The Killer

by Susan Wilkins

  Nicci sighed. ‘Some might say drugs are an escape.’

  Kaz gave her a withering look. ‘No shit, Sherlock. Don’t you want out from time to time? One drink too many? A little holiday from reality? But it’s still a choice.’

  ‘Point taken.’ Nicci couldn’t help smiling.

  ‘I was a stupid kid. They sent me to jail. I got no quarrel with that. You do what you do and you face the consequences. But I’ve served my time, Nicci.’

  ‘Technically not until your licence expires.’

  ‘My brother reckoned it was all a game, one with different rules for different people. He just refused to play by the rules set down for slags like us.’

  ‘Sounds like you admire him.’

  ‘I loved him. And I hated him. But he was one clever little fucker.’

  ‘Not clever enough to stop himself from getting killed.’

  ‘Part of him couldn’t have given a toss if he lived or died. Death or glory, that was Joey.’ She leant forward across the table. ‘But I’m not like that. In case you haven’t noticed, I’m bricking it. You know what prison’s like. Inside, you can arrange a hit for the price of a fucking mobile phone. If they send me back, I’ll be found strung up to some shower rail. Just another suicide.’

  Nicci was aware of the burning intensity of the other woman’s scrutiny. She took a breath. ‘As I said before, you’re in shock. And I’m sure the prison authorities will take measures—’

  ‘They ain’t got the staff or the inclination. I’ll be another fucking statistic. I don’t wanna guilt-trip you, but you owe me, Nicci.’

  ‘Thought you said we were even.’

  ‘What about Helen? And that mate of hers, the bloke from the Labour Party who went under the tube train? Don’t go all cop on me and say this sort of thing doesn’t happen in England, ’cause you know full well it does.’ Nicci could see the moisture gathering at the corners of the dark eyes. ‘Help me. Please. They put me back inside, I’m dead meat.’

  5

  ‘Quite a performance. She deserves an Oscar.’ Tom Rivlin was waving a tenner at the barman and finally managed to catch his eye. ‘Pint of Guinness and . . . ?’ He glanced at Nicci.

  ‘Glass of Pinot Grigio, thanks.’

  ‘Make that a large glass, mate.’

  Nicci thought of objecting but it had been a long day and she didn’t have the energy to be coy. They were in an Irish-themed gastropub in Brentwood High Street, surrounded by gaggles of thirsty office workers and a few of Rivlin’s colleagues.

  Nicci watched the DI slide an oversized glass of wine along the bar towards her and collect his change. He seemed a rather unlikely Guinness drinker.

  As they settled themselves in a quieter corner booth she found herself checking his left hand. No ring. But that didn’t mean a thing and, anyway, why was she even looking? She’d decided she didn’t like him.

  Rivlin had an agenda, that was clear enough. But Nicci knew it wasn’t personal. He was possibly a year or two younger than her and he was already a DI. Young, white and male, that was still the main predictor for success in the job. Add to that his energy and drive and it was obvious he was going places.

  He took a sip of his beer. ‘So what’s life like as a private investigator?’

  ‘Frustrating.’ She wished he’d dispense with the small talk and get on with it. They were there to trade. But she needed him to make the opening gambit.

  He smiled. ‘Smart move, some might say. Won’t be long before half the job is privatized. We’ll have a few noddy cops in uniform as first responders and anything specialist’ll be farmed out to outfits like yours.’

  ‘I didn’t become a private investigator by choice.’

  ‘Did you not?’ He gave her a sceptical look. ‘Get into one of these security companies on the ground floor, collect your share options and bonuses. Mate of mine is thinking of it, reckons it’ll make him a millionaire.’

  Nicci’s mind went back to Blake; he’d had the same dream. Now he was struggling to keep his head above water. ‘I thought we were here to talk about Karen Phelps, not career opportunities for today’s police officer.’ There was swingeing sarcasm in her tone, she couldn’t help it.

  The DI chuckled. ‘Sorry. Didn’t mean to ruffle your feathers.’

  Annoyed that she’d allowed herself to be needled, Nicci twisted the stem of her glass. The bowl was beaded with moisture from the chilled wine. ‘I’m guessing you want your firm to retain the lead on this case.’

  ‘That would be nice. But if we’re chasing Russian spooks I’ll be lucky, won’t I? The Met or even the NCA, they’ll get it.’

  ‘From my experience of Cheryl Stoneham she’s not going to want to hand over the reins to the Met.’

  ‘She’s also not going to be happy to let Phelps go.’ The smile was teasing. ‘That’s what you’re angling for, isn’t it? “You owe me, Nicci.” Isn’t that what Phelps said to you? Ex-cop beholden to a villain? Bit iffy, some might say.’

  His tone was jokey, almost flirtatious, but she knew he was baiting her. She decided to play it straight and ignore his game.

  ‘What if her fears of what might happen to her in prison are not entirely unfounded?’

  Rivlin shrugged. ‘Come on, let’s not be melodramatic. If the threat is real, special arrangements can be made. Our jails are not as lawless as the media would have us think.’

  ‘They’re not particularly safe either. The DCI thinks Phelps lied to her, that’s why she’s pissed off. And she’s covering her own arse.’

  ‘She’s covering the Chief Constable’s arse, which is her job. And my job is to cover hers.’

  Nicci couldn’t help a wry grin. ‘It’s easy to see why you’re climbing the greasy pole at a rate of knots.’

  ‘Maybe I’m just clever and hard-working.’ His eyes were blue but the hair was dark and slightly curly. A Celtic connection perhaps, which might explain his taste in beer. He also exuded pheromones, which Nicci was doing her best to ignore.

  She met his gaze. ‘Okay, officer, you’ve got me sussed. You know what I want. What do you want from me?’ She took a mouthful of wine.

  ‘An Albanian shooter hired in for the occasion? Someone has gone to trouble and expense. The Met have let me access their inquiries relating to Joey Phelps and I’ve read everything that’s on the system. But you know yourself, stuff gets left out for all kinds of reasons. My job is to gather intelligence, so what I’m in need of is the real inside track.’

  ‘I’ve already told the DCI what I know. Presumably she’s given you the gist.’

  ‘You feel loyalty to the Met, that’s understandable.’

  Nicci guffawed. ‘You’re joking!’ She wondered what Stoneham had told him about her; maybe nothing. But suddenly it mattered that she was someone more than the cop with a dead kid who went off the rails. She opened her palms. ‘Look, whatever you want to know, ask me. I do want to help.’

  ‘Why would some Russian billionaire want to kill a British MP?’

  ‘The best theory we came up with was that he was collecting assets. It wasn’t about Helen Warner, he was just using her to get leverage over Robert Hollister.’

  ‘And Hollister could’ve ended up Home Secretary. Pretty heavy stuff. But you say the Met wouldn’t touch it?’

  ‘My understanding is they were told to leave Pudovkin alone.’

  Rivlin lounged back in his seat and rubbed his chin. ‘So Hollister gets arrested, which means our Russian billionaire has gone to all that trouble for nothing. Then to add insult to injury some gangster tries to kill him.’

  ‘It was a revenge attack because he had Helen Warner killed. Once he finds that out, he’s got a plausible motive for the churchyard.’

  The DI sipped his drink, wiping froth from his lips with an index finger and thumb. ‘Which brings us back to Karen Phelps.’

  ‘I know her a lot better than Stoneham does. Is she a danger to the general public? No.’ Nicci leant forward. ‘What she is, is your best lead
. She blames Pudovkin for the deaths of two of the most important people in her life. I’d let her run and see what happens.’

  Rivlin shook his head and grinned. ‘You lot in the Met, you’re cold-blooded bastards, aren’t you?’

  ‘I’m not in the Met any more. But I’ll still take that as a compliment.’

  ‘Stoneham’s my boss. I go against her, she’ll have my balls in the wringer.’

  Nicci gave an arch shrug. ‘Well, we wouldn’t want that.’

  ‘But . . .’ The dimples on his cheeks danced. ‘It’s not actually her call. Revocation of Phelps’s licence is down to the probation service. I don’t know who’s dealing with it. But, with the current reorganization, the local office is in some chaos.’

  ‘The work’s being split, isn’t it? Eighty per cent to private companies.’

  ‘Preferred bidders just announced. I know someone who works there. They’re not a happy crew. Might be worth your while to pay them a call?’

  Nicci knew he was dangling a solution under her nose and she knew why. He was a canny bastard and no mistake. All the same, maybe she should go with the flow. Why the hell not?

  6

  The taxi crawled in a diesel-tainted fug of slow-moving morning traffic down Southampton Row and into Kingsway. The journey from West London had taken an age and, fidgeting in the back, Robert Hollister checked his watch for the umpteenth time. Being late would not create the right impression; he should have taken the tube. During his time in the Shadow Cabinet he’d made a point of using public transport at least once a week or, occasionally in good weather, riding to Westminster on his bicycle. But the purpose of those jaunts had been to be seen and photographed, an ordinary bloke on his way to work, a man with whom the voters could connect. Back then he’d enjoyed being recognized and accosted. Now all he craved was privacy and invisibility.

  Since the police had charged him with unlawful sex with a minor, his glittering political career had collapsed around his ears. The party had dumped him without a second thought. Expelled from the Shadow Cabinet the day he was arrested, his constituency party had begun proceedings to deselect him less than a week later. So much for innocent until proven guilty.

  What had followed was a thorough and sustained media beasting. His character and reputation had been ripped to shreds. Women he’d fucked half a lifetime ago, secretaries and researchers whose names he couldn’t even remember, had slithered out of the swamp to call him a rapist and sell their stories to the Sun. Even a high-class hooker who operated on the Westminster beat had claimed him as a client – which was patently ridiculous; he’d never had to pay for it in his life. There was a reason why Private Eye had dubbed him ‘Rob the Throb’ and people, usually women, often commented on his resemblance to a young George Clooney.

  Instructing the cabbie to drop him just past Holborn tube he took a deep breath and stepped out onto the pavement. Dark suit, silk tie, leather briefcase, he looked like any other middle-aged lawyer as he turned the corner and strode briskly down Remnant Street and into Lincoln’s Inn Fields.

  The firm of solicitors who’d represented him initially were high profile and expensive enough but as the weeks had passed, with him hanging in limbo awaiting his trial date, he’d begun to feel they were dragging their heels. Then Henry, an old pal from Oxford, now a tax lawyer worth millions, had advised him to go to Isabel Merrow.

  Isabel Merrow QC had been a prosecutor and a very senior lawyer in the CPS. But rumour had it when she was passed over for promotion she got in a snit and took a lucrative job with a leading defence firm. The offices of Smith Khan Caldwell occupied a listed building in a Georgian terrace and Hollister was ushered into a pleasant high-ceilinged conference room, with a partial view of the square, at ten thirty on the dot. He was relieved to have made it on time. Merrow was already seated at the heavy oak table. She got up, offered him her hand and introduced her junior.

  Being represented by a woman wouldn’t have been Hollister’s instinctive choice, but in the circumstances he knew it was a sensible move. Over the years, he’d worked with plenty of female colleagues and that was fine as long as he had the seniority and the power. Women in charge made him feel awkward. Of course nowadays he would never dream of admitting such a bias. But he was a red-blooded male in the prime of life with a healthy sexual appetite; if he encountered an attractive female he’d prefer it to be in the bedroom, not the boardroom. This was normal and natural and what most men thought, if they were honest.

  Merrow was in her early fifties, a bit long in the tooth for his taste, but slim, well preserved and elegantly turned out.

  She fixed him with an unnervingly direct look. ‘Well, Mr Hollister, an unpleasant few weeks for you, I gather.’

  As he settled in his chair he presented her with his ‘aw shucks’ little-boy look; it tended to do the trick with most females. ‘What can I say? They were out to get me and they have.’

  ‘And they are . . . ?’

  ‘Hard to say precisely who’s behind it. A security firm set up the sting.’

  The QC rested her glasses on her nose and peered down at the open file in front of her. ‘That would be Simon Blake Associates?’

  ‘Can you believe it: they used an ex-con. Released on licence.’ He gave her a confiding smile. ‘Karen Phelps? Don’t know if you caught the news this morning. But apparently she was involved in a shooting yesterday at her gangster brother’s funeral. So you can see the kind of people we’re dealing with.’

  Merrow nodded. ‘Well, she’s rather irrelevant at present as the CPS are not proceeding with the charge that you sexually assaulted her. Although she is a witness to your supposed confession.’

  Hollister sniggered. ‘And who’s going to believe someone like her? Anyway, the recording was doctored. We’ve already got two experts ready to testify to that.’

  ‘Let’s talk about the historic charge of unlawful sexual intercourse with a minor. Tell me about your relationship with Helen Warner.’

  Hollister frowned, focused his gaze on the table in front of him and took a moment to compose himself. Then he looked up and met the lawyer’s eye directly.

  ‘Helen’s suicide is the most terrible tragedy and I do blame myself. It’s the one thing in this whole sorry mess of which I am undoubtedly guilty.’ He blinked several times and wiped his palm across his face.

  ‘Guilty in what way?’

  ‘I’m not a saint, Ms Merrow. I’ve never pretended to be. And I’ve not been a faithful husband. Political office puts you in the way of myriad temptations. When I ended my affair with Helen I thought I was doing the right thing for both of us. I never dreamt for one moment that she’d be so upset as to take her own life.’

  Hollister dipped his head. The only sound in the room was the tap-tapping as the junior took notes on a laptop.

  When Hollister finally raised his gaze he found the QC staring straight at him. Her expression was unreadable. He judged his performance to have been credible; her manner remained frosty, but lawyers were like that. What mattered was whether she would live up to her reputation and get him off.

  She sighed and laced her fingers. ‘First things first: the facts. How old were you and how old was Helen Warner when you first met?’

  With an earnest puckering of the brows he gave the question his full consideration. ‘Honest truth is I’m not sure. I went up to Oxford when I was nineteen. Charles Warner, Helen’s father, became my tutor in my second year. But you know the system, as an undergraduate you’re just one of many. It was only when I became a postgraduate and Charles supervised my thesis that I got to know him better.’

  ‘So how old were you when you met his family?’

  ‘Possibly twenty-two.’

  ‘And Helen was twelve years younger than you, so that would make her ten?’

  ‘I don’t really remember her at that age. All I remember is kicking a football round the garden with her little brothers.’

  ‘Helen wasn’t a footballer?’ The lawyer’
s tone seemed neutral but was there a hint of irony? Hollister couldn’t be sure.

  ‘I think I probably first noticed Helen when my girlfriend, Paige, started to babysit for them.’

  ‘Paige subsequently became your wife?’

  ‘Helen adored Paige. Some years later she was a bridesmaid at our wedding.’

  ‘So you knew Helen Warner as a child and, in spite of her affection for your wife, you had a long-term affair with her as an adult?’

  ‘We were young and back then, you must remember how it was, things were far more laissez-faire. I think we’ve turned into a nation of puritans.’ He gave Merrow a winsome smile; she didn’t respond, so he ploughed on. ‘You’re probably going to ask about all the lesbian stuff. Okay, Helen had a female partner. But she got tied up with feminism at a time when they were peddling the notion that lesbianism was a political choice.’

  ‘So you’re saying heterosexuality rather than lesbianism was her secret? That’s somewhat unusual.’

  He noticed that the lipstick she wore was scarlet though her lips were thin and pursed, turning her mouth into a narrow red gash. Maybe she was a rug-muncher herself? She was a humourless old bag, if that was anything to go by. Hollister tried to remember what Henry had said about her. He might’ve mentioned a husband.

  ‘I can only say how she was with me. She certainly kept coming back for more.’

  The QC removed her glasses. He got the impression she was rather bored.

  ‘Here’s the bottom line, Mr Hollister. A politician is accused of historic child sexual abuse. In the current climate, the police and the CPS must be seen to take this seriously. The public interest here is clear and does not operate in our favour. That leaves us with the question of whether there is sufficient evidence to provide a realistic chance of conviction. The victim is dead. The only version of events that we have from her prior to her death is from a private discussion with a senior police officer in which she claimed she was fourteen at the time of the offence. She did not specifically name you, but your identity can arguably be inferred. This is hearsay, however. Is it likely to be admissible? That may depend on the other evidence. And what other evidence is there? A somewhat outlandish recorded confession, which, as you say, can be discredited on forensic grounds. Helen’s mother is also dead. Charles Warner’s statement is that he had no knowledge of the alleged offence and doubts it took place. Which leaves us with Paige, your estranged wife.’