“Why was that, Stacey? Bon was quite a catch. Last of the Sloane Rangers, wouldn’t you say? Didn’t hesitate to spend money on you?”
Stacey squirmed. “Yeah, he bought me jewelry and other stuff. Paid for us every time we went out. Even upgraded my smart phone for me.”
“Why was that? Sent you a lot of texts did he?”
Stacey squirmed again. “Look, he’s dead and gone. So there’s no point raking over past history.”
“Sent you a lot of texts, did he, Stacey?” he repeated.
“Yes, yes he did. Always wanted to know where I was and who I was going out with or what I was doing when I wasn’t with him. If I posted anything online to social media that he wasn’t involved in he was always demanding to know all about it. At first it was great. I loved all the attention, but then it was suffocating. It felt creepy.”
“Did he ever threaten you?”
“No, not exactly. Like I said, it was just sort of creepy.”
“How did he react to you leaving him?”
“Well, he wasn’t happy, that’s for sure. The phone calls and text messages doubled and tripled. He came here a few times to talk to me. I almost lost my job. I told him I was going to take out a restraining order against him. Then, he just stopped contacting me. Like he fell off the side of the earth.”
“When did you break up with him?”
Her forehead wrinkled. “Must be nearly a year ago. Maybe late August?”
September was when Bon had met Clara. “Just one more question. Did Bon ever do drugs? Maybe drop a little coke now and then at a party? Smoke a bit of hash when you were chilling?”
Stacey shook her head so hard she almost dislodged her baseball cap. “Never. Whenever any of his mates went on a bender he called them a bunch of arses.”
“Do you have any idea why he kept clear of drugs?”
She glared at him. “Maybe he was just a classic control freak. How the hell should I know? Why don’t you ask a shrink?”
“Thanks a lot, Stacey, maybe I will.” He cocked his head, holding a hand to his ear. “What do you know, I think those burgers are calling your name.”
He saw her teeth bite into her lower lip and was sure she wanted to curse him but wasn’t convinced he wouldn’t charge her for abusing a police officer. Mr Charming strikes again. Well, he didn’t have time to make amends, he had a bus to catch to Merrywell Park School.
Chapter 18
Thursday 6 July
Quinn chomped down on the last bite of his burger as he legged it towards Oxford Circus Station. He prided himself on not wasting opportunities. While burgers weren’t his first choice for food, calories were calories.
The constant blaring of a car horn made him turn just before he reached the bus stop. Quinn squinted to get a better look as the passenger window slid down revealing Idris’ massive bulk in the driver’s seat. Two girls in summer dresses gave him the finger, thinking he was trying to pick them up.
Quinn approached the car as Idris rolled it to a stop at the lights. They were green, but he ignored them. A double decker bus roared past him.
“Hop in, mate, before someone gives me a ticket!”
Quinn opened the door and slid in, buckling his seat belt as Idris drove off. A hand built like a baseball glove shifted gears while he hammered the accelerator like a racing driver.
“What’s the matter with your phone? Got a flat battery? I’ve been trying to call you.”
Quinn pulled his phone from his pocket. “Sorry, I left it on silent.” There was no need to admit he’d ignored the calls from the office.
“Bex sent me to pick you up. Thought you might need a lift to Merrywell Park. That where you off to next? You’re bloody lucky I drove down here on the off chance I’d catch you.”
Surprise hit Quinn like a blow to the chest. “Wynter actually asked you to come and pick me up?” Even to his own ears his voice sounded incredulous. He hadn’t expected that. Then he shook his head, cynicism providing the answer. “She probably just wants to get my intel back in the office before she has to make her report to Dresden.”
Grey eyes, almost as light as Bex Wynter’s, shot curiously towards him, then back to the road in front. Idris drove with quick, economical actions, shifting gears constantly to get the best reaction out of the car and slipping from one lane to the next to keep ahead of the traffic.
“Were you born pissed off, Quinn, or do you simply have it in for the new boss? I remember you always were bloody-minded when it came to the bosses. But Bex has one advantage over old Lewis at Hackney: she’s not a bad looker, if she put on ten pounds and lost the shadows under her eyes. Probably just needs a few good nights’ rest to get over the jetlag.”
Quinn avoided a direct answer. “You sound as besotted with her as that wet-behind the ears drip Reuben.”
He suspected he was using Bex Wynter as a convenient scapegoat for his belligerence, but something about her, maybe her accent, maybe her glittery, metallic eyes, or the way she ordered him about, scraped under his skin and annoyed the hell out of him.
“What’s that old saying? Life’s a bitch and then you die? Well, I’ve busted my balls getting convictions for the Met. Instead of getting promoted I’m jerked off onto this political hot potato of a case, expected to pull answers out of my arse. I’m senior man on this team, no offense, Idris, yet Wynter and Dresden have me running rookie errands on public transport no less!”
Quinn was certain his ex-father-in-law had arranged this transfer as revenge for splitting with Isla. Vincent Tight-Arse knew his feelings about the new policy of instating overseas recruits into detective roles. It was the sort of subtle joke that he’d enjoy sharing with Isla over a decanted brandy.
“Not up yourself much, are you?” Idris’ voice held an edge, balanced between amusement and irritation. “By the way, mate, anyone tell you, you look like hell? Is that a result of life at SOCA or are you trying to get into the undercover squad?”
Quinn rasped a palm over his stubble. “Technically, I’m still on holiday.” A week ago, Quinn had been called into his DSU’s office, thinking he was about to be promoted to Chief Inspector for his current team but instead had been notified he was transferring sideways to a new team that nobody knew anything about.
Mad as a rabid dog, Quinn had been on the verge of storming into Titus’ office to tell him where to stick his transfer and no doubt get himself kicked out of a job. His supervisor had seen that reckless look in his eye and forced him to take a leave of absence. That had been cut short by yesterday’s call from Dresden.
“Does Isla like the grunge look?” Idris shot him a grin, teeth like snow against his dark skin.
“Isla and I split up a few weeks ago.” Quinn was surprised at how much it still hurt to say the words. Like ripping a bandaid off all over again. In happier times, he and Isla had met up with Idris and his girlfriend for dinners when they both worked at Hackney. They had been more than colleagues, but not quite friends.
“Sorry to hear that. She get tired of your smart mouth?”
Everyone always assumed Isla had walked out on him. Not surprising given her stratospheric good looks and connections. He gave a noncommittal grunt to indicate he didn’t want to go into details.
“We’ve all been through it.” Idris’ voice held a hint of sympathy. He kept his eyes on the road as they plowed through the Oxford Street traffic and he changed the topic. “IT cracked that phone you brought in this morning. It matches the number showing up on Clara’s phone for those threatening texts. Even more interesting, it looks like the phone was used to set up drug drop offs.”
“Bon was selling drugs?”
“Definitely something was going down. We’ve also pegged the first texts back to April this year. That helps narrow down the time frame for when the phone was purchased. Reuben’s going through the CCTV footage from the phone store. How did you go with your interviews? Manage to tie Bon into any terrorist cells?�
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Quinn filled him in with a terse account of what he’d discovered, then asked how Idris and Eli had fared with the search warrant on the Galliers.
“We found two empty mouthwash bottles in Phillip Galliers’ wheelie bin. And a full bottle in Bon’s bathroom, plus a heap of pills that are all currently being analyzed. The post mortem reports also came in this morning and Bex is going over those. Prelim findings are that Bon is clear of any drugs, but that Clara has traces of ketamine in her blood stream.”
Quinn mulled over the findings, trying to tie them in with the information he’d gleaned that morning.
Apparently Bon hated drugs. Yet Bon’s phone was tied to a number of drug deals. Bon had no drugs in his system so he wasn’t high at the time of the accident and had been in full control of his faculties. Clara had traces of ketamine. Subject to the analysis, it seemed likely that the mouthwash in Bon’s bathroom was actually ketamine. Ketamine was also known as a date drug, so could Bon be using it to control Clara? He certainly didn’t need to sell it for the money because his family was loaded.
What was the link with his brother? Was Phillip supplying drugs to Bon to offload? Or was he being supplied by Bon? Tenby Bradshawe-Culpepper said that Bon seemed to be “wired” for the last couple of weeks, but was that because of drugs or because Clara had slipped through his fingers?
Bon had a history of being obsessive about his girlfriends. Stacey had put a restraining order on him to keep him at bay. Tenby had described Bon as being “gutted” by Clara two-timing him. Could that have led him to “lose the plot” as Tenby again described it, and run Clara down cold-bloodedly? Had his obsession with her lead him to feel if he couldn’t have her, then no one could?
It would have been impossible to predict the freak nature of the accident that sent his car rocketing over the edge into the Thames. He couldn’t have known that he would also end up dead.
Quinn was still occupied with his thoughts when his cell phone chirped. Idris manhandled the car through Berkeley Square, and stretches of emerald green flashed past them as he fished his phone out of his pocket. It was Isla calling.
“East End Backpackers. Have we got a deal for you,” he said sunnily.
There was a second’s uncomfortable silence at the other end of the line. “Still a joker, Quinn.”
Did she think his humor had shriveled up and died just like their relationship? Not that she’d ever found his humor funny, not even when they first started dating.
“Listen, I heard through the grapevine that you’re dealing with the Dunreath case. How’s it going?”
Quinn suspected the grapevine’s name was Vincent Titus. Titus had a network more extensive than MI5’s so there was no way of knowing what pies his fingers were poking into.
“Yes, your grapevine is right on the money. And you know I can’t give out the details of our clients. We’re an upscale backpackers and our clients demand their privacy.”
“Look, I know you’ve probably got someone with you, so why don’t I just ask questions and you can tell me ‘yes’ or ‘no’.” Her voice was wheedling now, the verbal equivalent of a showing him a little cleavage. It was nice to feel wanted again. In the past, whenever she turned up at the office in a low-cut top or a skin-tight pencil skirt, all the cops in the office would stare hungrily, like she was a giant packet of Hobnobs. Yes, he had felt wanted. As in every male there wanted to be him.
“In that case, how does ‘no’ work for you? Because here it comes in giant letters. N. O.”
She gave a husky chuckle and he found himself tied in knots. The laugh was comparable to Isla bending over a little, just to make sure he got the full, flashing view. “Oh, come on, Quinn. It’s not like it would be the first time you shared some gripes about work.” Yes, and if he remembered correctly she’d never listened when he did. “There’s so much misdirection in the news right now, it’s difficult to make any judgments. Can’t you just hint to me whether the evidence is leaning towards accidental death or unlawful killing?”
He could feel Idris’ curiosity like a live animal sitting on the seat beside him.
“Sorry, ma’am, but I’m not the manager of the Backpackers, I’m simply the receptionist.”
“Oh, that’s right, you didn’t make the grade. I’d forgotten the scruffy Yank is in charge isn’t she? Has she started work already on that temporary visa?” Isla’s voice became less sexy siren and more courtroom cross-examination.
Quinn felt his guts churn again. “I’m sorry, ma’am, but if you don’t want to make a booking, I’ll have to say goodbye.”
He pressed the end call button.
Chapter 19
Thursday 6 July
Merrywell Park School was set opposite a green park and that was as close as it came to resembling Harrow. On a chain fence surrounding the school grounds flapped two advertising banners. The administration building was a two-story rectangle of red brick banded with grey masonry courses. A series of road works blocked traffic flow like an obstacle course, precluding any street parking in front of the school.
“Turn into the staff car park,” Quinn ordered, ignoring the fact that if he’d traveled via public transport the roadblocks wouldn’t be an issue.
Idris turned in, cruising through a rainbow of parked cars. There was only one spot left, marked “Business Manager”.
“Pull in,” Quinn directed when Idris hesitated. “We’re on police business. Who gives a crap where the business manager parks. He’s probably knocked off work early anyway. Lucky bugger.”
Flanked by Idris like an oversized shadow, Quinn entered the building. He flashed his ID at the receptionist, ignoring two boggle-eyed students who deliberately loitered on their way through the office. Quinn fired a glower in their direction to hurry them along.
The receptionist shot them a frazzled stare over the top of her computer. “School staff spoke to the police yesterday.” She sounded like she was going through the motions waiting for the end of her day.
“Well, today we need to speak to one of your students. Jemma Winship.” Idris offered her an encouraging smile which she didn’t return.
“That needs the head teacher’s approval,” she said on a sigh.
“Then go and get it, darling, because we don’t have all day,” Idris said jauntily.
Robert Trevelyan obviously believed that shaving his few remaining strands of hair to leave his pate gleamingly bald was less aging than the alternative, thought Quinn. Taking into account the head teacher’s fit physique, revealed through a snug shirt and tightly tailored trousers, he was probably right. It was a shame that his throat, wrinkled as a turkey’s scrotum, put his age into the late fifties.
“What’s this visit about? My staff has already fielded questions from the police. And I must say your presence on school grounds two days in a row doesn’t give our parents the right impression.”
Quinn glanced at his watch. “It’s nearly last period of the day, so if you’d like to see us gone before parents come to remove their progeny from the premises let’s speed this up. We need to have a brief chat with one of your students, Jemma Winship. I gather she was one of Clara Butterworth’s friends.”
“Are you charging her? I can’t let you talk to her without her parents’ permission.”
“We’re not here to arrest her. She’s not involved in an offense. We just want an informal chat to ask some questions about Clara.”
It was obvious that Trevelyan wasn’t happy, but Quinn’s promise of their speedy removal from the school worked its magic. Within five minutes Jemma Winship had been pulled from her class to step into his office.
Quinn ushered Trevelyan towards the door.
“Wait, don’t I need to be present at this interview?”
Quinn smiled blandly. “It’s not an interview, and it’s probably best if you don’t hear this conversation, actually. I wouldn’t want the school to be placed in a compromising position.” He lowered hi
s voice dramatically. “If you get my drift.” Bon’s Harrow classmate had used the expression earlier in the day, and Quinn enjoyed the vague threat it implied.
Trevelyan rubbed a nervous hand over the back of his neck, his gaze pressed to Jemma who slouched in the middle of the room, her eyes blazing red-rimmed and bloodshot.
Keeping his eyes on Trevelyan, who was now perspiring, Quinn called over his shoulder, “Jemma, do you want Mr Trevelyan present while we chat?”
“No.”
Without another word, Trevelyan hurried out the door.
Quinn joined Idris and Jemma in the center of the room.
Under the sleeve of Jemma’s uniform he glimpsed a trail of what looked like garlanded skulls mixed with roses tattooed along her upper right arm. Since she was only sixteen, she was either flouting the law or flouting a trip across the Channel where the laws were less restrictive.
Her hair was short and inky-black while a party-load of piercings spanned one ear from the lobe to the tip. She wore no make up and her skin glowed translucently, as though she had just stepped out of a popular teenage vampire novel.
“Hi there, Jemma. I understand you were a good friend of Clara’s?” Quinn spoke first.
“Of course I knew Clara. It’s all over social media, innit? It’s about time the fuzz talked to me. If that arsehole Richie Rich wasn’t already dead you’d be arresting me for his murder.” Her pent up emotions burst forth in a tirade, where Quinn had anticipated surly silence.
“So how did you meet Clara?”
Jemma’s eyes scuttled restlessly around the room, finally focusing on the window past Idris’ well-muscled shoulder as she answered. “We’d been put in some of the same classes after Christmas break. Some kids were giving her a hard time about her boyfriend. Everyone calls him Richie Rich. Anyway, they were giving her a hard time so I told them to lay off. We got chatting.”
He noted the droopy eyelids, the half-hidden yawn behind a hand. There were no needle tracks in her arms, but that happened less with teenagers. They usually preferred to snort or smoke their highs, and Jemma struck him as more comfortable in that milieu than either Clara or Bon.
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