Two Faced

by A. R. Ashworth

  It seemed to Elaine that he was studying her with an almost fatherly affection. Saying goodbye? She felt winded, hoarse. “Thank you, sir.” She cleared her throat. “That means a great deal to me.”

  Cranwell’s voice caught briefly before he continued. “Lately I’ve felt more and more that we often don’t tell the people we respect how we feel. So I hope you don’t think what I’m going to say is gratuitous. My hope for you is that you make the most of this research job as long as you need it.” He gestured around the room. “The academy can be a calm harbour. Use it wisely. But take more care outside these walls. Rely on old friends. Rein in your emotions, and show some caution now and again.”

  He stood and held out his hand. His voice took on a solemn tone, as if he were speaking a benediction. “Elaine, you don’t have to tell me anything, but I think I know why you’re doing what you’re doing. I will be your friend as much as my position allows. Please feel free to contact me if you think I can help.”

  His hand was warm and dry, and held a small piece of paper concealed in the palm. She slipped it from him as they parted. After he left, she went to the lavatory and locked herself in a toilet stall. She unfolded the scrap, which had been torn from a sheet of Met letterhead. The only writing on it was an unfamiliar telephone number. She memorized it and started to flush it, but instead placed it in the pocket of her jeans. With the painkillers fuzzing her brain, she’d code it into her smartphone first.

  For minutes she sat, leaning against the partition of the toilet stall, sorting what she’d learned. How much does Cranwell know about my—obsession? Yes, obsession’s the right word. The therapist told me I might—would—become obsessed. If Cranwell suspects or knows I’m ’round the bend, who else does? Is he warning me? Baiting me? Who’s at the other end of that number? Someone in the Met is scared of me. They’re tailing me. They want me out. Cranwell is scared of what they might do.

  Okay, then. Come for me or kick me out. Either way, I bloody well won’t go quietly.

  NINETEEN

  Friday night, Bermondsey

  Simon Costello popped the cork from a fresh bottle of Rioja. “So I called the lady, and her haughty companion said she was ill with some kind of flu, and her doctor had told her to stay in bed for a few days. We arranged an appointment for Monday afternoon.” He topped up Elaine’s glass and handed it back. “I thought ladies’ companions went out donkey’s years ago, but apparently not.”

  Elaine took the glass and looked at the three young detectives sitting around Bull’s kitchen table. Simon should have pushed back. He knows to go for the immediate interview, not wait on the witness’s convenience. It’s a murder, for Christ’s sake. But I wasn’t there. “Sounds like a thin excuse to me. Wasn’t there a lady’s companion in Murder on the Orient Express? That was set in the thirties, wasn’t it? I think they were an anachronism even then.”

  Bull, Costello, and Liz were acting as though they expected shoes to fall from the ceiling at any moment. This get-together had nothing to do with advice for Liz. Something was up.

  Elaine couldn’t keep back a laugh. “Out with it. You surely have something meatier to talk about than Simon’s infatuation with a French octogenarian.” She swirled her wine. “Does this have anything to do with Novak’s investigation?”

  Costello raised his hands. “Please. She’s seventy-five. That’s so much more age appropriate. But it’s a fair cop.” He looked at Bull. “We need to talk to you about the Kensington murder.”

  Elaine sat back in her chair and crossed her legs, assessing the three younger detectives sitting on the sofa across from her. She asked, “Ask me, inform me, or warn me?”

  Costello answered. “Little bit of all three. We think you may be interested.”

  Old friends. She didn’t think Cranwell knew anything about this. He wouldn’t have condoned it, and if for some unknown reason he had approved, he would be here. “I saw you and Bull on the news, in the background. Novak’s your SIO, and you aren’t going to him about whatever it is. Or you have and didn’t get a good answer. So stop being coy. If he’s bent, go see Professional Standards. If you want my opinion on something, I’ll help you as best I can. If you’re warning me, I’m all ears. I’m persona non grata these days, so you’re taking a chance either way. It’s about the Sreckos, right?”

  Before Costello could answer, Bull cleared his throat. “Let me have it, if you don’t mind. You’re the DS, and you need some plausible deniability. I’m a green DC who doesn’t know any better. Everybody’s wine topped up?” He passed the bottle around. When everyone had settled, he began by holding his glass up to Elaine.

  “You’re our guv, no matter what team we’re on. For better or worse, that’s the way we all feel, especially after what happened. We’re not sure what’s going on, so we need some feedback. And you’re connected to the case, for some reason.”

  Elaine started to interject but held up. Bull continued, “We need to make sure that you have good information so you can do what you need to do. That’s why we’re here.

  “We don’t know why we were added to Novak’s team. From the first, it looked like they had plenty of detectives. Novak was in charge, and we knew sod all about him. He seemed smart, but he was aloof. Just his style I guess. Then he assigned Simon to run the incident room and me to liaise with Forensics. Nothing too much out of the ordinary, but it felt wrong, like he was singling us out.”

  Elaine looked from one to the other. “Perhaps he felt that since you and Simon had worked together before, you’d coordinate better.”

  “Could be. I was the only detective at the autopsy. Exhibits bloke, photographer, and me. Novak was busy, I guess. When Kumar—”

  “Sorry to interrupt, Bull. Novak didn’t attend the autopsy? His first murder in what—two years?” Elaine needed to confirm. This wasn’t unheard of—the SIO wasn’t required to be there, but it was odd. Had she been SIO, she certainly would have wanted to be able to question Kumar firsthand.

  “No, but something turned up, so I called him. The victim had tattoos covering his back and coming up over his shoulder. I took photos and sent them to Novak. He knew what they were.”

  Bull pulled out his phone, swiped the screen several times, and handed it to Elaine. “That’s them. The double-headed eagle is the Serbian coat of arms. The script says ‘Made in Serbia.’ The tiger head is interesting. It’s the symbol of the Arkan Tigers.”

  Elaine had seen photos of the Serbian eagle before. “I remember the Bosnian conflict. The ethnic Serbs tried to kill, well, everybody else who lived in Bosnia but them. But Arkan Tigers? A military unit?”

  Bull nodded. “Sort of. Paramilitary. The regular army was run by criminals. You remember the war crime trials. But the paramilitary units were lower-level criminals, bullies really, who were getting off on being important for once in their lives and being able to do anything they wanted. A little shite named Arkan was the commander. Did whatever Milosevic or whoever told him to do. Go burn a village? No worries, done in a flash. Kill the men and boys, and rape the women? Helluva good time.”

  Elaine remembered now. “So those were the Arkan Tigers.”

  “Yep. Novak called them ‘Tigrovi.’ My sergeant in Ghanners had been one of the peacekeepers in Bosnia and Kosovo. He told stories about the Tigers and how they’d slaughtered and raped their way through the Balkans.”

  “Royal Marine campfire tales, eh?” As soon as the words left her lips, Elaine regretted saying it. “Sorry, Bull. It just slipped out.”

  The huge detective glanced at Liz, then continued. “Sarge needed to tell us about what he had experienced, how it was similar to what we were seeing in Sangin—that’s a village in Helmand Province in Afghanistan. Deadliest place in the world, some newspaper said. It needed cleaning out, and 40 Commando drew the short straw.” He drained his glass. “For our fucking sins. Sarge and a couple of my other squaddies had been in Bosnia, back in the nineties, trying to keep the Christians from killing Muslims. Ten y
ears after and we’re in Ghanners killing Taliban, and they’re killing both us and each other. Crazy shit, you know?”

  Elaine couldn’t imagine what Bull had gone through. Or Peter, for that matter. Religious war. Onward Christian soldiers and Taliban fighters. In the name of Jesus, Allahu Akbar. Perverse interpretations of God’s Word had always proven to be an effective mass motivator. Evil madness. The powerful would spew self-righteous muck about how God’s on their side, rile up some dim-witted bullies, and turn them loose. Next thing you know, the war’s been going on for centuries, and everyone’s confused about whose side is which and who started it. Even the right-minded clerics can’t make it stop, and all the best, most disciplined professional soldiers can really do is maintain some shaky form of status quo. It was enough to put a person off religion altogether.

  Elaine pulled her mind back to the present. “You can justify any sin if God’s on your side, can’t you? So where does this lead us? Why did you need to tell me about the tattoo?”

  “Because Novak told us not to.”

  Simon chimed in. “Not exactly, but close. After the second morning briefing, he took us aside and asked if we had talked with you. When we said no, he said to keep it to ourselves and not speculate. He said if you approached us about it, to tell you to talk to him.”

  Elaine looked at each of them. What had she done to gain such loyalty from these fellows? They were risking disciplinary action by telling her this. Her voice grew stern. “Do either of you realize you’ve disobeyed an order from your SIO? At best, that’s insubordination. It wouldn’t look good on your record—not at all. Novak could haul you up before Professional Standards. A tribunal could put you both back in uniform. Simon, they could break you back down to constable and you’d never see sergeant again, if that’s what they wanted.”

  Simon and Bull glanced at each other. They were aware of the consequences. Now that she’d spoken the necessary words, she had to prove she was worth her salt, worthy of such devotion. That she’d protect them. “Well?”

  Simon spoke first. “Guv, I think he wanted us to tell you. And even if he didn’t want it, I don’t think he’d break us. He’s withholding the tattoos from the team. I think he may have deleted the pictures from the investigation files.”

  “What? Withheld evidence from his own murder team? Tell me more.”

  Simon and Bull told Elaine about their misgivings regarding Novak. That he hadn’t worn a scene suit and how he seemed to disappear at odd times during the day. That Simon had smelled Scotch on his breath and a woman’s perfume after one of those absences. And how, when they appeared to have a clear line of enquiry, he had diverted resources to other, less likely avenues. When they had finished, Elaine sorted through it in her mind.

  “Who’s Novak’s boss?” she asked.

  Bull answered. “Cranwell, then Hughes. Up the chain to Collins, I—”

  Simon interjected. “But I don’t think he talks to Cranwell. I’ve seen him drinking with Hughes, at the Monk. Funny too, now I think of it. I saw them there when Novak was at NCA. Might be nothing, but there you are.” He smirked. “Perhaps they were friends in a more innocent time.”

  Elaine laughed out loud. “Okay, boys and girls. This is all interesting, but not the stuff of reality. You suspect Novak because something’s odd. Granted, it looks like he’s hiding evidence. There could be dozens of reasons, and yes, it could be part of a larger plan. You have no solid facts, only your own interpretations. You want me to barge in and set things right, but in all likelihood, there’s nothing wrong except your suspicions.” She set down her wine and leaned forward. “I can’t interfere with another officer’s investigation. You know it’s just not done. Novak’s got a good reputation, a solid record. I’d look a complete arse if I jumped in, and it would be the end of your careers in murder too.”

  Bull shrugged. “So you want us to do nothing.”

  “That’s not what I said. I think you need to keep your eyes and ears open, and do your job. If you see something you can’t explain, something odd and not proper procedure, come back to me, and we’ll have another chat. Another thing. Cromarty gave me a crash course in navigating Companies House. I used your murder house as a test case, looking for connections with the Sreckos. It turned up some interesting information. Nothing concrete, but a few correlations. I’ll let you know if I find anything.” She looked from face to face. “Are we good, then?”

  “Right, guv.” Costello and Bull nodded. But Liz sat brooding, staring at the wall.

  Elaine waved her hand. “Yoohoo! Are we good, Liz?”

  “I don’t know, guv. I’m worried it could start all over again.”

  “Look. You’re busy working burglaries in Croydon, so you’re not connected to this. Right? Simon, can you bring me up to speed on what else you have? I’ll keep it to myself.”

  For a half hour Elaine listened to Simon and Bull describe every scrap of evidence they had—the layout of the crime scene, the position of the killer, Barefoot Woman. They discussed the dark Jag, the Peugeot, and the shoe La Veuve found. All the while Elaine wondered about Novak and why Simon and Bull had been made part of the team. And what she was getting herself into.

  * * *

  Jenkins washed down the bite of apple with a sip from his water bottle and placed both in his backpack. As he zipped it, he wondered whether Hope still hated him after all these months. She’d filed insubordination and misconduct charges against him, and had driven him out of the Met. He laughed. He’d deserved it.

  The last time he’d seen Hope, she was lying face down across a low table, naked, covered in blood. As her unconscious body reflexively gasped for breath, he had turned her head, inserted his finger in her mouth, and cleared blood and broken teeth from her airway so she could breathe easier. Then he’d scarpered out the back door to avoid meeting her belated backup coming in the front.

  And now, here she was, walking calmly out of the apartment block of those same tardy backups. She’d been in there a good hour and a half. Jenkins always had a bit of trouble reconciling Hope’s loyalty to the babies who had failed to protect her. She was an Amazon warrior, tall, lean, confident. Costello barely weighed ten stone and talked like a schoolteacher. Bull was a huge, decorated, battle-tested Marine, but he licked Hope’s shoes like a dog who’d peed the carpet. And Liz—she was just a green girl, wasn’t she? They all hated Jenkins, but he’d been the only one there when Elaine needed help. He’d made sure she lived, and they didn’t even know it.

  When the lights of Hope’s blue BMW flashed on, he twisted the key of his black Saab. Its turbocharged six-cylinder engine rumbled to life, sending sensual pulses through the driver’s seat. He watched Hope exit the parking lot and accelerate away. After a three-second pause, he pulled out behind her. Hope always drove as fast as traffic allowed, which he liked, as it gave him the sensation of racing her. He loved taking his old Porsche Boxster to track days at Brands Hatch race course and burning the shine off the stockbrokers in their Caymans and Carreras. He’d seen how she handled her Bimmer, and reckoned she might stick with him in a street race.

  Hope pulled into a Chinese takeaway. She looked to be headed home, and he had enough to report for the evening, so he tapped a speed-dial number on his mobile.

  As usual, his wife’s soft voice set his heart right. “On your way home? It’s salmon tonight and some nice curried vegetables.”

  “Music to my ears, Roxy, my love. About half an hour.”

  Jenkins considered that Hope was alright, for the mannish sort of woman she was. Strong, smart, and reasonably bad-assed in a scuffle. She’d topped that sick bastard Nilo even after he’d nearly killed her. The tall detective was clearly someone to reckon with, but she’d be no contest for a man who was ready for her and knew what he was doing. He hoped it never came to that.

  TWENTY

  Friday night, Brentford

  It was well past Scratch’s usual dinner time when Elaine arrived home, so he was more insistent than
usual that she feed him immediately. The large tabby weaved a path back and forth between her feet as she walked to the kitchen, nearly tripping her, his loud purrs interspersed with angry chatter. For the first time in weeks, Elaine had an appetite. While Scratch was making short work of his tuna, she tucked into her garlic shrimp and a good Czech pilsner.

  Afterwards, she sat cross-legged on her bed, contemplating the pinboard on the wall. Anton’s image stared back at her, but his impact on her had diminished, her attention diverted to the dark silhouette six inches to its right. What’s going on with this case? Think through it, Lainie.

  She went to the kitchen cupboard and retrieved a glass and a bottle of whisky. She bunched pillows against her headboard to support her back and sat cross-legged again. No. I can’t sit here. Those pictures are too distracting.

  She pulled the duvet from her bed, picked up the bottle and glass, and went out on her veranda. The shock of the cold air was immediately energizing. She sat at the small table, drank a whisky in one gulp, and pulled the duvet tightly around her. The lights of the narrow boats lined up along Brentford Marina reflected off the surface of the canal, shimmering on the dark water. Traffic hummed on the A4 a half mile to the north.

  Forget Anton, Lainie. He’s the end, not the beginning. Not the here and now. What did you learn tonight? Put it together.

  Three days ago a suspicious death had been reported in an empty house in Kensington. A poor sod’s head had been ploughed with a shotgun in front of at least two witnesses.

  Within a couple of hours, the Met had pulled together an ad hoc murder investigation team and assigned Novak to the case. Why? The Met wouldn’t assign an ad hoc murder team to a DI who hadn’t been part of a murder investigation in over two years. It wasn’t like there was no one else. Was this case related to one Novak had been working on at the National Crime Agency?