Two Faced

by A. R. Ashworth

“Think what, that she was scared? The look in her eyes, I guess—rabbitty and twitchy. Her voice was shaky, but that coulda been the cold. No shoes, no coat. I felt that sorry for her, you know?”

  “Did you talk with her at all?”

  “No. Every time I looked back, at stops and the like, she were huddled up, staring out the window. I asked once if she needed help, but she didn’t say nothin’. Only stared.”

  Costello frowned. “Until you arrived at Mortlake.”

  “Well, right. Until she thanked me for the blanket.”

  “What about her clothes? Did you notice anything in particular?”

  “Other than no shoes, you mean? Nah. Black dress that looked a damn sight more expensive than the one my wife wears. Think she had a little pendant. Crystal or diamond or summat. That’s about it.

  “Nothing else, then?”

  Wright frowned and shook his head. That was all Costello could get.

  Back at his desk, Costello ran the video from the CCTV on the Mortlake Station platform. Barefoot Woman entered from the stairs to the street and stood against the wall, still wrapped in the blanket. There were no other passengers on the platform. About thirty seconds later, a train arrived, but she didn’t board. As soon as the train pulled out, she exited back down the stairs and disappeared from the video record.

  He entered an action to have an officer check the street cameras around Mortlake Station and for businesses with CCTV cameras. The wall clock indicated it was nearly six PM, and Novak hadn’t authorized overtime. Besides, somewhere a pint was calling his name.

  He pulled on his coat just as Novak entered the incident room. Costello called to him. “Sir, I’m glad I caught you. We’ve got Barefoot Woman on video and had the taxi driver in. He identified her and confirmed he took her to Mortlake Station. Only a glimpse of the Jag, though. No number plate.”

  Novak appeared distracted. “Ah. Well, it’s nearly six. Perhaps in the morning?”

  Costello couldn’t help but be taken aback. “Well, sir, if you wish. It won’t take long. I was a bit late back from lunch today, so I won’t put in for overtime.”

  The DI didn’t bother hiding his annoyance. “Very well. But be quick.” Novak followed Costello to his desk. “Jag first. Show me the Jag.”

  He leaned in and watched as the sergeant found the link in his browser. “There, sir, at the corner of the frame. You can tell it’s a Jag XJ, looks to me maybe eight, ten years old. The second car appears to have been a Peugeot—”

  Novak interrupted. “Mmm. And the woman?”

  Costello gritted his teeth. He advanced the video. “There, passing the pub, coat on, but walking gingerly.”

  “Pause.” Novak leaned in close, studying the figure on the screen. “Mm-hmm.” When he straightened, Costello advanced the video again.

  “And here she is at Old Brompton Road. No coat now, and—”

  “I can see, DS Costello. Stop. Back it up a few frames. Yes, there. Zoom in.”

  Costello clicked the magnifying glass until the Barefoot Woman’s face nearly filled the window on the screen. Her features were almost indistinguishable. Novak again leaned in. This time, Costello caught a whiff of Scotch and, vaguely, a woman’s perfume.

  Novak walked towards his office. “Go home. We’ll discuss it in the morning.”

  Costello rolled his eyes to the ceiling. Time to call Bull. A pint was in order.

  FIFTEEN

  Thursday morning, Hampshire

  The huge chestnut thoroughbred stamped and snuffled, his breath steaming in the crisp January air. Fee clucked at him, then stroked the brush hard, working back from his withers and down over his barrel, following the lay of his coat. She’d already curried him—Peg had let his hair grow shaggy for the winter. This morning she intended only to curry and brush, and get a bit of horse therapy. Peg had taken him out for a gallop on the heath only yesterday, so today they would have a short lunge in the round pen.

  “Trooper’s missed you, Fee. We all have.” Fritz’s soft voice cracked. He was nearly eighty, and the morning was chilly, with enough fog to form slick condensation on exposed stone and metal.

  Fee smiled at the straight-backed man walking towards her. He was fit, tall, with weathered skin and a full head of white hair. She always saw her grandfather in his slender face—Fritz was her bastard uncle from the old Viscount’s brief dalliance with a German woman just before the Second World War.

  Fritz continued. “I’ve set the local lads to work on the paddock fences. Peg’s doing a fry-up. Why don’t you go in for breakfast? I’ll finish brushing him.” He nodded at the long rein and training whip hanging on the barn wall. “You can lunge him after you’re topped up with eggs and bacon.”

  She smiled. “And Peg’s garlic chips.” The smells of horse and hay in the barn filled her nose, but she could imagine the scrambled eggs, bacon, and potatoes waiting in the kitchen across the courtyard. The anticipation reminded her of when she was young, home from school on holiday and up early to ride the heath, with Peg in the kitchen, insisting she not leave before breakfast. “Are you coming in for brekkers?”

  Fritz shook his head. “You go, lass. I’m meeting some lads from Oakley, come up to mend the stiles on Wayfarer’s Walk. It’s unending.”

  “Always busy. You haven’t changed a whit.” She handed Fritz the brush and stretched up to give him a peck on the cheek. “And I’ll always love you.”

  Peg turned from the AGA cooker as Fee entered the kitchen from the boot room. “Chips are just ready. Wash up, girl.”

  “Will you inspect under my fingernails?” The water from the kitchen tap sprayed hot as needles on Fee’s cold city skin.

  “You’ve been in the barn.” The corners of Peg’s mouth rose. “Don’t make me get out my hoof pick.”

  The women, two decades separated, shared a striking resemblance to Fee’s mother, whose health had begun to fail shortly after Fee had turned eight. Peg had come to Waleham then, to look after the horses, dogs, and other animals. Andrew and Fee fell into that category too when they were home from boarding school. The kitchen routine from years past came naturally to both. Fee poured tea while Peg shuttled chips, eggs, and bacon onto plates and set them on the table. The aroma of slightly burnt toast wafted from a rack between them.

  Peg spoke through a mouthful of eggs. “This seemed a bit short notice. Is one of Jonny’s weekend conferences in the way?”

  Fee dipped a chip in the ketchup and chewed. “He said he’d be here if he could.”

  “Do you remember that pony we called Ironsides? When you were nine or so?”

  Fee searched her memory. “There were so many ponies. Which was he?”

  “The little Welsh bay. The old bastard bought him for you as an apology for inflicting that hideous Dutch woman on us.”

  “That stone-cold child hater. Six months after Mum died, and he needed his leg over. The bastard never apologized to anyone. I got a bay pony. Andrew got a Yamaha dirt bike. Bribes.”

  Peg nodded. “I’d vetted Ironsides at his old trainer’s. Sweet as treacle. Good horse, we thought. Nice and smooth past the first two poles, then he shied at the next. That horse wanted you off, and he was just waiting for a chance. He had you on his neck, then went down and almost rolled on you.”

  “Good thing he didn’t, or I’d have been marmalade.”

  Peg laughed. “I told your father I’d never let you ride that pig again. Not after he’d shown he couldn’t be trusted.”

  Which pig was she talking about? Jonny or Jacko? No, Jonny’s just a liar. I’ll live with that. Jacko’s the pig.

  “At least you can sell a horse on.”

  Peg asked, “Did I say something wrong, dear?”

  “No, just thinking about Jonny is all.” Fee poured tea and sat back. “I’ve never talked through it with you. Not face-to-face. I owe you.”

  Peg tucked a strand of silvered hair behind her ear. “I’ve known for a while. Walls do talk. I can’t imagine.” She had never ma
rried.

  “When Jonny asked, I had no idea about his preference. But he doesn’t sleep around.”

  “No? What do you call it?”

  “He and Cranwell have been together for almost thirty years. If anything, I’m the intruder.”

  “You’re his wife. And did he marry you out of the goodness of his heart?”

  Fee scoffed. “He’s always said it was for me and the kids. But it was a marriage of convenience.”

  “For him.”

  “It was convenient for both of us. The weeks were flying by, and I wanted to keep the money coming in.”

  Peg humphed. “Any chance he’ll divorce you for Alec?”

  “Three years, when they retire.” She sighed. “Then I’m on the market again.” And that’s the catch, isn’t it? “Maybe I could go to work in a shop. Get a tattoo and become a barista.”

  “We could open a barn, like we talked about when you were a girl,” Peg joked. “I’ll train the horses, and you can muck out the stalls.” They laughed.

  “I think that’s exactly what the old bastard wanted to prevent. To save me from a life given to horses. Or from my bloody fucking hippie artist boyfriends.”

  “He did have a way with words.”

  Fee gathered the plates and carried them to the kitchen sink. “He also had a way of getting everything he wanted, even from the grave.”

  “So that’s it, then.”

  “No.” I have to tell her, or I’ll never respect myself. “I’m having an affair. Jonny’s known from the beginning. It was convenient. Exciting at first. Jacko made me feel twenty again. But then he changed. A little at a time. Now…” Now he’s sent me to prison. “He might have gotten me in trouble. Legal trouble. Maybe criminal. I don’t know yet.”

  She dried her hands on the tea towel and leaned against the counter. “When I look in the mirror, I’m staring at fifty. Almost fifty years, Peg. The first twenty-five at home and in school and under his thumb until he kicked off. The next twenty with a loving man and a family, thinking I was finally free of the old jackass. Now almost four of this shite with Jonny and—”

  “A man who’s using you?”

  “I won’t be fifty-three and hunting for another husband just to keep my inheritance. And I fucking refuse to be a pretty piece of arse any longer. I called him on the way down yesterday. All his bloody nonsense ends now.”

  “What about the gallery?”

  “I’ve lost interest. I’ve decided to sell it. It’s a damned millstone.”

  She bent and gave Peg a kiss on the crown of her head. “I think I’ll go out and lunge Trooper. Horse therapy sounds like the ticket.”

  “Could be worse, dear.”

  Fee wasn’t so sure. Halfway across the courtyard, her mobile buzzed. Jacko’s name displayed on the screen. She let it ring until she was in the barn. Fritz had already left.

  “Fiona.” She’d lain in her bed and rehearsed this confrontation into the wee hours of the morning. It was time to grow up. To hell with being calm.

  “You bitch. You go to Jonny, and his career is over. The Met doesn’t look fondly on senior officers who cover up each other’s fuck-ups, especially when they’ve been fucking each other for donkey’s years. When he—”

  “Shut up and listen, Jacko, or—”

  “Or what? When he goes down, you’re out on your tight little ass. And we’ll go down too, for withholding evidence. Not coming forward. I’ll—”

  Her anger flared. “You’ll what? You’re in over your head, you bastard. I may go sit at the nick and have a chat with that Novak detective.”

  “And then it’s prison for both of us.”

  “At most I might get a few months in Sutton Park open prison, but I figure you’ll be on Her Majesty’s guest list for quite some time. When your cellmate finds out you were a Crown Prosecutor, it’ll be your ass on the line, not mine. So don’t threaten me. Tuesday, Gionfriddo’s, seven.”

  Silence. Fee counted the seconds up to five.

  “You know it isn’t me you have to worry about.” Jacko sounded conciliatory. “I haven’t told anyone who you are, but they can find out. Word of this to anyone, and they’ll come looking.”

  “Whoever the hell they are, they’ll come looking regardless.” Her hand shook, scarcely able to hold her mobile to her ear. She urged herself to stay strong. “It was a warning to you, wasn’t it? The poor sod getting his head blown off was as big a surprise to you as it was to me. So for some far-fetched reason, they have a use for you. He didn’t expect me to be there. Why didn’t he kill me?”

  Again, silence. Finally, “Don’t know why he didn’t kill us both. Tuesday at seven.”

  “Be there. With answers.” She sank to the cold cobblestones, her back against the barn wall.

  Yes, Peg. It was worse.

  SIXTEEN

  Thursday evening, Westminster

  Liz Barker giggled. “So what was it, Chanel? Bulgari? Revlon Charlie?”

  Costello laughed. “How should I know? Ask your captive Royal Marine.”

  Bull grinned. “Right. Most of my squaddies carried their perfume in their combat kit, next to the grenades. I kept mine strapped to my leg beside my combat knife. Maybe it was his aftershave. He doesn’t strike me as an afternoon delight sort of bloke.”

  “Could be a bit of a dark horse. He never commented on the Jag or the Peugeot. And his reaction to the woman’s face—he had me keep zooming in. Then he stared a moment and walked away. Got no idea why he wants me in early tomorrow.”

  Bull held up his empty pint glass. “Not much to comment on, I suppose.”

  Costello shook his head. “Right, but keeping those tattoos from the team. That’s bloody weird. Not good.”

  Bull stood and headed in the direction of the loo. “Same again? My shout.”

  Costello said, “A half for me.”

  When he was out of earshot, Liz said, “That’s my guy, Simon. He only rents his beer. Now tell me. What tattoos?”

  Costello picked up a napkin and began folding it. “Shouldn’t have said that. Forget you heard it.”

  “Now, my friend, you know I’ll twist it out of Bull, don’t you?” She leaned towards Costello and gave him a conspirator’s smile. “I promise it won’t go past the three of us.” She batted her big green eyes, then laughed.

  He blushed and chuckled. When Liz teased, she made such an obvious joke of it, he had to laugh. He had a huge crush on Liz, but she and Bull were an item, and he had a strict personal rule. It was obvious she knew how he felt, but she always respected him. He sighed loudly through his nose. “It can’t go any further. You’ll weasel it out of Bull anyway. Might as well be me.”

  “Right. You have to tell me now, to protect your mate from his conniving, predatory girlfriend. So grass. What tattoo?”

  Costello blushed again. “The victim had a tattoo that covered his whole back. Bull sent a photo from Kumar’s autopsy. Novak recognized it—Serbian paramilitary. Called it an Arkan Tiger tattoo. Told us to keep it mum. He avoided telling the team about it. Never mentioned it. And it’s not in the case notes. So…”

  “So Novak doesn’t want it known, and he’s willing to destroy his career to keep it that way. If anyone higher up found out, Novak’s balls would be on a plate.” She frowned in thought. “And he told you to keep it to yourselves.”

  “Not let it outside the team.” Costello swirled the final drops of beer in his glass, then downed it.

  “Serbian. Any immediate connection to the Sreckos? God, I’d love to nail those bastards. Ever since that muscle-bound goon worked me over, I hurt when I bend down to pick something up. Can’t do more than twenty-five crunches without my muscles cramping, and my nose is still bent. We never caught that fucking creep.”

  “Bull worked that shite over good. He left a trail of blood drops from your flat all the way out to the street. He’s probably back in some hole a thousand miles from here.”

  “Yep. My Marine landed just in time. Speaking of whom�
�”

  Bull set their pints on the table and looked from one to the other. He glared at Costello with a mixture of anger and disappointment. “I’m away five minutes, and she has you spilling your guts. Just couldn’t resist her, could you?” He scoffed. “I would have told her in my own time and in my own way.”

  Liz smirked. “So, either Novak’s bent, or someone higher up told him to conceal evidence from us cops. Cranwell? No, he’s just a DCS. Hughes, maybe?”

  Costello shook his head. “Not high enough. This would have had to come from somewhere way up. Only a commissioner could even consider it, and he’d need the support of the others. I can’t imagine they’d do it on their own.”

  “MI5? Maybe the poor sod was an agent or a terrorist.”

  “But that means they were in on the murder. Blowing a thug’s head off in a flat isn’t their style.” Costello looked from Liz to Bull. “And if it’s them, they would have yanked the case from us by now and cautioned us under the Official Secrets Act.”

  “It’s almost like a message,” Bull said. “The murder, I mean.”

  “Maybe,” Liz said. “If anyone outside got a sniff that critical evidence was being withheld, it would gut the team, maybe disgrace the whole Met. The tabloids would be all over it in an instant.”

  Bull finished his half-pint and set it hard on the table. “Could be anything, really. One thing I do know. If it’s MI5 and we let this leak, we’ll spend our lives standing security in a sausage factory.”

  “And where have I heard that before? Seems to me I heard Elaine say that to Jenkins right before he resigned.” Liz drained her pint.

  Costello laughed. “Does sound a bit like her, doesn’t it?” His voice took on a serious tone. “I dunno what to do, but I’d hate for any of us to get caught in the middle of some scheme or other. Do you think the guv—Elaine, I mean—could maybe point the way for us?”

  “She needs to know,” Liz replied.

  “Maybe she does.” Bull looked at Liz and Costello in turn. “We’ll need to be careful.”

  “I’m meeting with Novak early tomorrow, before the status meeting,” Costello said. “I expect he’ll have something to say to me about Barefoot Woman and the cars. Maybe we’ll have a bit more to go on after I’ve heard him out. Liz, can you call Elaine? See if she can meet? But for God’s sake, don’t tell her anything. Not until we have more to go on.”