She hesitated. ‘I think so, I mean, I thought so but
… Look I don’t want to get her into trouble or anything.’
‘Don’t worry, it’s nothing like that. I think she may have come here for a job interview. She’s not letting on so I’m sure she wants it to be a surprise.
Thing is, I want to get in first and take her off to the theatre as soon as she tells me she’s got the job.’
‘Oh, I see.’
‘You’re sure it was her?’
‘Completely. I was over by the water fountain at the back of the lobby. I turned and spotted her heading towards the exit.’
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‘Can you show me?’
She led him past the reception desk, to an area north of the lifts. Stich considered the possibilities.
Either she was waiting for someone at reception, or she had visited one of the upper floors and emerged from the lifts. Or she came from the security room behind him.
* * *
It was grey outside Starbucks on Old Broad Street.
No rain, just a murky stain filtering most of the sunlight. Stich leaned against a wall, a paper cup of macchiato in one hand and a message he didn’t understand in the other.
He had left Moorcroft five minutes earlier and checked Susan’s phone hoping Vicky might have left a message. She hadn’t, but someone else had.
Invoice 017844 pd this a.m. Master sent to the agrd address. Hope all is okay. If u ever need to talk u know where I am. Stuart.
Stich pressed callback.
‘Bluebell Associates, how may I help?’
‘Hi, I’d like to speak to Stuart.’
‘Stuart Gately?’
‘Yes, that’s right, Stuart Gately.’
‘Just a moment.’ The line cut to a Chopin sonata before, ‘I’m afraid he’s with a client right now. Can I take a message?’
‘I have a query on an invoice paid to your company this morning.’
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‘Okay, do you have a reference number?’
He read out the number he’d scribbled down.
‘Just a moment.’ The voice disconnected and Chopin was back again. Stich bounced his knee and watched the crush headed north towards Broadgate.
A commuter crowd had just abandoned a red No.
23 – about fifth in a queue on the bus lane – in a haze of smog and irate hooting. They scurried away like rats from a sinking ship. Then, ‘Yes, the database shows an invoice under that number settled today.’
‘Uh-huh,’ said Stich, making it up. ‘I need to claim that invoice against our tax bill. Can I confirm the cost and what it was for?’
‘Let me see … Yes, the invoice was for advanced digital imagery at a cost of seven thousand pounds excluding VAT. The balance was settled in cash.’
Seven thousand pounds? ‘Yes …’ Stich stammered.
‘That tallies with my records. Is it possible to make an appointment to see Stuart Gately?’
‘Certainly, when suits you?’
‘Today?’
‘I’ll check the diary.’
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35
Richard Hart’s flat was above a florist shop near Embankment. Tracking down the landlord to get the key had been a problem but eventually he had arrived, let them in, and allowed Varcy and Kendrick to explore. It didn’t take long; the flat was small and sparse. The only thing of interest to Varcy was a desk set against the window in the living area. Varcy had found a writing pad on the top, a photograph in a frame next to it and a manila envelope in the second drawer down. The writing pad was uninteresting, the photograph was not and neither was the envelope. It contained two documents. The first was an A5 sized data printout. The legend at the top read: TRIAL 4BZ. Below this was a company name and address, followed by a name, date of birth, blood type and some medical details that Varcy didn’t get.
What he did understand, however, was the significance of the name on the sheet:
TRIAL 4BZ STAGE 1 NOT TO BE CIRCULATED
NAME: DAVID VINCENT STICHELL
DOB: 14-11-1977
BLOOD TYPE: A-VE
ENZYME #45T (Promase): -VE
RESULT: REJECTED
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The second document was also medical related. This time Varcy had a much better understanding of what it was. He had seen many paternity reports over the years. They often popped up in cases of domestic violence where some guy – husband, boyfriend, whatever – had discovered the kid he was raising belonged to someone else. Basically, a swab from the inside of the cheek or a hair follicle plucked from the child’s head was all it took to test their DNA against the parent. There were dozens of labs out in cyberspace that, for about ninety quid, would tell you if yours was truly yours. This report was addressed to Richard Hart and came from a company called Genekey. There was a wordy preamble before the results:
LAB REF: A422486
(CHILD #a) Sample Tested: Hair with root (ALLEGED FATHER #b) Sample Tested: Hair with root Result: ALLEGED FATHER #b is biological father of CHILD #a
Accuracy: ›99.99%
Back in the car, Varcy studied the two documents but couldn’t make either of them fit. Stichell had been rejected, but from what? Varcy’s eyes flicked to the top of the page: Trial. What trial? From the dashboard where Varcy had placed the framed photo, Richard Hart looked out at him. Even Varcy had to admit Hart was a good looker. To his right, her head touching against his shoulder, was a beautiful-looking young woman; dark hair, light tan, 182
green eyes. Who was she?
‘So,’ Varcy sighed. ‘Why would Susan Harrison want to kill this man?’
Kendrick cradled his chin. ‘Who knows?
Jealousy, rage … infidelity … could be any number of reasons.’
‘Infidelity? You think Harrison and Hart were involved with each other?’
Kendrick smiled. ‘I love the quaint language you use. Yes, I think it’s possible they were involved. Why not? They must have known each other from his days at Immteck.’
‘Bit far fetched though, isn’t it?’
‘Got any better ideas?’
‘Maybe. The paternity report interests me. Did Hart have any family?’
Kendrick shook his head. ‘A mother who lives in Kent, that’s all. Oh, and a sister who was killed in a car smash at eighteen.’
Varcy tapped the photograph. ‘Could this be her?’
Kendrick shrugged. ‘I’ll check.’
‘So no children, then?’
‘No.’
‘Then, why does he have this paternity report?’
‘It’s addressed to him,’ said Kendrick, ‘but that doesn’t mean he was the one getting tested.’
‘True,’ said Varcy, feeling a tickle build up at the back of his nose. The sneeze exploded just as he got his handkerchief near his face. He caught only half the spray. Kendrick swayed away.
‘Bless you.’
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‘Thank you.’ He blew his nose. ‘I want to go over what we have on Hart again so I have it straight.’
The plastic covered driver’s seat squeaked a complaint as Kendrick reached for his notebook.
‘Hart, Richard, thirty-four years old, born September 17th 1974. Not married, living alone. BSc degree in Biochemistry from Reading, held a few posts since university: lab assistant at Roche Pharmaceuticals from 1998-2000, lab technician at Immteck from 2000
to September 2008, lab assistant at Moorcroft since then.’
‘Just three months at Moorcroft?’
‘According to HR he was working in the neuroscience labs – setting up experiments and ordering equipment for the laboratory heads.’
‘And at Immteck?’
‘General lab technician. Although during the months before he left, he worked as a phlebotomist.’
‘Phlebotomist?’
‘They take blood.’
‘Yes, of course. Who was he taking blood from?’
Kendrick checked his notes. ‘Haven’t got a clue.�
��
Varcy handed him the paternity report. ‘Have you seen the serial number on this sheet?’
‘Yep.’
‘It means we can chase this down . Genekey must still have the DNA record on their database.’
‘Agreed,’ said Kendrick.
‘So, what are we waiting for?’
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36
Bluebell Associates specialised in IT solutions and had their offices on the third floor of a building that lay snug in the centre of corporate London. It housed dozens of companies including one called Crewman Associates. That’s when Stich realized he had been here before. Crewman Associates were an ad company Susan had worked for in between undergraduate years at university. She had a big attachment to it, too, because she insisted on showing him the building, the sandwich bars, and the pubs during their first summer together.
Once out of the lift, Stich had a view of Bluebell’s entire office. He introduced himself to the girl on the front desk who asked him to take a seat while she called Gately. He dropped onto a low oatmeal sofa –
expensive leather – and took in the surroundings. It was classy: Italian marble, Habitat furniture, prints by Ivor Abrahams. There was hardly any noise either, just the low hum of office work. Gately appeared in a cloud of percolated coffee scent and smiled broadly, a neat, parallel gap appearing between his front two teeth. ‘Mr. Stichell? Glad to meet you,’ he said shaking hands. ‘What do you think of our offices?’
‘I was just admiring them.’
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He grinned and walked towards a glass office in the corner of the building. A panoramic vista of London Wall and the city beyond filled the whole of the far side. Old stone buildings – the skyline of the sepia prints – slotted with the new, glazed-skin structures of the millennium.
‘Very nice,’ Stich said.
Gately motioned for Stich to take a seat. He smiled again, and once more the vertical line appeared between his front two teeth, forming a black rectangle.
Reck?
‘So,’ Gately said finally, ‘what can I do for you?’
Susan had dated Reck – so called because of the rectangular gap in his teeth – for a while when she had worked in the advertising agency. She had spoken about him from time to time. Nothing but good things as far as Stich could remember. Was this him?
‘I’ve come about my fiancée, Susan Harrison.’
Gately’s head snapped up at that.
‘You recognise the name?’ Stich added.
He nodded. ‘Yes, of course, I know Susan. What about her?’
Stich took a deep breath. ‘She was murdered yesterday.’
‘My God … how?’
‘She was shot. We arrived at her uncle’s house late yesterday and someone was waiting.’
He ran his fingers through his hair. ‘Who would do such a thing?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Stich. ‘That’s what I’m trying 186
to find out. I’m clutching at straws here, but you left a text message on her phone a few hours ago.
Something about digital work that cost seven grand.
As far as I know, Susan hasn’t got seven grand yet the bill was settled this morning.’
He rubbed his temples, lost in his own thoughts.
‘What are the police doing?’
He caught Stich off balance. ‘The police?’ He wasn’t sure what they were doing. ‘It’s still too early.
They need more time.’
Gately got up and moved to the window. He rested both palms against it and stared. Stich asked,
‘Stuart, can you help? Anything at all? What was she paying seven grand for?’
Gately turned leaving a pair of handprints on the window. ‘Where were you when this happened?’
‘Sorry?’
‘When she was murdered?’
Stich was surprised by his change of tone. ‘Right next to her, why?’
‘And you did nothing?’
‘I tried to save her.’
‘How did you try?’
‘She froze. I tried to get her away.’
Gately’s jaw started to twitch and he turned back to the window.
‘The transaction you mention is a private one, between Susan and us. It’s no one else’s business but ours.’
‘I’m making it my business,’ Stich said. ‘I watched her die.’
‘And came away from it unscathed?’
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‘That’s not fair,’ Stich said getting to his feet.
‘There was nothing I could do.’
‘I bet there wasn’t.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
Gately turned to face Stich. ‘This situation suits you fine, doesn’t it? Susan dead and out of the way.
It solves a lot of your problems.’
‘What on earth are you talking about?’
‘I think you know exactly what I’m talking about.’
‘The hell I do,’ Stich said, moving closer to him.
‘What are you getting at?’
‘Susan trusted me. I won’t betray that, especially not to you.’
Stich pushed his face up close to Gately’s. ‘Listen to me. Susan died right next to me – as close as I am to you. That tends to focus your mind. I won’t mess about with you. I will find out one way or another.’
Gately narrowed his eyes, then snatched a sheet of paper from his desk. He scribbled something on it before handing it over. ‘Here,’ he sneered, ‘the work Susan paid for went to this address. Figure it out for yourself.’
* * *
The Reville estate was a monstrosity of 1960s’ right-on architecture. Eight concrete giants rising out of a plateau stained with grime from forty odd years of passing traffic. Varcy pulled into what passed as the car park. The flat was in tower two.
Kendrick sighed.
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‘What?’ asked Varcy.
‘A wild goose chase.’
Varcy ignored the comment.
‘Come on, Varcy, why all this? We know Stichell is guilty of at least one of the crimes, and Harrison is guilty of the Hart murder. That’s what we should be concentrating on.’
Varcy raised his eyebrows. ‘What’s the matter?
Don’t you like council estates?’
‘I don’t like it when you’re in this mood, that’s all. Once you get the bit between your teeth it’s painful. And no, I don’t like council estates, especially this one. Look at it, a shithole if ever I saw one.’
‘The flat’s on the twelfth floor,’ said Varcy.
Kendrick smiled sardonically. ‘Really?’
‘Yes, really.’
The two men got out of the car and moved towards the towers. The entrance to Peacock House was guarded on one side by two overflowing refuse bins. The stench of rotting food made Kendrick nauseous. Varcy didn’t seem to notice it, however.
‘What’s this woman’s name?’ asked Kendrick when they were inside.
‘Charlotte,’ said Varcy.
Kendrick sniffed the air. ‘Stale piss as well? Jesus.’
‘She was married to David Stichell for three years.’
‘And you think she might be able to shed some light?’
‘I have a hunch, that’s all.’
‘It better be a good one,’ said Kendrick. ‘His 189
eminence will want a full report. There’s a meeting later, you know that?’
‘I know.’
The lift stopped and they stepped out, cold air rushing to meet them. The landing was open and afforded a view over the car park below. Beyond it was the main road and after that, east London.
‘Which way?’ asked Kendrick.
‘Forty-two.’
They checked the numbers in both directions. ‘It goes up this way,’ said Kendrick. Varcy followed behind until they reached a plain brown door with a large gash in the top.
‘No number,’ said Varcy.
Kendrick went back two doors and counted.
/> ‘That one’s thirty-eight, that one forty, so this has got to be forty-two.’ There was no bell or knocker, either.
Varcy used his fist to rap.
They waited.
After a few moments there was a rattle, and then the door opened on its chain to reveal a face. Varcy guessed the woman was early thirties. She was still pretty but gaunt and pale.
‘Yes?’
‘Charlotte? Charlotte Rosti?’
Her eyes flashed between the two of them. ‘Who wants to know?’
‘My name is Varcy. This is Phil Kendrick. We’re policemen.’
‘What do you want?’
‘It’s okay,’ said Varcy.
‘I’ve been clean for three months,’ she said 190
quickly.
‘I’m sure – it’s nothing to do with that.’
She frowned. ‘What then?’
‘We’re here to talk about David Stichell.’
‘Stich?’
‘Yes, can we come in?’
‘Where’s your ID?’
Kendrick glanced at Varcy. They fished out the small wallets and placed them in Charlotte’s outstretched palm. She snatched them in and closed the door.
Kendrick sighed. ‘What now?’
‘Patience,’ said Varcy.
A few moments later the door opened slowly.
‘You’d better come through.’
The flat was dimly lit and smelled of damp.
Charlotte led them down a short hallway into a living area. She perched on the edge of an upright wooden chair. Next to her was a table with a cheap vase at the centre and medicine bottles arranged in a cluster. To the right of the bottles was a hairbrush.
Charlotte caught Varcy’s glance.
‘The medicine is all part of my rehab,’ she said.
‘It helps me get through.’
Varcy nodded. ‘Of course.’
‘Sit down,’ she said.
The two men eased into a brown sofa opposite her.
‘So,’ she said once they were settled, ‘what about Stich? Is he in trouble?’
Varcy took out his notebook. ‘He may be,’ he said, thumbing through the pages.
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‘What do you want with me?’
‘You were married to him for three years and had a child with him.’
She shifted in her seat.
‘I have two questions,’ said Varcy, sticking his finger into a page where he had inserted a small photograph. ‘First, the child you had with David Stichell. Is it your only one?’
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