by L. A. Larkin
Placing the ring back on her finger, Wolfe leaves the bathroom and passes Casburn talking in hushed tones. She searches her desk for anything missing. Everything appears as she left it. Through the French doors, the lawn is a meadow of tall grasses, the patio overrun with weeds. Never mind, she tells herself. I’ll deal with it in the spring. At the far end of the garden are four lime trees that have been a source of rows between her and her neighbour at the back. He wanted her to cut down the trees for no good reason and, when she’d refused, he’d tried to cut them down himself when she was at work. Daisy had phoned her. Not only did Wolfe have her neighbour arrested for trespassing, but she also wrote a piece for the Wandsworth Guardian with the headline, ‘Secret Tree Mutilator’. Shortly afterwards, the man sold the house and moved away.
‘Okay,’ Casburn says, startling her, his call finished. ‘You’ll know whatever I’m at liberty to tell you, as long as it doesn’t jeopardise our investigation.’
‘Ah, weasel words. I’m guessing you won’t be at liberty to tell me much at all.’
Casburn knows better than to answer. ‘The name?’
‘Kabir Khan. Afghani living here. She called him Da’ish. Plans to bomb London. That’s all I know.’
She watches his face. Does he recognise this name? He blinks once. In all the time she has known him, she hasn’t yet discovered his tell. No twitch, no tugging at an ear, no looking down or clenching his hand. She’s often wondered what kind of man is hidden behind such a controlled exterior, a man so mission-focused that nothing else matters.
‘Address?’
‘I don’t have it.’
‘Your other informant?’
‘Arrest me, Dan, or leave. I have work to do.’
‘I’ll get it. One way or another.’
Wolfe ignores him.
‘O’Leary still have your spare key?’
Wolfe’s head jerks up. ‘Yes. What of it?’
Casburn shakes his head. ‘She’s not reliable. Any one of her johns could’ve taken your keys and made copies. If that threat on your door is from Lalzad’s men, you need to take your security seriously.’
‘Daisy’s okay.’
‘I strongly urge you to get your locks changed and give your spare key to someone more responsible.’
‘Don’t judge Daisy by her job.’
He sighs. ‘Lalzad has a bounty on you. Want my advice? Go to Antarctica and leave Lalzad to the professionals. You understand?’
‘I’ll do my job and you do yours.’
He stops chewing and looks as if he’s going to argue. Instead, he heads down the hall. ‘I’ll see myself out.’
Wolfe turns her back to her desk and peers at the photos arranged on her wall. One is missing. Bottom row. She touches the vacant spot.
‘No. It can’t be.’
Casburn is back in the room. ‘What?’
‘The photo of Nooria Zia is gone. Of when she was in Kabul’s women’s jail.’
‘So?’
‘Someone’s taken it.’
‘Come off it, Olivia. Lalzad’s thugs aren’t interested in pictures.’
‘You think I’m lying?’ Wolfe is surprised at her sudden fury.
‘I think you’re jumping to conclusions.’
‘Please go.’
She walks him to the door and opens it. She won’t look him in the eye.
‘Why is it so important to you?’ he asks.
‘It’s like somebody is trying to obliterate her memory.’
8
Sweat pours down Wolfe’s temples as she pounds the red punchbag at her local gym. Established in the late eighties in an old Balham warehouse, with industrial fans hung from steel crossbeams and frosted glass windows that do little to remove the pervasive smell of sweat, its equipment is basic, the changing rooms even more so. Wolfe wouldn’t have it any other way. The ‘fancy-pants brigade’ in their state-of-the-art coordinated gym gear goes to a new club up the road offering TVs, hairdryers and skinny cappuccinos. All Wolfe wants to do is get in, do a workout and get out. Only two others are using the equipment, both regulars. With her back to the entrance, she senses a new arrival.
‘What’s got you so worked up?’
His distinctive voice is deep and hoarse, as if he is recovering from laryngitis. A reformed smoker, his twenty-a-day habit has probably done more to wreck his voice than the Under Twelve Boys’ soccer team he used to coach, or all the suspects he’d yelled at over the years.
‘Casburn,’ she answers.
Wolfe grunts as she rips another punch to the bag. It swings and she grabs it, ready to give it another blow.
‘I see,’ he says, chuckling to himself as he takes long, steady strides in the direction of the bench press, a towel draped over his neck.
‘What’s so funny?’
‘Some things never change,’ he says, shaking his head. ‘And if you’re aiming at the kidneys, go higher.’
Wolfe pauses, panting, and stares at the retired detective chief superintendent of London’s Homicide and Serious Crime Command. In his mid-fifties, Jerry Butcher has coarse, sandy, cropped hair, and a pale craggy face, as deeply etched as ancient sandstone.
‘Didn’t expect to see you at this time of day,’ Butcher says, glancing at the wall clock. It’s eleven thirty.
‘Needed to let off steam.’
‘Then why don’t you spar with me?’ he asks.
‘Maybe. If you avoid my face.’
Butcher leads her to a corner where thick rubber flooring delineates the martial arts practice area. He has studied kali stick fighting in the Philippines and Brazilian jiu-jitsu, and developed his own self-defence system using everyday objects, teaching classes Wolfe attends when she’s in town.
‘I hear you defended yourself well in Kabul.’
‘Not so well,’ she replies, gesturing towards the painful bruise across her left cheekbone and eye. ‘But it was two against one.’
Her feature in the Post doesn’t mention the attack on her, but there’s no need to ask how he knows about the assault - Butcher keeps in with his buddies at the Met and has a network of informants to rival hers.
He gives her a quizzical look.
‘I haven’t seen you this worked up in a while. What’s going on?’
‘Moz wants me off the Lalzad-Isil story.’
‘Perhaps you’ve lost perspective?’
Wolfe blinks twice. Butcher has a way of making confrontational remarks with such calm, his tone so reasonable, that it wrong-foots her every time.
‘Possibly.’
‘So what has Moz moved you on to?’
‘Murder and espionage in Antarctica. It could be something big, or nothing at all. I leave in the morning. But I can’t shirk the weird feeling Moz wants me out of Lalzad’s reach.’
‘Has it occurred to you he’s sending you to Antarctica because you’re the best person for the job? I don’t see Moz as the motherly type.’
Wolfe laughs. ‘Nor do I.’
‘Come here a sec.’
He takes her in a hug. Wolfe tenses. If anyone other than Butcher had done this, she would have felled him. Instead, she relaxes in his embrace, listening to his steady heartbeat. Because that’s what Jerry Butcher is: a rock. Calm, no matter the situation. One reason why he made chief super. Emotional involvement in a case never blinded him, never interfered with his judgement. Level-headed in a crisis. She closes her eyes. He doesn’t talk or move. He doesn’t care if others at the gym are watching, drawing the wrong conclusions. When she’s ready, she pulls back a fraction and his arms fall away.
Opening a metal cupboard, Butcher hands her a fencing mask and some padded fingerless bag mitts, and takes some for himself. They put them on, then each takes a sixty-six centimetre bamboo cane, moves on to the rubber flooring and faces each other, sticks raised.
‘Remember,’ Butcher says, ‘the stick is an extension of your hand. If you want it to strike me in a particular place, move your hand there.’
They nod at each other and begin.
Wolfe brings her cane down fast, but not quite Jackie Chan. Butcher blocks it with his stick. She tries a different angle but he knocks her arm away, then goes on the attack. Their movements are a blur, cane cracking against cane. When she goes for a low swipe, he grabs the tip of her stick with one hand and slams his cane down hard on her stick’s mid-section with the other. Her grip loosens a fraction and Butcher rips it from her hand and throws it to the floor.
‘Less anger, more focus.’
Undaunted, Wolfe uses the underside of her forearms to block his cane from connecting with her upper body, then aims a punch at his throat. Butcher smacks her fist away with his hand.
‘Nice move,’ Butcher encourages.
They spar for a few more seconds until Wolfe knocks Butcher’s stick out of his hand. They now exchange punches, circling each other.
‘Take a break,’ Butcher says, and they stop.
From the metal cupboard, Butcher removes a fake plastic pistol, grips it in both hands, raises it so it points at her face, and walks up to her. Wolfe puts her hands up in surrender. When the gun is only a foot from her face, she uses her raised left hand to push the weapon diagonally across her body and downwards so it points to the floor. Then, with her right hand, she pretends to gouge Butcher’s eyes with two fingers. Butcher feigns pain and is distracted while Wolfe uses her left hand to twist the pistol from his grip. Taking a couple of steps back, she aims the gun at Butcher.
‘Great work,’ Butcher says. ‘Fancy lunch? It’s been a while.’
Wolfe checks the time.
‘Sure. Our favourite?’
Butcher takes a swig of Cobra beer, then stabs his fork into a dish of beef vindaloo, rolls the meat in some pilau rice and shoves it into his mouth. Wolfe takes a bite out of a dosa. This crepe-like dish has made the Bombay Palace on Tooting High Street a London landmark, despite the shabby décor. Wolfe is facing the restaurant’s glass-fronted entrance. Condensation drips down the windows. Butcher sits opposite her, his back to the door. The narrow restaurant of orange walls and brown floor tiles is jam-packed with customers seated at cheap pine tables. A few rubber plants line one wall, determined to survive despite an absence of decent soil.
‘So how are Chris and Alex?’ Wolfe asks.
Her hair is still wet from her shower at the gym and drops fall on to the neckline of her hooded sweatshirt.
‘Chris has a conditional job offer. One of the big banks. He hasn’t done his final exams yet. But his tutors think he’s heading for a first, so he should be fine.’
‘And Alex? Still enjoying criminal law?’
‘Seems to. He’s got a new girlfriend. A solicitor. It must be serious because they’re already talking about buying a flat.’ He gazes over her shoulder at the slatted swing doors leading to the kitchen and shakes his head. ‘He’s only twenty-two and already has his life mapped out. When I was his age, I had no sodding idea what I wanted to do. I certainly wasn’t thinking of getting a mortgage.’
‘You sound disappointed?’
‘No, no. Nothing like that.’
‘So what’s up?’
Butcher shifts on the hard wooden chair. ‘We’ve been lucky, we know that. It’s not easy having a dad in the police. I guess it’s, you know, they never let their hair down. Never played truant. Never had wild parties. Sometimes I think they’ve missed out on life.’
‘No disrespect, Jerry, but how do you know? I mean, how many parents actually know everything their kids get up to? Come on! For all you know, Chris could be indulging in drunken orgies. Isn’t that what they do at Oxford?’
Butcher smirks at the idea. ‘Guess they get their sensible streak from their mother.’
‘How is Emma?’
‘Well, thanks.’
‘So, been keeping yourself busy?’
She spoons some spinach and potato sag aloo on to her plate.
‘Yeah, the odd bit of security consulting, you know.’ Butcher drops his fork with a clink on the plate. ‘I could be busier.’
‘You mean they don’t need you? Emma has her tennis and ladies’ lunches, the boys have their own lives, and you don’t have a murder squad to manage any more.’
Butcher smiles. ‘Something like that. I’m used to being busy. I miss it.’
He helps himself to some of her dosa. She tries playfully slapping his hand away but he’s too quick.
‘Still think you’re being watched?’ Butcher asks.
Wolfe tells him about the missing picture and the threat, spray-painted on her door. Butcher puts down his knife and fork and gives her his undivided attention.
‘Casburn reckons it’s Lalzad trying to frighten me.’
‘I hear Casburn’s made DCI. Don’t underestimate him, Liv, just because he was a soldier.’
‘Oh believe me, I don’t.’
‘“YOU WILL PAY” could be Lalzad’s thugs and the theft of Nooria Zia’s photo is an obvious way to rattle you.’ Butcher sucks in his lips, thinking. He leans back and crosses his arms. ‘Let’s recap. Six months ago you first thought you were being followed?’
‘Yes, but I could never single anyone out. Just put it down to the jitters.’
‘Then nothing until today?’
‘Well, not quite.’
‘Go on.’
‘Shit, Jerry, this feels like I’m at the cop shop.’
He doesn’t respond. She knows exactly what he’s doing - waiting for her to fill the silence.
‘About a week before I left for Kabul, I came home and there was an imprint on my duvet, as if somebody had lain there. I just thought I hadn’t made the bed properly.’ She shrugs. ‘Then weird things happened to my computer diary. Meetings disappeared. Luckily I have a good memory, so I didn’t miss much. And, before you say it, no, I didn’t delete them by mistake.’
‘Go on.’
‘On the day of my flight, I realised one of my diamond stud earrings was missing. I turned the flat upside down. Couldn’t find it. Because only one was missing, I thought I must’ve knocked it to the floor and vacuumed it up, so I emptied the vacuum and combed through the dust, but found nothing.’
‘Who gave them to you?’
‘Davy. When I was fourteen. On the day he left for the Army.’
‘I see.’
‘Those earrings mean a lot to me.’
‘I know they do. We met not long after. Remember?’
How could she forget? Butcher led the raid on the shared house she lived in. She was hiding under the bed when he entered the room, his pace unhurried, his large-sized polished lace-ups suggesting he was a tall man. Downstairs, doors were being kicked in, people were screaming, glass exploding. ‘It’s all right, miss, you can come out now,’ he’d said, his tone soft and reassuring. She’d frozen, so he’d kneeled on all fours. ‘No need to be frightened. Give me your hand.’
Lost in the memory, Wolfe doesn’t hear Butcher’s question. He clicks his fingers to get her attention.
‘I said, why didn’t you tell me this before?’
His already lined brow is now etched with deep furrows.
‘Because . . . oh, I don’t know. I thought I must’ve dropped it.’
‘Knowing how meticulous you are, I’d hazard a guess you haven’t. A thief takes two earrings, not just one of a pair.’ He pauses. ‘When did you last change your locks?’
‘I haven’t. Casburn asked the same question.’
Butcher nods. ‘Do it today before you leave and give me a key. I’ll keep an eye on the place. And now you’ve got evidence, report the threat. Make it official.’
‘Ah.’
‘Ah, what?’
‘I cleaned it off. Wanted it gone.’
‘Did you take a photo?’
‘Yes, and Casburn saw it too.’
‘That’s enough to work with. I’ll come with you to Wandsworth nick.’
‘I don’t have time, Jerry. I’ve got a medical at two and I can’t join the BAS team without pa
ssing it. And I’ve got to prepare for the trip.’
‘BAS?’
‘British Antarctic Survey.’
‘How about I call a locksmith I know? He’s actually an ex-con. Straight now. He owes me a favour.’
He pulls out his wallet and puts a twenty on the table. She adds two tens and a tip. They leave.
‘Put a suspects’ list together,’ says Butcher.
Wolfe glances at him and collides with a man smoking just outside the door. She apologises, then bends to massage her knee.
‘Still giving you trouble?’ Butcher asks.
‘Always will.’ A torn meniscus injury that never fully healed.
As they walk down Tooting High Street, Wolfe considers her suspects’ list.
‘Apart from Lalzad and anyone who works for him, how about Judge Simms, or should I say, the retired Judge Simms? He’d gladly have me hung, drawn and quartered. Then there’s former MP Simon Redmond - the paedophile who murdered a twelve-year-old boy at one of his sex parties. Oh, and any of the four soldiers found guilty of rape in Iraq. One of them threatened to cut my throat—’
‘What about someone you come into contact with more regularly?’
‘Nails would love to see me fail.’
‘Who’s Nails?’
‘Eric Lowe. Works for the tabloid UK Today. We’ve been competitors for years and he’s a nasty piece of work.’
‘I know that name. Was he involved in the News of the World phone-hacking scandal?’
‘Sure was. Got off, mind you.’
‘Ever threatened you?’
‘He’s told me to fuck off and die a few times, but I don’t think he actually meant die.’
‘This may not be about revenge. What about someone you’ve rejected? Angry ex-boyfriend; someone who’s asked you out and you’ve refused? One-night stands who wanted more?’
As they weave past people on the crowded pavement, they are forced to separate by a woman pushing a pram. When they come together again, she looks askance at him. ‘Do you really want me to answer that?’