I pause for a moment. ‘I’ve had a tip off, legit, that Baxter was into the dogging scene and there’s a witness who claims to have seen him with an unidentified blonde woman up at Hampstead Heath. I want the names and IDs of everyone involved in that particular unsavoury pastime, every high-class brass who might be involved brought in and questioned.’
‘Sounds like one for you, Baylis,’ Harding gives a wry smile.
‘Takes one to know one,’ he shoots back.
Chris Baylis and Emma Harding, they make a good duo, always bantering, albeit in good humour. It’s a running joke – Baylis and Harding, like the soap brand, you know?
‘So do you think Janet Baxter found out about it, the dogging, boss?’ Davis says, ‘it could’ve pushed her over the edge.’
‘It’s possible,’ I say, non-committal, ‘but it doesn’t explain the blonde, or the bear, and Janet’s alibis checked out. Listen, this woman, this ‘Goldilocks’ exists in real life, not just in the fantasy world she’s created for herself and therefore she can be found. She’s not a ghost, despite everything pointing to the contrary. And she’s all we have right now, our prime suspect for a murder made to look like suicide with no apparent motive, our only suspect,’ I emphasise, perhaps incorrectly because now I’m thinking things about Janet Baxter that I’d rather not consider. She’s not telling me everything, and it’s time she did. ‘I realise what we have isn’t much to go on, you don’t need to be Sherlock Holmes to work that one out, but it’s a bloody good start people, so let’s get our backsides in gear and not let a few hurdles stand in our way okay?’
‘Yes Boss,’ they say, almost in uniform. They seem a little more geed up now but we all know we’re struggling.
* * *
To add insult to injury and my burgeoning sense of inadequacy and failure, Ken Woods collars me as I make my way past his office. I pretend I haven’t seen him, forcing him to get up from his comfy seat and call my name from the door. He’s not best pleased.
‘I’m sorry, Sir,’ I say as I pop my head around the door. ‘It’ll have to wait until I get back.’
He flashes me an indignant look. ‘We need to talk, Dan,’ he says in that gravely, serious tone of his, ‘I just need five minutes.’
Davis is hovering in the corridor by the coffee machine.
‘I can’t Sir,’ I say, ‘I’m late for a funeral… Nigel Baxter’s funeral.’
He rolls his eyes skywards, though I’m not sure if it’s for my benefit or his own. ‘My office. As soon as it’s over.’
‘Yes, Sir,’ I nod.
I pass Davis as she gets her first and by no means last, I’m sure, cup of the day.
‘Can I speak to you, Sir?’ she asks, her voice tinged with apprehension.
‘Can it wait, Davis?’ I reply, trying to keep the edge from my tone. I’m still a little pissed off about her oversight, but my initial anger has passed.
‘Not really boss… it’s about the phone file, the number.’
I sigh. ‘Look Lucy, I’m prepared to—’
‘It wasn’t me Gov, I didn’t check the file.’
I blink at her, think about grabbing a coffee myself. I need a hit of something to shift my mood. ‘I assigned you the task Davis,’ I say.
‘Yes, you did,’ she nods, ‘but Delaney pulled me off it, said he wanted to go through the records himself, put me back on CCTV… Delaney checked the phone records.’
I’m still staring at Davis, absorbing her words. So Delaney pulled rank on her, and then let her take the rap for his oversight, didn’t speak up, no mea culpa, just threw her under the bus.
‘I didn’t want to oust him during the briefing boss,’ she says, solemnly, ‘that’s why I didn’t speak up.’
‘So you took the fall for him instead.’
She shrugs.
‘Good of you, Davis.’ My transference of anger is rapid. So, Delaney is the snake I suspected him to be. That close eye I have on him has now just expanded into a pair. I don’t like buck-passers. And now I don’t like Delaney.
I nod. ‘I’ll deal with it, Lucy,’ I say, using her Christian name for sincerity. ‘And you can drink that coffee in the car,’ I gesture towards her plastic cup, my anger dissipating.
‘I thought you were going to Baxter’s funeral, Sir?’ she says.
‘Yes,’ I reply, ‘and so are you.’
Chapter Twenty-Nine
If there’s one thing I hate more than suicides that turn out to be murder, it’s funerals. I owe it to Janet Baxter and her kids to be here today though; I want her to know that I haven’t forgotten her or her husband, and that I acknowledge her suffering, even if she’s been hiding stuff from me. Plus, funerals can often be quite telling events business-wise; grief can reveal secrets. In some cases, as I’ve seen before in my career, killers will even attend the funeral of their victim, giving them some kind of twisted gratification in the process I suppose, a chance to relish the grief they’ve caused and bask in the glory of pulling the wool over people’s eyes. While I’m pretty convinced Baxter’s murderer will give today a wide berth, I can’t altogether rule it out. And given that we’re no further along in the case I can’t afford to chance it either, even if it means digging out the suit I wore to Rachael’s funeral and bringing back my own painful memories.
Janet Baxter looks almost unrecognisable at Our Lady of the Rosary church in a pretty corner street behind the hub of Chelsea. Her face is pale and gaunt and the pounds have dropped off her. The heartbreak diet. I imagine that Janet Baxter has struggled to shift the extra weight her entire adult life. I noticed a diet-club sheet pinned to the fridge in her kitchen during one of my visits, one of those Slimming World things where you spend your entire day counting the points of everything you put down your neck, causing you to obsess about food constantly – which seems to defeat the whole object to me. A healthy diet, exercise and lots of good sex, that’s what Rach used to say. I get the impression that none of these things factored into Janet Baxter’s life with Nigel though, at least not in the end. In any other circumstance I imagine she’d be thrilled to have shrunk a couple of dress sizes.
She thanks me for coming and musters up a smile for Davis who, admittedly, I have brought along with me for the gentle touch. Nothing sexist about it, just fact. She’s got a nice face has Davis, unassuming to the point of being cute. I figured this would be more palatable than mine and Baylis’ old grids. The Gentle Touch. It makes me think of Jill Gascoine as Detective Maggie Forbes in the 1980s’ TV series. She reminds me a little of Janet actually, Jill Gascoine, all that curly hair and the whiff of ’80s nostalgia. Come to think of it, Jill Gascoine’s husband dies in the first episode, leaving her to juggle single parenthood and life as a working copper. Funny how life imitates art sometimes.
There’s a healthy turn out of people for Baxter’s send-off. Family of course, friends and colleagues. He was a well-liked and well-respected man by all accounts.
It’s a Catholic ceremony. Long and drawn-out. Janet is practising, though she says her Nigel only ever really ‘went along with it’ and wasn’t especially religious. Catholicism is all about forgiveness and I wonder how she’s getting on with that after discovering her husband’s many indiscretions. Davis and I sit at the back of the church. No one turns to look at us. I pay attention to the mourners and listen intently to the eulogy that Janet and her children give. It’s difficult to hear them talking about their ‘beloved daddy’, sharing intimate stories and recollections of him throughout their young lives. But it’s Janet’s words that threaten to undo me, the catch in her clipped voice as she recalls the time she first set eyes on ‘the one’ all those years ago and her anecdotes, bittersweet memories of intimate moments and life events they’d shared together: the times she told him she was expecting; how he put the greens on backwards at the birth of their son and she’d had to help him out of them between contractions and puffs of gas and air – ‘he never could dress himself properly,’ she recalls. Private moments in time
witnessed only by them as husband and wife, partners, parents, lovers and friends.
I tell Davis that I’ll meet her outside and she briefly registers surprise swiftly followed by understanding. This is my first funeral since Rachel’s. They bury Baxter in the ground. Rach was cremated. ‘Scatter me somewhere beautiful, Danny’, she’d once said during one of those conversations you have as a couple about the event of your death. A death you never really, truly consider. ‘Somewhere like the ocean, near a beach, out in the elements, sun and sand and sea – so that I can become part of the waves, forever turning in eternal sunshine…’ she’d said. So I did. Rach wasn’t religious, though she did appreciate elements of Buddhist philosophy. I scattered her ashes in a remote place called Moonstone Beach in a small town named Cambria, California. It’s peaceful and tranquil, little visited by tourists but stunning nonetheless with grey sands and melancholy surroundings. We stopped there once, on a road trip from LA to San Fran and she commented on its unspoilt natural beauty – words I would use to describe her too. I know she would be happy with my choice. I hope she is. I remember painstakingly debating the exact point at which to sprinkle her remains from, clamouring up craggy rocks and assessing the views. Her remains felt gravelly to touch. The term ‘ashes’ is misleading because what you receive after cremation isn’t soft powder, but a kind of coarse grey material with the texture of fine gravel: the ground remnants of human bones.
It’s difficult to watch, from a distance, as Nigel Baxter’s shiny black coffin is lowered into the earth, into the hole that’s been dug for him: his final resting place. In direct contrast, Rachel went through a curtain in a gleaming white casket decorated with pink and white roses and lilies. She liked pink flowers; in that sense she was a girl. My girl.
I remember watching Rach disappear through the crematorium curtain to the sound of John Lennon’s ‘Imagine’. It was no mistake that the first line of the song says, ‘Imagine there’s no heaven…’ I wanted to run after her, I had to physically stop myself. I didn’t want to watch my girl as she slowly descended into the 1,000-degree furnace to be turned to dust, or gravel. But I had no choice. Just like Janet Baxter doesn’t now. I have to turn away. And that’s when I see her, the woman, standing by the tree.
Chapter Thirty
She’s young, early thirties max with brunette – almost black, hair. She’s standing back from the mourners and observing the burial from a safe distance behind the tree. She doesn’t want to be seen but it’s a bit late for that now. I nod at Davis. ‘Keep an eye on things,’ I say making my way over towards the woman, but she’s already clocked me and turned on her heels in the opposite direction. I quicken my pace and catch up to her.
‘Excuse me, Miss?’
She gives me a quick sideways glance but keeps up her pace. Seems she’s not in a talkative mood. She’s younger up close, mid to late twenties I’d say, but hard-faced, like she’s seen things she shouldn’t have.
‘I noticed you hanging back by the tree… Are you here for Nigel Baxter’s funeral? You a friend of his?’
She doesn’t say anything for a few seconds. ‘I wouldn’t say friend exactly.’
‘What’s your name?’
‘What’s it to you?’ she shrugs.
‘Detective Riley,’ I say, reaching for my ID. ‘Would you mind stopping a moment?’ She’s wearing high heels – noticeably high – and her black dress is low-cut and looks expensive. She’s got brass written through her like a stick of Blackpool rock.
She rolls her eyes a little. ‘Look, Nigel’s just someone I… someone I knew, alright… I wanted to pay my respects, that’s all, not a crime is it?’
I shake my head. ‘Not at all… Miss…?’
‘Leah,’ she sighs, ‘Leah Carlton.’
‘Miss Carlton… I’m taking it you weren’t formally invited here today. How do you know the deceased? How did you know Nigel?’
She takes a cigarette from her handbag and lights it, there’s a smudge of lipstick on her teeth.
‘Dunno really, we were just mates…’ She starts walking again, slower this time like she’s resigned to my presence.
‘Come on, Leah,’ I say, ‘you’ll have to do better than that. Was he a client?’
She purses her lips, blowing smoking forcefully from them. ‘I liked him – he was nice, Nigel. Friendly, kind… and very generous,’ she adds.
‘When did you first meet?’
‘Two years ago, through a mutual friend.’
‘An escort agency?’
‘Nah… yoga class.’
‘Which agency?’
She looks at me. Her eyes are almost as dark as her hair and I try not to think about the things they may have seen.
‘I work for myself. I’m my own boss.’
‘So he contacted you through an advert?’
‘Look, what is this? Are you going to pinch me for attending a funeral?’
‘No,’ I say, ‘but we can always go down to the station and do this there if that suits you more?’
Leah snorts quietly. ‘Yes,’ she says reluctantly, ‘through an advert in a magazine.’
‘Which one?’
‘Women’s fucking Own.’
‘Did you visit him regularly?’
‘About once a month.’
‘How long for?’
She shrugs. ‘I dunno, a little over a year, maybe fourteen months… He was a regular until—’
‘Until what?’
‘Until he found a new girl, I suppose. I don’t ask questions. It’s not part of the job description if you know what I mean.’
‘So he was a regular until he starting using someone else?’
‘Yeah… I was kind of upset he’d found a new favourite actually, I grew quite fond of him in the end. Like I said, he was a nice old bloke – easy to be with, quick, pretty normal really… compared to some of them.’ Her voice trails off. ‘I was sad when I heard what had happened to him, that he’d died and everything.’
Leah uses the word ‘old’ to describe Baxter. He was forty-seven.
‘Do you know her, this new girl he started seeing? Did you ever meet her?’
‘Some blonde,’ she shrugs again, ‘dunno what she had that I weren’t giving him though. He seemed quite happy with my services until she came on the scene, stuck-up bitch.’
My heart’s racing. ‘You met her?’
‘No, not exactly, saw them together in a hotel in Knightsbridge one time. Well, not together exactly. I was there with another cli… a friend.’ She flicks her cigarette onto the gravel and doesn’t bother to extinguish it.
‘How did you know they were together?’
‘I saw her go into the suite,’ Leah says, ‘looked like a right toffee-nosed cow… I was staying in the one opposite that night. Pissed me off a bit because he was my bread and butter you know, Nigel.’
‘Would you recognise this girl if you saw her again?’
She looks unsure. ‘Probably not, maybe? I dunno… She was just some blonde, white blonde, you know, platinum. Older than me though, or looked it,’ she says with a slight smirk, ‘bit skinny for his taste, Nige liked a bit of something to hold onto. Must’ve been like fucking Skeletor.’
I see Davis out of the corner of my eye and wave her over. ‘How long ago was this, when you saw them together?’
Leah shrugs again. ‘Three, four months ago maybe, dunno. Haven’t really had to think about it. Look, I just came here to say my goodbyes. I didn’t want to draw any attention to meself, what with his wife and kids and that. Can I go now?’
‘In a minute. I’d like my colleague to take a few more details.’
She sighs heavily.
‘He was murdered you know, Leah. Good, kind, generous Nigel, had his wrists sliced open, and was poisoned and left to bleed to death. It would really help us if you can give us as much information as you’re able to.’
Her eyes change a bit and I see a flicker of sadness in them, something resembling regret.
&n
bsp; ‘Alright,’ she says, ‘but make it quick because I’ve got another client at three.’
‘Thanks,’ I say as Davis reaches us.
‘Oh, and Leah, which hotel was this, which hotel were you staying in the night you saw Baxter and the blonde?’
Leah looks Davis up and down as she approaches, before taking another cigarette from her handbag and lighting it. ‘That posh one up in Knightsbridge: La Reymond,’ she says.
Chapter Thirty-One
‘I just need to check the CCTV footage from the last few weeks. Some things have gone missing from my apartment and I want to make sure it’s not that wayward brother of mine pinching my stuff before I go to the police. He’s family, you understand, got a bad cocaine habit… and stupidly, a key to my apartment.’ She rolls her eyes. ‘He swears he’s never set foot inside it, but I don’t know how else my stuff might’ve gone walk about, you know. And, well, I don’t want to get him in any trouble – he’s not a bad kid – just a bit lost, and he is my brother…’
Danni-Jo is looking at the security manager with big blue eyes; her bottom is perched on his desk. She’s wearing a pretty floral summer dress, too summery for this time of year or certainly for the climate. He’s staring at her cleavage and glancing at her slim exposed thigh.
‘I’m not supposed to,’ he says nervously, swallowing dryly. ‘It’s against regulations, I’m sorry.’
She sighs heavily. ‘I understand. Well, perhaps you can look,’ she suggests, ‘I’ll just sit here and watch you while you do.’
He half laughs. ‘Going back two weeks you say? That’ll take a while.’
‘S’alright, I’ve got a while,’ she grins. ‘How about I get us a few beers and a pizza while we’re looking? Make a date of it.’
The word ‘date’ stuns him. This girl is a fucking supermodel and she’s offering to buy him beer and pizza and practically flashing her fanny at him. She must certainly love this brother of hers. He hasn’t had a ‘date’ in years, and he’s never had a date that looks like this one.
Black Heart: A totally gripping serial-killer thriller Page 13