The Killer

by Susan Wilkins

  ‘Yeah, come in.’

  The door opened, Paul filled the doorway and in his arms he was holding a little girl, about four years old, with a mop of coppery curls. ‘Got someone here who’s dying to meet you. This is Lacey.’

  He put the child down and she trotted over to the bed. Beaming at Kaz, she held out a folded sheet of paper. ‘We made a card.’

  ‘Wow. Thank you.’ Kaz looked at the front, a bright felt-tip picture of the house. Inside, ‘welcome to our home’ was written in an adult hand with ‘Lacey’ underneath in large carefully formed letters.

  ‘I can write my name.’

  Kaz gazed at the little girl, who was brimming with smiles and confidence. ‘I can see that. You’re really clever, aren’t you?’

  ‘Gets it from her mother, not me.’ He stroked the soft curls. ‘Go and see if Mummy needs any help while I have a chat to Auntie Kaz.’

  Lacey turned on her heel and scampered out. Rafaella’s voice could be heard shepherding the child down the stairs.

  Paul pulled up a chair. Left alone with him, Kaz felt uncomfortable. She was still wearing the hospital gown. ‘You have a lovely family.’

  ‘I been very lucky.’

  An awkward silence descended as he sat down and they looked at each other. The last time Kaz had seen him he was nineteen. Ten years on and he was bigger and broader, but it was muscle, not flab. She remembered her father’s fury when he’d found out about them. Terry Phelps had ignored her pleas, knocked her aside and then kicked the shit out of Paul. She doubted that would be possible now.

  But his grey eyes were the same, vigilant and camouflaged by the easy smile. ‘How you feeling? I said to Rafaella maybe we should get a doctor to come and have a look at you. We got a private bloke, he’s very good.’

  ‘No, I think I’m all right.’

  ‘I was worried last night. But you’re looking a lot better this morning. Darius is a good lad; he does bits and pieces for me. When I heard about the fire I told him to keep an eye on things at the hospital. Though if I’d guessed those bastards were gonna try anything else . . . Anyway, you’re safe now.’

  Kaz raked her hand through her hair. It felt dry and brittle. She knew she looked a fright. ‘After what the old man did to you, I’m surprised you’d wanna help me.’

  Paul chuckled. ‘He was a complete bastard, your dad, no two ways about it. But he taught me a lot.’

  ‘They set you up. To get rid of you. You know that, don’t you?’

  He shrugged. ‘I served two and a half of a five. Toughened me up, I reckon. When I got out I was planning to pay him a visit. But then Joe came looking for me and I realized he hated the old bastard worse than I did. We always got on, me and your brother. Then a couple months later, Terry had his stroke.’

  ‘Joey never told me you two were back in contact.’

  ‘Lot of water under the bridge. I was running things in Ibiza when you got out. And I’d just got married.’ He gave her a sheepish look. ‘Joe thought you might be a bit miffed. He wanted to break it to you gently.’

  Kaz laughed. ‘Ten years is a long time. A lot of water under the bridge for me too.’ She wondered what he’d make of her relationship with Helen. Would he be shocked? ‘And anyway, we was only kids back then.’

  ‘Yeah.’ He relaxed visibly.

  ‘She’s really lovely, Rafaella.’

  He grinned. ‘She is. Done me good, having her and Lacey to focus on.’

  ‘Looks like you done all right for yourself.’

  ‘Business is pretty good.’ He interlinked his fingers and gave her a wary look. ‘Joey got a bit lairy . . . well, you know that. All the killing. Macho stuff, just plain stupid. I told him it had to stop and, truth to tell, we fell out over it.’

  ‘I told him too. That’s why I ended up testifying against him.’

  ‘Don’t reckon you had a lot of choice, mate. But I don’t think he held it against you. He was full of contradictions, your brother.’

  Kaz felt a sudden constriction in her throat. Even though Joey was gone, he still haunted her. She swallowed hard to stop them but the tears welled and ran down her face. ‘Thing is, Paul, he was killed because of me. He was trying to help me.’

  Paul got up, came and sat on the bed. He took her hand. ‘I didn’t know that. But it don’t surprise me. I went to see him in the nick. All he talked about was you.’

  ‘It’s my fault he’s dead.’

  He drew her into his arms and the relief she felt was overwhelming. ‘No, it ain’t, babes. Joey was Joey. He went his own way, no matter what. But he loved you.’

  She felt his hand stroking her hair. It was so soothing and seductive; the years that divided them fell away. It had been a long time since a man had held her like this. All her recent relationships had been with women. But that didn’t seem to matter now. Gay or straight, she’d always regarded these categories as meaningless. She wanted him to love her again, to love her and keep her safe. If only she could rest here, cradled in his strong arms, forever.

  34

  Nicci Armstrong had spent the entire weekend holed up in her flat. September was drawing to a close and London had become drab and drizzly and autumnal. She was trying to cut down on her alcohol consumption – she only allowed herself a glass of wine in the evening now – and for most of the two days she’d watched movies and pigged out on chocolate. So what if she turned into a fat blob? Tom Rivlin wouldn’t have looked twice at her anyway, and that was before she’d pissed him off by withholding vital information about Karen Phelps.

  She tried not to think about what had happened to Karen. Having learnt that it was the Kemals who were after her she could have decided to make herself scarce. If they had taken her, then it was down to Essex police and the Met to find her. There was little that Nicci could do.

  Monday morning found Nicci in a sober but sullen mood, heading into town on the bus. She had a job, for the time being, and all she could do was get on with it. If the death of her daughter had taught her anything it was how to soldier on. One foot in front of the other. Don’t think about anything too much. Survival was a choice and Nicci knew that.

  At the offices of Simon Blake Associates everything seemed normal. Alicia was on reception, the cyber geeks were at their desks, Pascale gave her a smile and asked if she’d had a good weekend. Eddie had his feet up and was reading the Sun.

  Nicci noticed that Blake’s door was closed. She went and tapped on it and received a peremptory instruction to come in.

  Blake was at his desk wearing a solemn face and a serious suit. She hadn’t seen or heard from him since the previous Thursday evening when he was taken home drunk by his wife.

  ‘Morning.’ He looked up at her over his glasses and his stern expression suggested that the slew of questions she wanted to ask would not be well received.

  ‘Morning.’

  ‘Thank you for sorting out this new security contract.’ He held up the document he’d been perusing. ‘Turki bin Qassim could turn out to be a valuable client.’

  ‘Who is he, apart from rich?’ Nicci found it hard to keep the sarcasm out of her voice.

  Blake simply blinked at her. If anything, he had a hunted look and that made Nicci feel bad for being adolescent about the whole thing. After all, they were in the security business and all the individual clients were rich.

  She forced a smile. ‘We were recommended by a Mr Karim. Do you know him?’

  Blake’s gaze was inscrutable. ‘By repute.’

  Pulling off his glasses he rubbed the crease between his brows; there was hesitancy in his manner. Maybe he did want to confide in her? It was on the tip of her tongue to ask about McCain. Was he a spook, as Eddie Lunt had suggested?

  ‘Simon, I don’t mean to be arsey. I only want to help—’

  The offer seemed to galvanize him, but he brushed it aside. ‘Heather says I should apologize to you for my gross behaviour, and I do.’

  ‘I don’t need apologies. I’d rather you just told m
e what the hell was going on.’

  ‘And when there’s something you should know, I will.’ The tone was harsh and brooked no argument. He was stepping back into boss mode.

  His gaze – an aloof glare – held hers for a moment, then he replaced his glasses and looked down at the contract. ‘Turki bin Qassim buys property. For himself and members of the Qatari ruling family. He’s related in some way to the Al Thanis. He could put a lot of business our way if he likes us.’

  The rebuke stung, but Nicci was determined not to react. The fact he was being such a testosterone-driven knob fuelled her concern. This wasn’t the Simon Blake she knew.

  Rising from the desk, he buttoned his jacket. ‘Anyway, I thought I’d come over with you this morning and introduce myself.’

  Nicci said nothing. She’d been presuming that her new career as a rich woman’s minder would start today. She simply nodded and followed him out of the room.

  Blake was anxious to impress their new client so they took a taxi to Mayfair and got out in Mount Street. The Qassims’ house was a five-storey red-brick mansion. Steps led up to a portico with two standard bay trees in tubs either side of the double front door.

  Staring up at it for a moment, Blake became uncharacteristically hesitant.

  Nicci gave him a caustic look. ‘What are we supposed to do? Use the tradesmen’s entrance?’

  ‘Probably, but what the hell.’

  He walked confidently up the steps and pressed the polished brass bell.

  The door was opened by a maid with rudimentary English, who kept them waiting in the hall. A sweeping staircase wound up the centre of the house in a spiral. On a marble-topped table, which matched the chequered marble floor, sat an enormous vase of roses and lilies. Nicci found the scent oppressive. Her former in-laws had insisted on a wreath of lilies on Sophie’s coffin. Ever since then, Nicci had hated the flower.

  After five minutes Turki bin Qassim came up from the basement, in sports kit, dabbing sweat from his face with a towel. ‘Good morning. Mr Blake, I presume?’

  The ex-cop inclined his head and held out his hand to shake. ‘Good morning, sir. I think you already know Ms Armstrong.’

  ‘Of course.’ Qassim gave her a languid smile. ‘My wife is sleeping. Still a little jet-lagged, I think.’

  Blake tried to look concerned. ‘I wanted to come over and introduce myself and to say that, if you wish to discuss any aspect of your wife’s security, I am of course always available.’

  ‘Good to know, Mr Blake. I don’t anticipate any problems. London is such a convenient and comfortable city. I enjoy spending time here.’

  Qassim turned his attention to Nicci. ‘I don’t know what Ayisha’s plans are today. The maid will make you some coffee and you can wait in the kitchen.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Qassim.’ Nicci had already decided that she wasn’t calling him sir.

  He inclined his head. ‘If you’ll excuse me.’ The conversation was obviously over and he disappeared down the stairs to the basement.

  Nicci and Blake exchanged looks. Blake shrugged. ‘Seems a reasonable bloke.’

  For the next six hours, as she sat on a stool or paced around the pristine kitchen, Nicci thought of a lot of names for him but reasonable bloke wasn’t one of them. She wasn’t used to this kind of boredom.

  The maid was young and rather nervous. She didn’t respond to Nicci’s attempts at conversation. To entertain herself, Nicci surfed the Net on her phone, wandered around the ground-floor rooms, all palatial and formal, sent an email to her mother, which she’d been meaning to do for ages, and watched the hands travel all too slowly round the kitchen clock.

  In the back of her mind she continued to brood about the disappearance of Karen Phelps. The more she thought about it, the more frustrated she felt. Simply doing nothing was not an acceptable option. In desperation she called Eddie Lunt.

  She heard the front door slam and watched Turki bin Qassim through the window as he slipped into the back seat of a chauffeured black Mercedes. She ventured into the vast basement, discovering the gym, a fifteen-metre pool, a Jacuzzi and sauna.

  The maid prepared her a sandwich for lunch and didn’t appear to understand when she asked if Mrs Qassim was up yet. Shortly afterwards a delivery arrived from an exclusive Mayfair restaurant: a lunch hamper, which the maid carried upstairs.

  Around four o’clock Turki bin Qassim returned. He came into the kitchen and frowned. ‘Oh, Ms Armstrong, Ayisha won’t be needing you today. You can go home.’

  Nicci had to make a supreme effort not to show him how pissed off she was.

  The maid appeared and hovered. He addressed her without making eye contact. ‘A glass of iced water.’

  She scurried to the fridge. Qassim turned back to Nicci as if he was surprised to still see her.

  She fixed him with a direct stare. ‘Will your wife require a bodyguard tomorrow, Mr Qassim?’

  He accepted a glass of iced water from the maid, again without any eye contact, and took a sip. ‘Yes, be here at nine. And it’s more convenient if staff use the side entrance. The maid will let you in.’

  ‘It would be even more convenient if I had the door code.’

  He seemed to consider this. ‘Okay, she can show you.’

  ‘Does she have a name?’

  ‘Maria, is it?’ He gave the girl a quizzical glance. ‘The Filipino ones we usually call Maria.’

  Nicci had already located the side gate. She gave him a nod, turned on her heel and walked out. The young maid trotted after her and tapped the entry code into the gate lock.

  Simply stepping into the street felt like liberation to Nicci. Her brain squirmed with dark fantasies. Maybe she’d get lucky and some random terrorist would nab him or, better than that, perhaps his car would break down and he’d be exposed to the indignity of travelling on the tube.

  She’d had days in her life when she’d felt wretched and she’d been on lengthy stakeouts where she’d got extremely bored. But those two feelings had never come together at work before. She couldn’t quite fathom why the experience had riled her so. She’d had plenty of shitty jobs in her youth. As she strode down Mount Street, past the elegant shops, she wondered whether she could even do this. But, even though he was being snotty with her, she’d made a promise to Blake to help keep SBA afloat, and she wasn’t about to break her word just because some smarmy rich git thought he could treat her like a servant.

  35

  Two DCs on the surveillance team had worked all day Saturday and into Sunday to complete the analysis of the ANPR footage. They tracked both the white transit filmed on CCTV at the hospital and also any dark panel vans in the area at the time of the funeral. According to a witness, Glynis Phelps, this had been the type of vehicle used as a covered hearse by the funeral directors. Tom Rivlin, who had worked most of the weekend himself, had them email a copy of their report for him to study on the Sunday evening.

  The white transit had been easy enough for them to trace, but it had been dumped and torched the same night on some wasteland near Epping Forest. The van was a rental and, first thing Monday morning, Rivlin dispatched a DC to question the hire company and chase the paperwork, though he wasn’t hopeful of the outcome. The Kemals were far too savvy to leave any evidence that could be linked to them. Rivlin’s guess was that the van would’ve been hired by a stooge using forged documents.

  Identifying the funeral directors’ vehicle had involved a far more detailed analysis, combining CCTV footage with ANPR data on all main approach roads leading to the church at around the time of the funeral. The country lanes in the immediate vicinity didn’t contain any cameras and the volume of traffic on the A12 that Wednesday morning had been heavy. But they’d finally managed to narrow it down to a plain black Mercedes panel van, which entered the area shortly before noon and hit the A12 again at speed and driving erratically a little over an hour later. The vehicle was registered to a firm of funeral directors who had premises off Lea Bridge Road in Walthamstow. />
  Rivlin took all the intelligence gathered to the Monday-morning briefing. He’d lined up the home address of the sole proprietor of the firm, Mrs Sheila Mabey, whose website billed her as ‘a caring lady funeral director with a reputation for her sensitive handling of clients’ needs at a difficult time’. Rivlin proposed a dawn raid with armed backup to put the fear of God in Mrs Mabey and persuade her to cooperate.

  DCI Stoneham leant forward in her chair and steepled her fingers. She’d said nothing to Rivlin so far about the failure to protect Karen Phelps at the hospital.

  ‘Armed backup, Tom? For a lady funeral director? Really?’ The sarcasm was unmistakable. He’d been expecting some kind of comeback and here it was. A rap over the knuckles in front of the whole team. They were all watching goggle-eyed, and some would be privately pleased that golden balls – a nickname he didn’t appreciate – had fallen from grace.

  ‘A precaution, boss. Mrs Mabey could just be a front. We don’t know what we’ll be walking into.’

  Of course he was right to be cautious; he was also sure that, ordinarily, Stoneham would’ve agreed. But that wasn’t really what this was about. The DCI turned to her left. There were over a dozen officers sitting round the conference table, including a new face.

  Stoneham gave the young woman a smile. ‘This is probably a good time to introduce DS Amy Raheem from the Met. She’s going to be embedded with us and handle liaison with the Met for the duration of this investigation.’

  All eyes turned to focus on the interloper. Raheem lounged in her chair, legs crossed, a blank but attentive expression on her face. She didn’t return Stoneham’s smile and gave no sign of being at all bothered by the sudden scrutiny of a dozen strangers. Rivlin had noticed her wandering through the office earlier. Glossy brown hair swept up into a bun and a cropped suit jacket over tight denim jeans, she looked on the young side for a DS.

  Stoneham’s gimlet eye moved back to Rivlin. ‘Where’s this funeral director live?’

  ‘Walthamstow. Two doors down from the funeral parlour. Area looks a bit scuzzy on streetview.’