Two Faced

by A. R. Ashworth

  The two detectives sat at a table in the back room of the Onslow Arms. Kerry had brought them chips and half-pints, then left them alone and closed the door.

  Costello took off his eyeglasses and began cleaning them with a napkin. He appeared shaken. “He gave me a right bollocking when I suggested we bring Jacko in for questioning. Said it wasn’t my job to think about lines of enquiry. That he was the senior bloody investigating officer, and if I wanted to keep the stripes on my bloody epaulette, I should damn well remember that.”

  Bull picked up a chip, frowning. “Elaine wasn’t above handing out a bollocking when we cocked it up, but she’d at least listen to us. Ask us what we thought.” He doused the chip with malt vinegar, dusted it with black pepper, and popped it into his mouth.

  “I was on a team with her for years, and I usually thought that when she asked us for our opinion, she already knew what we’d say.”

  Bull nodded. “You should know the answer before you ask. She kept us focused.” He turned to Costello. “So what do you think? Will Novak warn Jacko?”

  “Dunno,” Costello said. “Whether he does or not, we need to confirm how Jacko left the neighbourhood. Where’d he go? Was Barefoot Woman his passenger?”

  “You’d think Novak would want to exclude Jacko as soon as possible. But we can’t do that on just his word. He was in the area. He had opportunity. It’s up to Jacko to identify who was with him, and we’ll check it out. It would give him an alibi.”

  Costello drained his beer. “We’re not there yet. All we know is that he’s a loose end we need to tie off. We don’t need to ask why he’d kill. Now, motive might become relevant if we can place him at the scene. In this case it’s method, opportunity, then motive.”

  “What about the Peugeot? Two in, one out. Could be murderer and victim. We haven’t seen anyone arrive at the house on CCTV. We don’t have a good look, given the wonky camera. We’ve looked back a whole day with what we have, but no luck.”

  “I’ll bring it up when I talk to the French woman. It’s reasonable to approach her as if she knows the Peugeot bloke. Duclerq. Do we say anything to Elaine?” Costello asked.

  Bull thought for a moment. “I don’t think we should ask her now. You heard her last night. She’d tear us new arse holes if we go back to her so soon. Even if something seems odd, we honestly don’t know enough to evaluate it properly. Maybe we think about it. See what happens in the next day or so. Then look at it again.”

  “If Jacko’s story smells like old socks, we let her know. And I think we need to have another look at the murder scene.” Costello fished in his pocket for the house key. “Got it.”

  The house was less than a half-minute walk from the pub. A rising wind chased low, leaden clouds towards the northeast, flapped the hems of their raincoats, and tousled Costello’s red hair. Thunder cracked.

  Novak had not yet released the house back to the owners, so they ducked under the blue and white police tape and let themselves in the front door.

  The forensic team had scraped the solid matter from the walls and floor, but dark brown stains and splatters still marred floor and walls in the corner where the body had been found. Blue tape outlined the position of the body, and small taped arrows pointed to the places where the killer and witnesses had stood. Silhouettes of the victim’s lower legs and the killer’s shoe prints, stood in stark white against the smeared reddish-brown bloodstains.

  Bull began to describe the murder. “So, the victim knelt there, killer there. Woman there.” He moved a few feet to some tape marks. “Man here. Jacko, you think?”

  “Let’s talk about that later. Okay. Woman pisses herself. Before—or after? Urine would have mixed with the victim’s blood. We need to check with forensics to see if they could tell.” Costello pulled out his notebook and pencil, made a note, and moved to the spot where the woman had stood.

  “Boom. Gore everywhere.”

  Costello took two steps back. “Woman staggers back against wall, smearing the blood on the floor.”

  “Man runs. That moment—or later?”

  “Woman spins, there’s the swirl mark in the blood from her shoe. Throws open the window and chucks her supper into the flowers.”

  Bull turned to Costello. “Now, that’s odd. Why did she open the window? Why not just spew on the floor?”

  “Why indeed?” Costello’s mouth puckered into a thoughtful frown. “She didn’t want to mess the floor. I think it was reflex.”

  “Oh, come on. All that gore and she’s worried about making a mess?”

  “Bull, look in front of you—she spewed out the window, not on the floor. I think it’s what I said—it was reflex. Rigid training when she was a child, perhaps. Mummy—or no, a girl’s school or a governess—telling her that ladies don’t make messes. Maybe Barefoot Woman is upper middle class or top shelf.”

  “That would be in line with the shoe your French verve found. Wasn’t it a designer shoe?”

  Costello smiled at Bull and tutted. “You’ll have to do better than that if you ever want to breathe the thin air of the executive ranks, my friend. It’s Veuve and Blahnik.” He accentuated the foreign vowel sounds.

  Bull didn’t laugh. “I’ll keep that in mind if I’m ever in line for commander.”

  Costello turned and looked at the wide archway that led from the room to the atrium that separated the main rooms of the ground floor. “We don’t have it on CCTV, but we’re pretty sure the man called Jack and Barefoot Woman arrived and left by the front door. At least Kerry and her boyfriend’s evidence seems to show they left that way. Did the killer leave the same way?”

  “We don’t know. There were three sets of tracks in the blood, but we couldn’t track the killer beyond the corridor. Do we know if the back door was open or locked when the first coppers arrived?”

  “Something to check.”

  The kitchen door of the house opened onto a small porch, where Bull and Costello stood and surveyed the walled back garden. Paving stones covered the ground between the walls, except for flower borders along the back of the house.

  Costello bent and walked along the wall, studying the paving. Finally he shook his head and said, “You’re nearly twice my size. Give me a leg up.”

  Bull cupped his hands and lifted Costello high enough to see over the wall.

  “Aha.” Something had interested Costello.

  “What?”

  “Storage sheds along each wall. Easy to get here through the back gardens. Use the shed roofs.”

  Lightning flashed and a large raindrop splatted on Bull’s bald head. Thunder clapped and the pace of the raindrops increased. “Time to go, Simon.”

  “Yup. We get no police medal for being struck by lightning.”

  They locked the house and scurried back to the pub just as a heavy rain began. Kerry saw them enter and held up two fingers.

  Bull grinned. “You read my mind. Two dark. The room?” She nodded.

  A few minutes later, she set two pints of stout on the table in the back room. Bull held up his glass. “To London’s best barmaid.”

  Kerry giggled and gave a small curtsey. “Chips, Detective Bull? Crisps?”

  “Not now, Kerry. But thanks, luv.”

  When they were alone, Bull said, “So, what about Jacko?”

  “It’s no coincidence. The woman Kerry heard could have been shouting ‘Jacko,’ not ‘Jack.’ Far more likely than not, given the timing.”

  “The passenger. I couldn’t tell much from the CCTV.”

  “Only so many ways out of that neighbourhood,” Costello replied. “CCTV had to have caught him somewhere. We’ll suss it out.”

  “We don’t tell Novak about the Peugeot.”

  Costello looked aghast. “What the fuck? We have to tell Novak. We’ve got to report it.”

  “I’ve got a tenner that says he’ll steer us away from it.”

  “You opened it with your computer. It has a time stamp. Someone else will look at it and maybe wonder why yo
u didn’t report it.”

  Bull shrugged. “I couldn’t make out what it was. Couldn’t see properly.”

  “No. Don’t play that game. Novak wasn’t born yesterday. Wait.” Costello furrowed his brow and tapped his finger on the table. “You put it in a report and file it. Let’s see if it disappears.”

  “Good point. I suppose it’s not so surprising you passed the sergeant exam.” Bull drained his glass and leaned forward. “Question is, though, what about Elaine? I vote we tell her about the Bosko identification.”

  “That’s what I think too,” Costello replied. “It wouldn’t be right to keep it from her. I’ll call and see if she can meet this weekend. What about Liz?”

  “We bloody well better bring Liz into it. I’d like to keep my balls attached right where they are.”

  Saturday afternoon, Camberwell

  “I serve food part-time at the taverna, and my shift starts at four, so I need to get back, or Cristo will ask where I’ve been.” Joanna glanced nervously through the window at the street. “I don’t want to have to lie to him.”

  Elaine didn’t grow up in a rigid extended family. “It’s hard for me to fathom personally. The way I see it, you’re an adult, you support yourself. You deserve more respect.”

  Joanna scoffed. “People give respect in different ways, don’t they? I’m a widow, so he thinks I’m weak. Like it’s my fault. But it’s not just me: it’s all us women who work outside the family businesses—the taverna and the construction company. I deal with it.” She looked at the clock over the bar. “Anyway, meeting you the other day was a wake-up call. I told Cristo it was you who upset me so much, but it’s not that. Things at work have changed. Strange people have been showing up. Hard, crass men from America and Europe. Holding meetings. Talking in whispers. I’m … uncomfortable.”

  Elaine took a sip of her cider. Let her come to you, Lainie. “I can imagine. How do I fit in?”

  “What you said, about the police coming to me for evidence. Then at the taverna you mentioned the murder you’re looking into. If there’s something illegal going on, if it’s tied to that murder, I don’t want to be suspected.”

  “Have you talked to anyone else about this? Cristo?”

  Joanna took a deep breath and shook her head. “Never him. He’d just use it to make me feel small, like I couldn’t cope. I talked to the priest, though. He said I should talk to you.” She looked up at Elaine. “You said you wanted me to look at something. A list.”

  Elaine took a sheet of paper and a biro from her bag and placed them in front of Joanna. She didn’t want to scare Joanna off by asking for too much too soon. “I know you’re short on time,” she said. “For now, could you look at this list of companies and people’s names, and just put a tick by those ones IRG does business with, maybe two ticks by the ones who you suspect are shady? Or who meet most often with Anton? It would help get me started.”

  Joanna pulled the paper closer and pursed her lips. “This is quite a few names.” Her hand moved down the page, occasionally flicking the biro. When she reached the bottom of the second column, she slid the paper back to Elaine. “There. I suppose you’ll have questions.”

  Elaine glanced at the page, which contained numerous tick marks, then at the time display on her mobile. “Thank you. I don’t want to make you late. But yes, I’m sure I’ll have some questions.” She smiled at Joanna. “Perhaps we shouldn’t leave together, just in case someone you know is passing by. Why don’t you go first?”

  After Joanna had gone, Elaine examined the list. Only about half of the sixty-plus entries were actual names from her research—she’d invented the rest. She opened her laptop and compared Joanna’s responses with the master list. Joanna had ticked most of the real names, and only one of the fake ones, so she was confident Joanna was being truthful. Later she’d dig to see if any of the names were mentioned in Jacko’s court cases. One never knew when gold would turn up.

  She had gathered her things to leave, when her mobile rang. “Hope.”

  “Novak. You’ve been in touch with my team. We need to talk.”

  “Aren’t you a charmer? Not even a hello. I don’t know we have anything to talk about. Bull and Costello are old friends. We get together from time to time.”

  “Don’t give me the piss about old times’ sake. Tomorrow works for me.”

  Hadn’t he ever learned to be nice when he wanted something? Put the rude git off, Lainie. “If you know anything about me, you know I don’t respond to bullying. I don’t see a reason to meet, and I’m sure as hell not going to ruin my Sunday. Give me a bell later in the week. Maybe I’ll have time then. And pleased to meet you too, DI Novak.”

  She ended the call. He’d be back.

  Sunday afternoon, Brentford

  Elaine stood just inside the door to her veranda, watching a narrow boat move slowly up the Grand Union Canal past the docks of Brentford Marina. Bull, Costello, and Liz had left only a half hour ago, after updating her on the case. Think it through. What have I learned?

  The identity of the victim was exciting because it pointed to a possible tie between the murder and her own investigation. Why wouldn’t Novak allow his team to follow up the connection between the victim and the Srecko family? Understanding the victim’s lifestyle and connections was a key tenet of any murder investigation. Giving up such a basic line of enquiry was so unusual, it could be seen almost as a dereliction of duty. If she were leading the investigation, she’d have been leaning over Anton Srecko’s desk within an hour. What was Novak’s game?

  Had Dragan Bosko been executed because he threatened to expose the Srecko operation? The premise made sense and pointed to a real connection. But connecting Bosko’s headless corpse to Anton Srecko would need a long and difficult investigation, one Elaine couldn’t hope to carry out on her own. It’s meaningful, but not practical. Move on.

  They had identified the owner of the Peugeot, who was French. Given the timing, Bosko was likely the missing passenger. Either that, or the missing passenger stayed in the house and Bosko had arrived some other way. Resident or guest? Costello would follow that up when he met with the French woman.

  Bull’s witness heard a woman screaming for someone named Jack. Jacko had driven through the area. Was Barefoot Woman his passenger? If Novak wouldn’t bring Jacko in for a formal interview, would he direct his team to follow it up? She doubted it.

  So, four people converge on a location in South Kensington. Three leave—Jacko by car, Barefoot Woman on foot, and the murderer probably by car, but in truth, unknown. The victim was connected to a family that owned a real estate company. The murder flat was located in an area of increasing foreign ownership, and it was for sale. One person in the murder party appears to have had a key.

  Elaine picked up her phone and texted Costello.

 

  She went into the kitchen to refill her tea. She had no sooner returned to the bedroom than Costello replied.

 

  She smiled to herself. Sergeant rank was just a stepping-stone for Costello. She turned her attention to the large pinboard on her wall. Four names, any of whom might have betrayed her: Hughes, Cranwell, Jacko, and Jenkins. Jacko was the least disciplined of that lot, so finding a weakness to exploit would be easier with him.

  Jacko’s involvement in the current murder case might be purely circumstantial, but given the timing and the witness’s evidence, it was a good bet he was in the thick of it. She’d logged into the Crown Prosecution Service calendar site and downloaded his court schedule. She’d start obs on him Tuesday, after his last case finished at the Criminal Court.

  Tomorrow, she was due at New Scotland Yard. She looked at her dress uniform, hanging at the side of her wardrobe, still in the plastic bag from the cleaners. What was the meeting about? It couldn’t be disciplinary because she hadn’t been presented with a list of particulars, and she hadn’t been instructed to bring her Police Federation representative.
It wasn’t termination. There was a separate process for that. Would the tribunal suggest retirement? She laughed. They could suggest until hell froze over.

  TWENTY-THREE

  Monday afternoon, New Scotland Yard

  Elaine’s chair was too low for her long legs, and its straight back forced her to sit rigidly upright. Her damaged right leg ached within a minute after she took her seat.

  The conference room at New Scotland Yard was hot, almost stifling. She hadn’t worn her number-one dress uniform in over a year. The starched collar of her white shirt and the clip of her chequered cravat itched and cut at her neck. She longed to dig her finger between the collar and the skin of her throat and tug. She wanted to stretch her neck like a tortoise reaching for a carrot, but she knew that when she relaxed, it would itch all the more. Neither behaviour would impress the three senior officers who sat behind the table in front of her. At least the prescribed bowler with its chequered band and crown-and-star badge fit her head properly. But what the hell was she here for?

  Commander Delaney spoke first. “Good afternoon, DCI Hope. I believe you know Commander Hughes.”

  Elaine smiled politely at Hughes. “Sir.” He had commanded her division when she had been in Murder Investigation. She noticed he had lost weight in the months since she had seen him last.

  “And this is Assistant Commissioner Collins.”

  “Good afternoon, Assistant Commissioner,” she said.

  AC Collins was in charge of Crime Operations Directorate. As such he was Hughes’s immediate superior. The tall, burly officer acknowledged Elaine with only a rigid nod. So that’s the way this will go. They follow me, assign watchers, and haul me before this—what? What’s this about?

  Delaney, Elaine’s immediate superior in the police college, shuffled several sheets of paper, glancing at each before finally perusing one. “DCI Hope. We’re here to discuss two incidents that have come to our attention. The first occurred six days ago with a civilian outside the Cave of Bacchus pub. Do you recall being there?”

  “I would like to ask a question before I answer. Is this a Professional Standards tribunal? If so, I have a right to be informed, and if I am up on a complaint, I’m allowed to have the facts in hand before I’m called. Either way, I have the right to have my Police Federation representative present. The same applies if this is a fitness hearing.”