‘He and Katy had a thing going on.’
‘What do you mean, “a thing”?’
‘Relations.’
‘You mean they were having sex? How do you know?’
‘You can just tell, can’t you?’
It was very vague. The constable had been under instructions not to appear particularly interested in Jack so the conversation had moved on, leaving nothing resolved.
The second man had been more forthcoming. According to him, Katy was aggressive in her pursuit of Jack.
‘Were they having sexual relations?’
‘I couldn’t say, but she’s always mooning around, asking for Jack. She’s got the hots for him all right.’
Geraldine decided to speak to Katy herself. She began with the same wording that had been used with all the staff.
‘This is just routine. Take your time and think carefully before you answer. Is there something about the night of the shooting that you haven’t told us?’
She was surprised when Katy gave a guilty start. ‘What the fuck do you mean?’
‘Is there any detail that occurred to you, when it was all over? It’s very common for witnesses to recall things after the event, once they’ve got over the initial shock of it all. Can you tell me anything else? Anything at all? You were working upstairs, weren’t you? Are you sure you didn’t notice anything unusual?’
Katy insisted she couldn’t remember noticing anything out of the ordinary that evening. Geraldine approached the next question cautiously, feeling her way.
‘One of your colleagues suggested you might be particularly friendly with Jack –’
Katy interrupted her angrily. ‘Particularly friendly? What the hell’s that supposed to mean? Who told you that anyway? They’re a bunch of busybodies here. Makes me sick.’
‘More than one of them appears to be under the impression that you and Jack are very close.’
‘Look, I don’t know who’s been saying what, but it’s a load of malicious crap. Sure I like Jack, and he likes me. Nothing wrong with that, is there? But that’s all it is.’
‘So you’re not his girlfriend?’
‘Bloody hell, no. Anyway, he’s already got a girlfriend.’
‘That’s not what I heard,’ Geraldine said quickly, hoping to draw her out.
‘Are you sure?’
‘Of course I’m sure.’
‘What’s her name?’
‘Sophia,’ Katy responded promptly.
Geraldine really didn’t want to sound as though she was interested, but she had to know. ‘Sophia what?’
‘I don’t know.’ Katy shrugged. ‘What does it matter, anyway?’
‘Oh, it’s nothing. We’re just trying to build a picture of what happened that evening.’
‘Well, Jack’s girlfriend wasn’t here. He never brought her here. But he talked about her. She was doing his head in, poor bloke.’
Geraldine wondered if Katy was hanging on, hoping Jack’s relationship with Sophia would come to an end. She wouldn’t be the first girl to live in hope like that. Asking the manager to let her know as soon as Jack turned up at work, Geraldine left.
52
BACK AT THE police station, Geraldine went straight to the borough intelligence unit where she spoke to Tom, a burly, good-natured sergeant she had worked with on a previous case. With a large, bald head and finely freckled face, he looked like a speckled brown egg.
‘I need you to find a woman for me.’
Tom pulled a face, pushing the corners of his mouth downwards. ‘Batting for the other team, are you? So much for my chances then.’
Smiling at his banter, Geraldine continued. ‘Her name’s Sophia.’
‘Sophia? I don’t suppose you can tell me her surname?’
‘Afraid not.’
‘I suspected as much. How about where she lives?’
‘If I knew that, I wouldn’t be asking you to find her, would I? All I know is that she’s called Sophia and she’s the girlfriend of our elusive suspect, Jack Bates.’
‘Aha.’
‘So she’s likely to be young as he’s only twenty, and probably good looking – and she probably lives somewhere in or around Camden, near him, although that’s a guess.’
The borough intelligence officer shook his head. ‘You don’t give much away, do you? What d’you think we use here? A crystal ball? Oh well, leave it with me, but it might take some time.’
‘Thanks.’
‘No promises, mind.’
‘As quick as you can. We need to find her boyfriend.’
Leaving Tom to look for young women called Sophia, Geraldine returned to her own office. Neil was sitting at his desk, doodling.
‘Busy?’ she asked him.
He looked up with a grin. ‘I hear you’ve already got the case all but done. That’s pretty good going.’
Geraldine was momentarily surprised by his comment. It felt as though the investigation had been dragging on for months. In fact, only just over two weeks had passed since David had been found, shot dead in the mews. She shrugged.
‘We haven’t actually found our suspect yet, and it’s been quite costly so far, getting an armed response unit out to arrest the wrong man.’
Neil laughed. ‘All in a day’s work. But from the sound of things you’ve got it pretty well wrapped up.’
Geraldine nodded. She hoped his optimism would prove justified. Apart from questions about the expenses she had sanctioned, the media were whipping up a furore about the unsolved murders in Central London. There had been some flak from restaurants and bars in the area claiming in the news that their takings were down. Even the government was apparently taking notice. At a briefing, Adam had mentioned pressure on the commissioner to resolve the case before tourists were discouraged from visiting London.
‘That’s ridiculous,’ Geraldine had burst out. ‘As if we’re not already doing everything we can.’
‘What the hell do they think we do here?’ someone else agreed. ‘We’re not a PR office for London’s tourist trade.’
Geraldine smiled ruefully at Neil. ‘I hope you’re right about that. Anyway, how’s things with you?’
‘Oh, nothing much going on today,’ he replied. ‘Paperwork for the last case is done, and now I’m on call. I dare say something will come in soon. This is London.’
He sounded cheerful but Geraldine sensed his frustration. It was one of the most difficult aspects of the job, flipping between hanging around waiting and full-on adrenaline-charged activity, often with more than a spice of danger thrown in. But Neil was right. Life in London was rarely dull for long.
‘Apart from your investigation there doesn’t seem to be much going on,’ he added. ‘I should be pleased it’s all quiet out there.’
‘You’re in the wrong job if you want a quiet life.’
‘True. But it won’t last.’ He paused. ‘What are you doing for lunch?’
They went to the nearby pub for a sandwich. Neil had a beer.
‘There has to be some consolation for not being on a job,’ he said.
‘Bearing in mind you could be called at any time.’
‘Yes, ma’am.’
It made a pleasant break, popping out for a relaxed lunch with a colleague. They exchanged a few yarns about previous cases they had each worked. After a pleasant half-hour, Geraldine thanked Neil.
‘It’s been nice to get away for a bit, but I need to get back.’
He nodded. ‘Well, I think I’m going to push off. Best of luck with finding your suspect. I’m sure the guys will come up with an address for his girlfriend soon.’
‘We haven’t given them much to go on, have we?’
‘Leave it to the borough intelligence officers. They can find anyone.’
Geraldine hoped he was right, although she doubted they would be able to get anywhere on the strength of a first name. She was sitting at her desk, staring idly at paperwork, when Tom called. With a rush of excitement, she hurried along the corri
dor to see what he had come up with.
‘So far, we’ve got five women who fit your profile.’
‘How the hell did you find them?’
He grinned and tapped the side of his nose. ‘Call it genius.’
‘Or he could tell you we’ve all been flat-out, tracing school records and following up anyone called Sophia to see where they’re now living,’ another VIIDO office said.
‘We ruled out a couple because they’re mingers,’ another constable added.
Tom looked anxious. ‘You did say she was pretty, didn’t you?’
‘Well, we don’t know anything about her other than her first name, so we can’t rule anyone out, but let’s start with the girls who might attract a good-looking young man, yes.’
‘So far we’ve found five who are tolerably attractive, two of them living within a mile of George Berkeley House. One of them lives right there on the estate, on the ground floor.’
‘We’ll start with her. This could be it. Thanks, Tom.’
‘Do you want us to keep looking?’
Geraldine hesitated. ‘Yes. Until we find him, we can’t let up.’
‘Righty ho.’
Geraldine took Sam with her to visit Sophia Dexter, a thirty-year-old woman who lived in George Berkeley House. It was mid-afternoon but Sophia came to the door looking as though she had only just got out of bed.
Geraldine held up her identity card. ‘Sophia Dexter?’
‘Oh bloody hell. Yes, I’m Sophia. What do you want?’
‘Do you live here alone?’
‘Wish I did. No. I’ve got three kids and a boyfriend, when he’s around.’
‘Is he here now?’
‘Yes.’
‘We’d like a word with him.’
‘Why? What’s he done?’
Geraldine explained tersely that he hadn’t done anything, but they thought he might have witnessed a crime they were investigating. Sophia laughed.
‘I don’t think so.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘He’s blind as a bat.’
As she spoke, a man in dark glasses appeared behind her, feeling his way along the wall with one hand. Black and podgy, he couldn’t have been less like the fit, young barman they were looking for.
‘Who is it?’ he asked, leaning forward and inhaling, as though he was trying to identify the visitors from their scent.
‘It’s the pigs. They come here asking for you because they think you witnessed a crime.’
‘Does anyone else live here?’ Geraldine interrupted her impatiently.
‘My three kids.’
‘How old are they?’
Sophia frowned. ‘Ten, eight and three. Do you want me to tell you their shoe sizes and all?’
‘Who the fuck is it?’ the blind man repeated. He sounded tetchy.
‘Do you know someone called Jack?’ Sam asked in desperation.
‘No. Now bugger off, will you?’ the woman said, as she closed the door.
Geraldine and Sam turned to Tom’s list to see who else lived locally. It was going to be a long job.
53
IT WAS GONE seven by the time Geraldine left work. It would take about half an hour to reach her mother’s ward, allowing for traffic and finding a parking space. The hospital visiting policy was fairly relaxed, but they didn’t like anyone to stay beyond eight o’clock. She put her foot down, and didn’t stop to buy flowers or fruit on the way. Making good time, she arrived in the corridor outside the ward at twenty to eight. Out of breath, more from anxiety than exertion, she stopped for a moment to calm herself, before going in through the large swing doors.
The atmosphere of muted bustle along the corridor contrived to be both restless and soporific. Geraldine found it faintly disturbing. Celia claimed she didn’t understand how anyone could work on murder investigations. Geraldine felt exactly the same about hospital staff who dealt with sickness and physical suffering, day in day out, hour after hour. At least Geraldine didn’t have to spend all her working week in the company of the worried and the bereaved. As for the victims in her cases, they were beyond suffering. Hospital staff faced a constant battery of human anguish and pain.
‘Not everyone dies,’ Celia pointed out, when Geraldine said she thought nursing must be a more difficult job than police work. ‘People go to hospital to be cured, not to die. In your job, the victims are dead before you even begin.’
Forcing a smile, Geraldine pushed open the door to her mother’s room. It was quiet inside. One old woman lay surrounded by visitors who were getting to their feet, preparing to take their leave. They all looked up as Geraldine entered, as though surprised to see someone arriving so late. She walked past them to her mother’s bed. It was empty. Frowning, she walked slowly back to the door, looking around the room as she went. The other beds were all occupied by strangers. With growing dread she approached the desk, where a nurse was talking on the phone. After a moment, a second nurse appeared and Geraldine called out to her.
‘Excuse me, I’m here to see Milly Blake. Can you tell me where she is? She’s been moved.’
‘What’s that?’
As Geraldine repeated her request, the woman on the phone ended her conversation and looked up. She was young, and she spoke in a friendly manner that inspired confidence.
‘Are you her daughter?’
‘Yes. Where is she?’
‘Oh dear. You didn’t get the message?’
‘What message?’
The young nurse hurried out from behind the desk and spoke to her gently. With a tremor, Geraldine recognised the hushed tones she herself used when breaking the news of a death. Sounds floated past her. She knew straight away what they meant, before she even registered them as words. The nurse’s face seemed to wobble slightly, peering closely at her and receding again.
‘I’m so sorry, I’m afraid your mother died three hours ago.’
‘What? But she wasn’t – I mean, her condition wasn’t critical. She was recovering.’
‘This woman was a stranger to me,’ she thought fiercely. ‘I won’t cry for someone I didn’t know.’ But she felt tears prickling the corners of her eyes.
‘I’m so sorry. We did all we could. Would you like to say goodbye?’
‘Thank you,’ she whispered. ‘I don’t need to see her. I’ll just leave.’
‘Before you go, she left a letter,’ the nurse said. ‘She said it was for her daughter. I just need to check your name?’
‘Geraldine. My mother called me Erin,’ she corrected herself. ‘My name is Erin Blake.’
For an instant, she thought the nurse was going to demand to see some kind of identification before handing over the letter. She had her birth certificate at home, together with all the adoption papers, but nothing to prove she was her mother’s daughter apart from an old photograph of her mother which looked exactly like her. If the hospital staff refused to believe her, she might never read her mother’s parting words to her – almost her only words to her. As these confused thoughts whirled through her mind, the nurse fished out an envelope from behind the desk.
‘Here you are,’ she said, with a practised air of sympathy. ‘It’s from your mother.’
Geraldine glanced at the envelope. It was addressed to Erin Blake, in shaky handwriting.
‘Thank you.’
She turned and walked quickly out of the ward where she had seen her mother twice, and heard her voice just once. Driving home she tried to recall what her mother had said to her during their one conversation. Milly had been finding it difficult to speak. Almost all she had said was that she wanted Geraldine to find Erin. That had been one more disappointment because clearly she hadn’t recognised her daughter at all, mistaking her for someone else, a nurse perhaps, or the social worker. It was a bitter realisation.
Her mother would never let her down again. She had died before Geraldine had a chance to ask her all the questions that now crowded her head. She would never know who her father was; never
learn how her mother had felt on giving her up for adoption; why she had refused to see her lost daughter, or whether she had even cared. As she drove, stony-faced, she realised her eyes were streaming with tears.
‘I won’t cry for a stranger,’ she muttered, angrily wiping her eyes on her sleeve.
The first thing she did on reaching home was open a bottle of her favourite red wine. She had been avoiding alcohol in a futile attempt to clear her brain as she sifted through contradictory evidence, while every few days Adam seemed to latch on to a different suspect with an alacrity that hardly inspired confidence, as though he thought the truth would be obvious, once they spotted it. His air of cool detachment was a sham. At the same time, Geraldine realised that her emotional confusion over her mother had been making her hypercritical of all her colleagues. Steering clear of alcohol hadn’t helped her to see her way clearly through any of the mess.
‘Sod it,’ she thought, as she poured herself a large glass. She held it up, admiring the beautiful crimson hue. It didn’t make her feel any better. Half an hour later, she was in tears again. She wasn’t crying over the death of a woman she had never known. She was crying for her own solitude, and for what might have been.
54
EVERYONE TOLD ALISTAIR he was lucky to be partnered by PC Ned Allsop, an experienced police officer close to retirement.
‘Ned knows the ropes,’ they all said, ‘and he’s a good bloke, salt of the earth.’
Alistair gazed gloomily out of the window at pedestrians hurrying by. He had been looking forward to careering along Oxford Street, siren wailing, blue light flashing, weaving in and out of the London traffic at speed while other vehicles darted aside to let them pass. He did his best to hide his impatience because he didn’t want to offend his partner. Ned was a decent guy, but crawling in traffic beside an old bloke like him wasn’t much fun.
Murder Ring (A DI Geraldine Steel Mystery) Page 20