at his grumpy general or whoever it was, and before he walks out of the man’s office he turns and says to him something along the lines of ‘I've never met anyone more in need of a blow job than you.’”
Amanda raised her head and burst out laughing. “How do you remember such things, Jack?”
“Because I'm saving that saying for one day when I dare myself to use it.”
“Well, may I suggest DCI Japp is not the man to use it on. I daresay it wouldn't go down too well, and early retirement without pension could be on the cards for you.”
“It would almost be worth it,” Jack said, waggling his eyebrows. He turned and rolled his chair back to his desk, chuckling as he went. He glanced at the time on his computer screen; it was almost 5 o'clock. Behind him he could hear Amanda gathering her things to leave.
She was almost certainly going to be late for the flat-warming.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Amanda was running late, as usual. She’d contemplated driving over to Fulham, but since Ruth’s dad’s flat-warming wasn't far from a tube station it made sense to let the train take the strain, to quote an ancient TV advert. She’d dashed home, dumped her work gear and changed into a slightly more casual outfit of cotton cargo pants and a raw silk shirt, with a pair of chunky heels. A light application of lipstick and some extra gel rubbed through her blonde locks and she was ready to rumble.
“It'll have to do,” she said to the mirror, not entirely satisfied with what was staring back at her. She grabbed her bag again, checked for her sunglasses and headed out the front door to her car, which she would leave at the train station car park. Since it was gone 5.30 pm already, there was no way she’d be there for six.
Once on the train, she dialled Ruth. The carriage going north back into London was almost empty, so she didn't feel bad about having a conversation in a public place and being overheard. Ruth was used to her being late; it came with the territory.
“Hi, hun,” she said. “Are you on your way here?”
Ruth never gave her a hard time about her long hours and the things that invariably cropped up at inopportune moments; again, it came with the territory. It was how Amanda’s life had been since she’d joined the force and no doubt would continue to be. She had her eyes set on becoming a DI in the not-too-distant future.
“I’ve just got on the train, so I’ll be there in about forty minutes if I manage to time the District line connection right. Are there many there already?”
“I got here early to give Dad a hand. Actually, the place is packed. It's a good job there's a patio outside for the overspill.”
“Any sandwiches? I'm starved. I bought one for this afternoon, but we ended up back at the morgue. I think I must have left it there.”
Amanda could hear Ruth chuckle down the phone.
“Little nibbles, I'm afraid, but I'm sure I can make you a sandwich on the sly if you're that desperate. Dad won't mind. Anyway, I should go and mix and mingle, so I’ll see you when you get here. It's a good job you've not driven. I don't think there's anywhere left to park.”
“Right. I'll see you when I get there then,” she said, and ended the call.
The train rattled alongside the ends of the skinny back gardens of houses in Croydon; the tumbledown wooden rear fences of the properties all looked the same. Overgrown brambles, discarded traffic cones, and several supermarket shopping trolleys dying on the embankment gave Amanda something to gaze at as cookie-cutter towns whizzed by and bled into each other.
She could see her own reflection if she focused her eyes on the window g
lass in a certain way. It was kind of eerie, almost ghostlike, watching grass banks fly by with an overlaid, stationary image of herself. It reminded her of the movie Girl on the Train.
The rattling journey to London Victoria took only 20 minutes. She stepped out of the carriage and headed down the platform towards the tube station and the District line. Droves of people were still headed home, back south where she’d come from, and once again she was glad she wasn't part of the daily commuter community, the herd of bored faces on the train to and from work every day. They all looked the same: men and women, all in dark suits with pale shirts, briefcases in hand.
She navigated stairs and escalators until she found herself on the correct tube platform to get to Fulham Broadway station. From there to Brompton Park, where Gordon Simpson's soirée was being held, was only a couple of minutes’ walk.
The tube journey from Victoria to Fulham took almost as long as the train journey from Croydon, though with far less to see. The underground tube was one of those places that you tolerated—dirty, hot and dusty no matter what the weather was doing outside—but it was part of London life, of getting around quickly. She settled into her seat and, with nothing in particular to keep her attention, pulled out her phone and surfed the BBC news site. She was not one for Facebook; she saw it as a waste of time, and with precious little downtime in the first place, she wasn't about to spend it on trivial nonsense. So, while Ruth did her crossword puzzles or played word games on her own phone, Amanda like to keep up to date with what was going on in the real world.
A headline caught her eye: it seemed the press knew the autopsy results already. How could that be?
Family ‘Scream Blue Murder’
Amanda doubted it had taken the reporter long to dream that one up. The ‘boys in blue’ insinuation used instead of actually saying; ‘Cop Cover Up.’ She scrolled the page down with her fingers, curious about what the article would say, though really, she had a fair idea, given the headline. It was nothing that they hadn't predicted might happen. But it was another distraction that the team didn't need right now, not to mention more fuel to elevate DCI Japp’s stress levels. She wondered who had leaked the story. Had it been Callum’s parents, or had it been the fiancée? She wasn’t aware that they even knew the results as yet, and couldn’t see Japp dropping in and telling them.
Given Jack's observations about Melissa Ross—the flighty set of bagpipes—Amanda suspected she’d been the one to throw the match in the jerry can. But still, how did she know if it was indeed her? Jean and Brian Parker were more reserved and too busy grieving to have so much anger. Melissa, on the other hand, seemed more upset at losing her planned inheritance now the wedding was off, and as crass at that seemed, it was plausible. She had a reason to stir things up. Amanda wondered if Callum had had a chance to make a will; it probably hadn't been something he’d thought much about in his short life. Not many young people thought about their own deaths and what they would like to happen to their bodies and belongings after they died.
No doubt now, though, that there would be a second autopsy, and even though Amanda knew Faye Mitchell's work was always accurate, it wouldn’t be fun to have someone doubting it and asking for a second opinion. From their conversation earlier, though, Faye knew it would be coming; it was to be expected and was nothing unusual. And she’d attend. What happened next would depend on what the second pathologist found. She pitied Dupin and wondered about the strain he was under. Japp would have told him the good news by now, of course, and he would think he was in the clear, but this article would mean the worry would no doubt recommence. And there was still his disciplinary hearing to deal with. At the end of the day, Dupin had hit a man while off duty.
As the tube pulled into Fulham Broadway station, Amanda gathered her things and made her way to the door, waiting for the train to come to a complete standstill. The station was like a giant garden shed, with natural light streaming through the glass roof. It gave the station a less closed-in feel than some of the others on the District line. Add a truckload of plants and it could look like a greenhouse. The familiar automated warning to mind the gap sounded in her ears as she made her way out and across the platform towards the stairs, and back out up to the high street. She wanted to take a deep breath, but the air above ground wasn’t much different than below it. London never stood still, not for a moment, and the street was packed with people heading home or heading out for something to eat.
Her stomach rumbled. She could smell cheap, hot pizza and greasy hot dogs as she set off for her father-in-law’s place.
Chapter Thirty-Three
By the time Amanda had walked up Seagrave Road, it was almost 6.30 pm. But no one ever arrived at a party on time, so she didn't feel too bad. His new flat was in a nice part of town with plenty of green trees and wide-open pavements; Stamford Bridge stadium was almost spitting distance away. It was a pity Gordon Simpson didn't support Chelsea; he was a Crystal Palace fan through and through and had been for many years.
The big iron gates of the of the smart residential development where he’d chosen his flat were open; cars had been parked up and down the street. Amanda hadn't realised Gordon Simpson was so popular; he’d always struck her as a bit dour. Maybe singledom suited him. The gentle hum of conversation interspersed with male laughter and the clinking of glasses greeted her as she entered the ground floor flat. Frank Sinatra was singing lightly in the background, though she doubted if anyone had noticed. It wasn't a big flat, but it suited one person; Amanda had no trouble in locating Ruth. Her height and her heels made her relatively easy to spot in the small kitchen, and Amanda made a beeline for her.
"I'm not too late, and I didn't have to wait long for a tube connection," she said breezily.
"And you're here now. Shall I make you a sandwich and then you can relax?” Amanda nodded gratefully. “Grab yourself a drink, then, and I’ll meet you outside on the patio,” Ruth said, taking charge.
"You're a lifesaver. I'm famished."
Ruth nodded to where the drinks were out on display in the opposite corner of the kitchen and watched as Amanda poured a glass of wine for herself, took a long mouthful and topped it back up.
"Steady on. You'll not make the evening out if you carry on like that. Bad day, was it?" Ruth called. She was busy buttering bread and adding cheese from the fridge.
Amanda looked sheepish; god, she must have looked desperate. "On the contrary, actually, so call it a mini-celebration. It seems Dupin is in the clear, which is great news, but I don't think it's the end of it—not yet.”
"How so?" asked Ruth adding salad cream and cutting the sandwich in two. She arranged the halves on a tiny plate.
"The family won't accept it, I'm sure of that, so we’re expecting a second autopsy. It just means it drags on a while longer and causes more unrest for everybody, but more so for Dupin."
Ruth handed the sandwich over and nodded towards the open back door. Amanda took it outside onto the patio to eat in private and wind down a little. Ruth joined her a moment later, her own glass of wine in hand. Amanda had already devoured one half of her sandwich in the few seconds since leaving the kitchen.
"Don't give yourself indigestion by stuffing it in," Ruth admonished her. “It’s only a sandwich you're eating, not the Crown Jewels.” Amanda visibly slowed down her eating; she didn't want to be embarrassed if anyone saw her.
"Look, you stay here and eat that, and I'll go mix and mingle. Come out when you're ready,” Ruth said, smiling. Amanda nodded with a mouthful of food and watched Ruth glide off back into the main room, where most of the housewarming guests were sipping and chatting.
Ruth caught her father’s eye and he silently mouthed the word ‘Okay?’ She nodded, and Gordon went back to the conversation he was having with a man who looked like any other commuter who had arrived to a drinks party straight from work. Corporate. Navy-blue. She glanced around the room and noted just a handful of women, many of whom looked like they belonged in Gordon's office
by day, the obvious place he’d know them all from. Ruth didn't know anybody at all in the room, only Amanda and Gordon, but as a businesswoman herself, she didn't find a room full of strangers daunting. Scanning the room, she eventually spied someone who wasn't deep in conversation with somebody else. She summed him up. He wasn't dressed like the rest; he was much more casual, in jeans and a T-shirt. Ruth estimated him to be about 20 years younger than Gordon was. Intrigued, she wondered how the two knew one another—unless the guy was a gate-crasher, or a new neighbour.
Or another long-lost child created up the toilet wall in a Croydon nightclub. Like she had been.
Figuring he could probably do with some conversation, she made her way across and introduced herself.
“Hi, I'm Ruth, Gordon's daughter.”
"And I'm Liam," the stranger said, putting his hand out to shake. "I sit next to Gordon as a season ticket holder at Crystal Palace." Ruth nodded. Liam had a welcoming smile, with eyes that matched it, and was clean shaven. A small but deep pink scar about an inch long on his chin caught her eye, and she wondered how he’d got it. Liam followed her gaze and had an answer ready for her before she asked the question.
"An old soccer injury," he said. "I got kicked in the face and a boot stud cut me.”
"Sorry—I didn't mean to stare. That sounds painful. I thought football was a noncontact sport?"
“It's okay. And yes, you’d think soccer was a noncontact game with all the daft new rules, but it really isn’t. Far from it, in fact, though not as rough as rugby. But our university team could get a bit rowdy at times, and our opposition often took their opportunities—and my chin was one of them.” He flashed his smile again as Gordon approached them from behind Ruth's right shoulder. He leaned in to give Ruth a peck on the cheek.