She took a breath and held it.
‘Kate.’
‘Okay,’ she said.
She stared for a moment at a sprinkling of sugar crystals on the table. ‘Marta made a call on her mobile the night she died. Around the time she was in the restaurant.’ She focused on those sugar crystals like she meant to count every grain. ‘The number was traced to a detective constable on the Drugs Squad – a Gary Parrish.’ She shook her head as if she couldn’t believe what she was telling them.
‘DC Moran just found out that Detective Sergeant Renwick deliberately held up the mobile phone check,’ she said. ‘And Renwick was on the Drugs Squad when Snowstorm went down.’
For a while nobody spoke. Josh sat slightly back from the table, watching them both from under his lashes.
‘You think Marta was acting as a go-between?’ Fennimore asked.
‘What else could she be doing with two drugs squad cops – one of whom we know for sure is bent.’
He couldn’t deny that.
‘Will you take it to your boss?’
‘Not until I have a clearer picture,’ Simms said. ‘I’m waiting on a translation of Marta’s voicemail messages.’
‘So what do we think,’ Fennimore said, ‘blackmail?’
Josh looked doubtful. ‘Go against the police and a drugs cartel? She’d have to be crazy.’
‘Okay,’ Simms said. ‘What’s your best guess?’
‘Sticky fingers,’ he said, without hesitation. ‘A few grams here and there wouldn’t be missed, but if they found out …’
‘No,’ Kate said, ‘Marta wasn’t an addict. She’d have no reason to steal drugs.’
Her mobile phone buzzed, jittering sideways on the table. ‘DC Moran,’ she said.
Fennimore ordered more coffee and some food while she talked.
‘She’s found a translator,’ Kate told them, closing her phone and stealing a few fries from Fennimore’s plate as it arrived. ‘She’s on her way over.’
Twenty minutes later the door opened as a gritting lorry ground past, flinging crushed sandstone and rock salt in its wake, and the café owner made an exclamation of protest. Moran stepped inside quickly and the translator stood back, allowing her to lead the way. He was large and dark, with soft, sad eyes and an apologetic demeanour.
Moran nodded to Fennimore.
‘Professor Fennimore has been advising on the investigation,’ Simms said.
‘The man with no name’s got a name after all,’ Moran said. She turned to the translator, introducing him as Petr and, dragging off a pair of suede mittens as big as bears’ paws, shook hands with Fennimore and Josh Brown.
Moran plonked herself down on a spare chair. ‘There are dozens from English friends arranging to meet for coffee or drinks, wondering where she was hiding out. A few of them mention lectures and group seminars she’s missed. A few from family – Marta missed a kid’s birthday. Petr says transcribing all of it will take half a day, and you need to hear this straight away.’ She dug in her coat pocket for her smart-phone, selected a track from her music player, and switched to speaker.
They heard an older woman’s voice.
‘What language is that?’ Simms asked.
‘Latvian,’ Petr said. ‘She calls her Martina. In Latvian, Martina is diminutive for Marta.’ They listened. ‘She says, “Please, come home. Why must you be the one to do this? Veronika—”’
The woman’s voice cracked, and she seemed to struggle for a moment, her breathing heavy and ragged. Someone said something, and she replied, ‘Ne,’ then the translator took up the dialogue again. ‘She says, “Veronika would not want you to put yourself in danger. Please, please, please, Martina, telephone me.”’ The woman broke down, sobbing, and Petr looked around the table.
Under Petr’s sad-eyed gaze, Kate blinked away tears and cleared her throat. ‘What does that mean – “Why must you be the one to do this?”’
Moran raised her shoulders and let them fall.
‘Anything else we should listen to?’ Kate asked.
Moran said, ‘It’s mostly more of the same. The voicemail box was filled up by Monday, but give me a minute, there is one more thing …’
Fennimore remembered how, when Rachel and Suzie first disappeared, he had filled their mobile phones with increasingly frantic voicemail messages and texts. He hadn’t even wanted Suzie to have a mobile phone. A ten-year-old – it seemed ridiculous – why on earth would she need a mobile phone? But Rachel had insisted, and they had bought Suzie a pay-as-you-go.
While the young detective searched the recorded snippets, Fennimore was dimly aware that Simms was putting together a plan of action, but he was reliving the moment, six days into the search, when they thought they might have found Suzie. It turned out that her phone had been dumped at the side of the A11 in Leytonstone, north-east London. A teenage boy found it, switched it on. He was sitting in his parents’ house, quietly deleting the voicemail messages when a team of twelve armed police burst into the family home.
‘Nick?’
They were all looking at him.
‘Sorry,’ he said, feeling dazed and a little sick. ‘Just zoned out for a minute there.’
She knew – of course she did – Simms could practically read his mind.
‘Ella’s about to play the last section,’ she said.
They heard a male with a strong Mancunian accent: ‘Hiya, it’s Gary. Give us a bell, when you’ve got a minute, yeah?’
‘Gary,’ Simms said. ‘Detective Constable Gary Parrish.’
40
Simms, Brown and Fennimore were heading back to Fennimore’s hotel. Moran would talk to the Latvian embassy in London as soon as it opened in the morning – Marta was almost certainly one of their nationals. Rika was their second line of inquiry; Simms and Fennimore would deal with that while Moran put together a full list of names for incoming and outgoing calls from Marta’s mobile phone. Renwick was not to be told about the calls log. They didn’t want him to tip off DC Parrish. Simms would find a way to make discreet enquiries into Parrish, but she couldn’t do that until the following day.
The A56 was largely clear of snow as they headed north into the city, and they made good progress. Simms’s phone rang; she checked the screen and took a breath before answering. ‘Kieran,’ she said. ‘Hang on while I pull over to the kerb … Everything okay?’
‘It was, until one of your lot fetched up on the doorstep.’
Confused, she ran through the very limited possibilities – most of ‘her lot’ had been reassigned to other operational duties.
‘Who?’
‘Detective Constable Parrish.’
Oh, Jesus. Every nerve ending in her scalp seemed to fire at once. ‘Where is he now?’
‘He’s sitting in the kitchen, drinking coffee, looking like a refugee from some nineties indie band.’
‘Don’t let him out of your sight. I’m on my way.’
She swerved from the kerb, executing a swift U-turn, her wheels spinning on compacted snow on the midline of the road.
Fennimore said, ‘Trouble?’
‘Parrish – he’s in my house.’
‘I’ll call the police.’ He already had his phone in his hand.
She gave a desperate laugh. ‘And say what, Nick? He is the police.’
Two minutes from home, the traffic lights changed against them. Kate Simms jammed her foot on the accelerator. A lorry, fifty feet from the junction on her left, took advantage of the amber light in his favour and kept going.
‘Lights,’ Fennimore said, bracing himself against the dashboard. ‘Lorry!’
She braked, hit a patch of black ice and the rear end of the car glided right. The truck bore down on them, horn blaring. Kate fought with the steering wheel, heart pounding. Josh cursed. She spun the wheel the other way, but the car glided on over the ice, sweeping anticlockwise with the ABS juddering loudly and the pedal pulsating under her foot. The lorry was coming head-on, its grill fifteen feet from the
m, ten, five – filling the windscreen—
The front end of her Mondeo slid past the oncoming lorry, completing three-quarters of the circle as the truck’s huge wheel arch loomed inches from Kate’s side window. Her heart seized.
A sharp crack! and her wing mirror was gone. A thin scream of metal on metal. They braced themselves for full impact.
It never came. The car shuddered to a stop with its nose pointing in the direction of home. The lorry drove on, horn blaring.
Josh muttered, ‘Fuck.’ Fennimore said, ‘Kate …’
‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I’m really, really sorry. But please, don’t speak.’
She took the rest of the journey slowly, agonized by the extra seconds it took, finally turning off the main road onto the narrow leafy lane where she lived. She was out before Fennimore had his seat belt off. Josh was by her in a second.
‘No,’ she said. ‘You stay here.’
She ran up the driveway, slipped and jarred her knee, fumbled her keys from her shoulder bag, but Kieran must have heard the car; he opened the front door, his face dark with anger.
‘You need to sort this, Kate,’ he hissed. ‘I am not about to let you turn our home into an adjunct of your office.’
‘Where’s Tim?’ She pushed past him, her fingers closing on the ASP baton in her bag. ‘Jesus, Kieran, I told you not to let him out of your sight.’
She flung the bag from her and ran for the kitchen, slamming the door wide. Tim was sitting on one of the high stools at the breakfast bar, looking tousled and tired in his pyjamas. Beside him, a scruff with close-cut dark hair and a soul patch between his lower lip and chin.
‘Get away from my son,’ she said.
‘What?’ The man didn’t move.
She flicked open the baton.
‘Woah,’ he said, ‘I’m a cop – Gary – Gary Parrish?’
‘I said get away from him.’
He stood back from the child, raising his hands. ‘Look, I don’t know what you think—’
‘Tim, come over here, sweetheart,’ she said, ignoring Kieran’s protests as he crowded into the kitchen behind her.
Tim climbed down off the stool, and Kate held out her hand. He stared at the baton and she lowered it. ‘It’s all right, darling,’ she said, keeping her eyes on Parrish. ‘Take Mummy’s hand.’
Without turning, she shepherded her son behind her. ‘Go to Daddy,’ she said.
For once, Kieran didn’t question her, or argue. He picked their son up and retreated into the hall. With Tim out of sight, Simms brought the baton up behind her right ear, ready to bring it down hard; break a wrist, an ankle, his skull.
‘Okay,’ Parrish said, ‘Ar-right. I get it – you don’t know who to trust. Neither do I – that’s why I’m here.’ He stood perfectly still, his hands raised, his voice calm and quiet. ‘I’m a detective constable with the Drugs Squad,’ he said. ‘And …’ He hesitated. ‘The girl found behind the city hotel – I think she’s my informant.’
‘Informant?’ Simms shook her head. It didn’t make sense – Marta was moving drugs for Parrish and Renwick.
‘Her code name was Kelly.’
Not very Latvian, Simms thought. But then neither was McKinley. ‘What makes you think she’s my victim?’
‘Kelly phoned me, said she wanted to meet – she had some dynamite intel. Next day, she’s in the wind, misses the meet, and her phone’s off.’ Parrish’s dark grey eyes flitted nervously from Simms’s face to the baton poised over her right shoulder, ready to strike.
‘Sit down,’ she said. ‘Don’t move.’ Turning, she saw Nick Fennimore in the doorway. Marta an informant. This changed everything. Fennimore nodded as though she’d spoken her thoughts aloud.
‘Watch him,’ she said, and went into the hall. Kieran was standing at the foot of the stairs.
Her smile, intended to reassure, felt weak and uncertain. ‘It’s all right,’ she said.
‘No,’ Kieran whispered. ‘It isn’t. Look at your son.’
She stared into Tim’s anxious, sleepy eyes and felt a stab of guilt that almost hollowed her out. ‘I know,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry, Kieran.’
‘You charge in here like a lunatic, frighten your four-year-old son.’
‘Kieran.’ She reached out to squeeze his arm, but he shook her off.
‘Whatever you’re mixed up in, you’ve got to walk away from it. Please, Kate.’
She shook her head slowly. ‘I can’t.’
He stared at her as though he didn’t recognize her, then he turned away and started to climb the stairs.
Gary Parrish was sitting where she’d left him, his arms folded tight, his chin almost resting on his chest. He unfolded his arms when she came through the door, pulled his shoulders back and held her gaze.
‘Tell me about your informant,’ she said.
His eyes went to Fennimore.
‘Professor Fennimore can hear whatever you have to say.’
Parrish hesitated.
‘That’s non-negotiable, Parrish.’
He seemed to debate for a moment, then he shrugged. ‘Kelly’d been passing info to Crimestoppers for a while,’ Parrish said. ‘Usual set-up – anonymous, code number only. Like a guided bloody missile, she was – every tip-off paid out, always. Six months on, she calls, tells them she’s got the “in” with a big supplier; we’re not talking street-corner sellers – she wants to bring the big guys down. Says she wants someone to tell her what to look for – evidentially, like.’
‘Evidentially?’ Simms repeated.
‘Her exact words. And she wanted protection. When Crimestoppers told her they could get her signed up as a confidential informant with the police, she jumped at it.’
‘And you were approached to act as liaison.’
He nodded.
‘When was this?’
‘Two months ago. First few weeks, it was phone contact only. She was careful. She showed up late for our first face-to-face – turned out she’d been watching me from across the street for half an hour.’
‘Describe her.’
‘Knock-out,’ he said. ‘I mean drop-dead gorgeous.’
‘Height, Detective,’ Simms said, giving him a dry look. ‘Hair colour, that sort of description.’
‘Oh,’ he said. ‘Blonde, about five seven, long legs, carried herself like a dancer.’
She looked at Fennimore. The description fitted Marta.
‘Tell me about the dynamite intel.’
‘She worked in a massage parlour – Francine’s. It’s run by two brothers, Sol and Frank Henry.’
‘They’re the suppliers?’ she said. ‘That doesn’t tally with what your superintendent told me.’
He nodded. ‘Our intel was they dibbled and dabbled a bit – just on a recreational level. But Kelly reckoned they were importing and distributing smack on a big scale.’
‘How could they do that and stay clear of the law?’ Simms asked.
‘She told me people who cross the Henry boys disappear or turn up in bits. Literally.’
That would explain why George Howard wouldn’t name the Henrys as his alibi. A glance towards Fennimore said he was thinking along the same lines.
‘Kelly was due for a try-out at Howard’s place. The brothers put her up to it. They wanted her to find something they could use against him as leverage.’ Another piece of Marta’s story slotted into place. ‘She rings me that same night,’ Parrish said. ‘There’s a regular at Francine’s – guy called Rob. A bit of a fixer, she gathers. She saw Rob go into the Henrys’ office with a sports bag and come out with a briefcase in his hand and a bloody great grin on his face. Now, she’s a bit of a favourite with Rob, and he’s in a good mood, so he invites her for a meal. She’s got the appointment with Howard, but that’s not till later, and she’s curious, so she says yes, thinks maybe she’ll get something out of him during the meal.’
‘And did she?’
He shook his head. ‘Nah. She rang me from the ladies’ while
they were waiting for coffee. Rob had splurged on the booze, and he was very nicely irrigated, but she was none the wiser. He’d kept the briefcase with him – hadn’t let it out of his sight for a second – so she’d agreed to head back to Francine’s for a session, see if she could get a squint inside the bag.’
‘And you let her?’ Simms said.
‘I told her she was bloody crazy, tried to warn her off, but she hung up on me.’
‘I thought you said she was careful.’
He shrugged. ‘Up to a point. But it was like she got off on it, smiling in their faces while she ripped the guts out of their operation. A couple of weeks back, she was delivering a package to one of their mixers – a mad bastard they call Bug. He locked her in his flat. No explanation. She’d been asking questions – thought they’d sussed her, thought she’d never get out of the place alive. Bug kept her for two hours then let her leave. Sol was waiting – told her there’d been a lot of police activity around the place, so he’d called Bug and told him to delay her.
‘She asked Sol why Bug didn’t just tell her, and Sol said, “I didn’t tell him why. That’s the difference between you and him: Bug doesn’t need to know why – he just does as he’s told.”’
‘Punishment,’ Fennimore said. ‘A warning they owned her.’
Parrish nodded. ‘She still went back the next day though.’
‘And a week later, she was dead,’ Simms said. ‘Why haven’t you taken this to your boss?’
Parrish’s gaze skittered to the door, then back to her. ‘The night she died, maybe an hour or so after she called me from the restaurant, I got a panicked text from her.’ He took a breath and exhaled shakily. ‘She said someone on the job was involved with the Henrys – supplying them with drugs.’
Simms slid a look from him to Fennimore.
Parrish looked confused. ‘You know about that?’
‘We knew someone on the job was recycling drugs.’
His eyes widened. ‘You thought that was me?’
‘Not any more,’ she said. ‘But Marta … Kelly – whoever she was – she was right.’ She had to take a breath before she could say it: ‘Police are involved.’
She wasn’t ready, just yet, to tell him about Renwick, but what she had said was enough.
Everyone Lies Page 31