“I wish I had amnesia about it, but I don’t.” Elaine took a deep breath. She could never talk about the assault without first collecting her emotions. “I confronted Nilo in a brothel he ran. First, he blew a young woman’s brains out. Then he used the same pistol to blow a hole in my leg.”
Elaine pulled back her hoodie and smiled. “After that he pounded me with his fists. These aren’t my own teeth. He broke three ribs kicking me. I don’t have a spleen anymore. When I was down, he took a big knife, like the commandos use, razor sharp, and sliced my face to the bone.”
Joanna’s mouth twisted and she swallowed hard, appeared to gag. Elaine leaned forward, steeling herself for the admission. Every time she had described it—to the Met investigators, to the Professional Standards officers, to her therapist—she felt like she was coughing up her soul. Months had passed, but it hadn’t gotten easier.
“He threw me over a table. I struggled. Fought like hell. But blood was flowing into my eyes, and I couldn’t see. I couldn’t move my right leg. I remember trying to push myself up. Tried to throw him off me, but my hands kept slipping in the blood. I felt him cut away my pants. I couldn’t stop him.”
For long seconds they stared at each other, Joanna mesmerized by dread, Elaine silent in pain. Two women, sharing horror.
“And then he raped me, Joanna.” Elaine’s voice trembled. “He bloody raped me. I killed him, though. See, he dropped his knife. I found it and I jammed it into his neck, right here at the bottom.” She held her fingers at a spot an inch above her collarbone. “Up to the hilt they told me, and it was true. I saw the post-mortem photos. It cut through his carotid and slashed his vena cava, so the autopsy said. He bled to death before my mates and the ambulance got there.”
Joanna’s eyes rounded. Her nervous fingers turned the wine glass on the table in front of her. At last she spoke. “He’d gotten in trouble with Mr. Anton over women. There was an accounts clerk in the office, pretty girl, but a bit dim about men. Gossip had it that the company paid her to stay silent.” She sniffed. “For months I didn’t want to believe what had happened to you. I read the news reports about it, but I never imagined. I didn’t want to think about the remarks he made about my daughter, the look he got when he talked about women. There have been other things, people in the office I don’t like…” She sniffed and sipped her wine.
Elaine sensed she wanted to say more, but when Joanna remained silent, she said, “Later, we found out Anton had brought Nilo to London because he’d raped and beaten a girl. She lived, but she’s crippled for life. The number-one son of the Srecko family was a murderer and rapist. And they were grooming him for bigger things.”
Elaine held eye contact. A tear crept down Joanna’s cheek. “That’s the family you work for.”
TWO
Monday night, Kensington
The bar in the small hotel off Queen’s Gate in Kensington reeked of old leather, smoky single malt whisky, and Penhaligon aftershave. Fiona sat with her back to the wall, sipping red wine and despising the smug male clubbiness. As usual, a black-tied waiter had escorted her to a small table far from the door. Her husband, Jonny, was at a police conference in Manchester. It was unlikely any of his colleagues would be drinking here, but there was no point being indiscreet. A perfectly turned-out fiftyish woman meeting someone like Jacko meant only one thing to most people.
There were no other women in the bar. Two men, well beyond middle age, judging from their paunches and age spots, leered from a table across the floor. Fiona didn’t return their glances. After fifteen minutes she rose, taking her clutch purse, leaving her half-finished glass. Alone in the lavatory, she assessed her make-up, applying a dab more powder to mask the crow’s feet that had begun to show at the corners of her light blue eyes, tilting her long, fair-skinned face to and fro in the light, inspecting it for flaws. She poked at the few streaks of grey that silvered her honey-blonde hair. Finally, she touched up her lipstick and stood straight. The black dress dipped low enough in front to reveal the pearl-and-Swarovski crystal pendant nestled in her cleavage. Restrained aristocratic sensuality.
She smoothed the fabric over her slender hips and turned slightly to the side. Just the image Jonny would want. Mature, svelte, pliable. Not that he ever wanted anything beyond a look, these days. Two years ago she had damned him for that, but now she was reconciled to the reality of having his friendship, nothing more.
It was close to the proper time, so she returned to her table. After a few discreet seconds, the barman approached her with an envelope. “For madam.” She opened it once he had retreated to the bar—310. It wasn’t their usual room. Fiona opened her clutch and extracted a ten-pound note. She placed it on the table and walked to the lift. The barman would pocket the money and put the wine on Jacko’s bill.
On most of their nights together, Jacko sat in the hotel chair, blathering about his latest courtroom exploits and directing her movements as she slowly undressed until she stood naked before him. Tonight, however, he mumbled, directing her to turn this way or that, bend forward, lie back. No hoots, no gropes. Fiona wondered if he had lost a case.
One thing hadn’t changed. Their coupling was all about Jacko—from his obscene taunts to her scripted submission and adulation. She mouthed the requisite words of praise and ran her fingernails up and down his flanks as he pounded away. Whisky-tainted breath enveloped her. His amber eyes stared down. His sleek black hair glistened with sweat. Droplets coursed over his cheekbones and dripped from his chin onto her breasts.
At last he groaned and again took his place in the chair at the foot of the bed, berating her about what a whore she was. She stared at the ceiling as he ranted, her tears tracing quiet paths from the corners of her eyes to the satin of the pillow.
After two minutes of abuse, Jacko seemed to tire. He walked to the bathroom and came back towelling the sweat from his body. “Get up and get dressed. We have somewhere to go.”
“I need to get home. Jonny’s…”
“Fuck Jonny. He’s in bloody Manchester. Do you think he gives a damn? He knows where you are, and he knows what I do to you. Shower, then get dressed. Quick.”
“Where are we going?”
“Not far. To see a friend.”
“Oh Christ, Jacko. Not that.” Her voice rose. She stood to retrieve her clothing. “I’m sick of this! I won’t go…”
He laughed. “No, not that. He’s bought a flat. You’re artsy. You could advise him on decorating.” He put his arms around her. His fingers caressed her cheek.
“I’m not a decorator; I own a gallery. I won’t go and I don’t care what you threaten to do to Jonny. I’m sick of you.” She tried to push him away, but he held her fast. He curled his fingers in her hair and pulled her face close to his.
“Do you think you have any choice? You’re nothing to Jonny but a show wife. An arm-candy aristocrat. That hundred-thousand-a-year inheritance you brought with you doesn’t go far past keeping your ridiculous art gallery afloat and paying tuition for those whelps of yours. Am I right? I’m all that keeps Little Jonny Wanker from pulling your kids out of that overpriced boarding school and sending you all packing. He’d be better off without you and that pile of Hampshire bricks you call a family home. Now, clean up and get dressed.”
* * *
Bright halogen lights reflected off the stark white walls of the flat. Fiona stood by a window, sleek in her long cashmere coat. She felt like an actor in an absurd Victorian tableau. Four figures, three of them wondering, “What next?”
A man she didn’t know, and had never seen, knelt in a corner. He was dressed in a striped tie, crisp white shirt, and black pants. He turned his face towards her, wordlessly imploring. But what could she do?
She looked at Jacko, who stood a few feet to her right, quaking so hard Fiona thought he would collapse. Rivulets of sweat rolled down his face, much more profusely than when he had been fucking her.
She tore her gaze from Jacko and focused on the slender man stan
ding between them. He was dressed in black, from his rubber-soled trainers to the military-style balaclava that rendered him unrecognizable. His gloved hands held a sawn-off shotgun.
Dark eyes assessed Fiona through the balaclava. “Why did you bring your friend, Jacko? I didn’t tell you to bring anyone. You should have left her at the hotel.”
Jacko’s mouth moved, but no sounds came out.
“Is that all you have to say?” Balaclava said. “Oh, Jacko. You’re such a fuck-up. You’ve got to learn to keep promises, mate. How could you think bringing her would make anything different? Trying to bribe me with her again? Letting me see the goods?”
“Again?” Fiona glared at Jacko, then at Balaclava. “I’m no fucking friend of his.”
“He offered you to me just last week. Said you’re beautiful.” His eyes assessed her. “He said there’s nothing like a mature woman who knows what she’s there for. Why would you ever get involved with that tosser? I had no intention of taking him up on it. You weren’t part of the debt.”
He lifted his shotgun, the barrel inches from her face. “But now you’re here, and that creates a problem.”
Fiona’s knees buckled. She braced herself on the windowsill. Drops of her urine splattered against her ankles. “Oh, God please. I have children who still need me. I didn’t even want to come here. Just let me go.”
The man looked at the puddle on the floor. “How embarrassing for all of us. Don’t you think, Jacko? So sorry, lovely lady.”
She squeezed her eyes shut. Please, Jonny. Take care of Andy and Stella.
The shotgun blast staggered her against the wall. A roaring sound filled her ears. She screamed to prove she wasn’t dead, then forced her eyes open. Nausea knotted her gut and pushed at her throat. She scrabbled at the window latch, flung it open, and vomited.
THREE
Monday night, Brentford
Elaine twirled a fork in the can of tuna and plopped a second good-sized scoop into Scratch’s bowl. The big grey tabby jumped to the tabletop, purring and rubbing his head on her hand.
“Sorry, mate. You may be the man of the house, but you eat on the floor, not the table.” She shifted his bowl to a mat next to the fridge. Scratch dived after his dinner and crouched, alternately lapping at the tuna and purring. She watched and considered that her cat was more appreciative in his behaviour and fastidious about his eating habits than most people she knew.
Why would she not let him eat on the table? She loved him, stroked him, and fed him regularly. Every night he shared her bed, purring in a steady drone until he fell asleep, usually draped across her leg. All in all he had a good life and let her know he appreciated it. Yet she wasn’t ready to concede sharing her dinner space just yet. Limits are limits. You gotta keep something for yourself, Lainie.
Elaine removed the tray of lasagna from the microwave, picked up a fork and a glass of merlot, and sat down at the kitchen table. She pondered the day’s events while her laptop started up. Was it a coincidence those two uniforms arrived so quickly? If a bystander or someone in the pub had reported a fight, it would have taken several minutes to respond. But it had been only what—forty-five seconds or maybe a minute before they showed up? And they had known her name. Over thirty thousand officers in London, not counting City of London and Transport Police, and one random uniform knew her immediately? She didn’t believe in coincidence.
Her laptop was up, so she put those thoughts out of her mind and typed the account of the tail and the confrontation into her note-card app.
She had learned nothing. No new leads to follow. No actionable evidence. But you never knew when a pattern would emerge. It could happen any day. Still, she hadn’t found any new connections since she had returned to London from the Devon cottage where she had recuperated.
By this time half the lasagna was gone, as was her appetite. Save it? No. The fridge was packed with containers of half-eaten meals. Some day she would clean it out. Or maybe she should start cooking again.
She laughed. Right, Lainie. When you can look at a kitchen knife without retching in panic. She dumped the lasagna into the bin, poured herself another glass of wine, and retired to her bedroom, with the single note card.
She stood in front of the huge pinboard that occupied most of one wall. The board was divided into three columns. The “Leads” column on the left was bare. Only a few note cards dotted the central “Evidence” column, low down on the wall to denote their relative unimportance. The “Background” column on the right was half full. Lots of background, damn little evidence, no leads.
Above the pinboard, she had taped two images. One was a picture of Anton Srecko. His pale complexion, close-cropped hair, and grey eyes matched his lethal, soulless character. His smirk chided her for her lack of progress.
The other image was a simple black silhouette. She hated Anton, but he was the enemy she knew. There were others she didn’t know.
The silhouette’s formless ignorance had begun to bother her more than Anton’s smug familiarity. Someone, quite likely someone she had worked with, eaten lunch with, and tipped a pint with, had betrayed her. Any of her fellow coppers could be the shadow she sensed behind her.
Up until now she had focused on finding evidence that would incriminate Anton. Granted, she had plenty of free time. Her superiors had decided that she should return to service gradually because of her physical injuries and post-traumatic stress disorder, so she worked only half time at the College of Policing, and she could choose her hours. Even with that, she couldn’t follow everyone who worked for that monster, all day every day. The paucity of evidence and complete lack of leads spoke to the futility of that approach. Could she be going about her investigation backwards?
Elaine lay back on her pillow, one arm crooked under her head. She was tired. Tired of the constant dull pain in her leg, the stabbing jolts behind her right eye, and the accompanying flashes of light. Tired of the opiates. Tired of the startled, flustered and then agonizingly polite responses she got from people at the market or in restaurants. Mostly she was tired of her fellow coppers. The way they stepped to the side when she passed in corridors. The way they avoided casual conversation, as if her rotten judgement and piss-poor luck would rub off on them.
She was tired of being the cheese, standing alone.
It had been a long day. She would think through it some other time. She padded to the shower, twisted the lever to hot, and opened it full on. God, but her leg ached. She popped a pill, undressed, and stood naked in front of the full-length mirror on her bathroom door. Surgery scars tracked across her abdomen. Others crisscrossed the splash of the bullet wound and the hollow place on the outside of her right leg. The socket under her right eye still drooped slightly. She needed a few more procedures to erase the slicing scar that jagged from her right temple, across her cheekbone, and down to her jaw, but she didn’t think she would have it done. No. That’s mine. My memento mori.
Elaine laughed aloud and stretched out her arms. She curtsied from side to side as if she were accepting applause. “Here I am. Look at me, rozzers. Here’s what you get when you think you’re some kind of saviour. Constables and sergeants, look and learn. I’m your fucking memento mori. Body and soul.”
The hot shower roared behind her, fogging the mirror from the top down as steam flowed over the glass door. Ready. She swung open the door and stepped into the flow, the needle spray piercing her face, penetrating her scars, flaying her breasts and her back. She doused her body with rosemary and lavender cleanser and began to scrub. Her skin reddened under the scouring of her loofah.
Afterwards, she curled on her bed in the warmth of her thick, emerald-green bathrobe, with Scratch nestled in the crook of her knees. She rejected sleep as long as possible, her thoughts fencing with the opiates whirling in her bloodstream. Sleep began to overwhelm her consciousness. This was the limbo time when doubt and terror rose from her soul.
On most nights, in her sleep she saw Nilo’s face, felt the burning kni
fe at her cheek, gagged at the metallic smell of the slick redness all around her. Jerking awake, screaming in panic. How long could she remain driven by rage? How could she truly return to her career? Did she pursue the Sreckos only because little else seemed to matter anymore?
But tonight Peter stood over her. The image of his slightly crooked nose and deep-set blue eyes, framed by shoulder-length dark hair, lifted from somewhere in her heart.
Is that me moaning? I can’t close my eyes. The light hurts, so white. Loud sounds, hissing, beeping, people barking. Too much. He’s leaning over me, telling me he’s here, better now, blocks the glaring light. Oh God, I can’t breathe, can’t—oh God, my chest—
She screamed awake and bolted from the bed, yanked open the French door and burst onto the veranda, gasping in the cold air, her heart thumping. Being outside, no matter how cold, was preferable to her enclosed bedroom. At last her breathing slowed as she regained control. She went back inside and sat on her sofa, her head in her hands.
I died. The nurse told me I flatlined. She said Peter kept trying. He willed me to live. He loves me. Will I ever know why?
FOUR
Monday night, Kensington
Fiona ran, her coat billowing. She was only ten steps out the front door of the house, but Jacko was already halfway to the car, parked a block away.
“Jesus, Jacko, wait!” She stopped, grasped one of the Victorian wrought-iron railings that separated the pavement from the basement steps of a house, and tore the spike-heeled pump from her left foot. As she lifted her right foot and reached for its shoe, her hand slipped, and she fell into the bars. The shoe in her hand clattered into the darkness. She heard the alarm on Jacko’s car bleep twice, and saw the lights flash.
“For God’s sake, wait for me!” She looked for the errant shoe but couldn’t see it. In the dim light, she saw Jacko opening the car door. There was nothing for it but to run as fast as she could. “Jacko, you coward! Wait!”
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