Jenkins left the cover of the building and sprinted down the side street to his black Saab. Fifteen seconds later the Saab’s engine burbled to life, and he sped away from the kerb. He reached the corner just as the two women entered a taxi. He waited, then pulled into the Uxbridge Road traffic fifty yards behind them. Now he could think.
He’d been watching Jacko off and on for the last month. What a life the guy led—court appearances almost daily, Saturday nights at the illegal casino above the Soho bodega. On separate evenings, Jenkins had seen him with different women, but he’d never seen Blondie before. He’d taken some photos and sent them to a friend to see if she could help with the ID.
It had been a rough night for Jacko. He’d argued with Hughes. It could have been a professional disagreement, but Jenkins didn’t think so. This looked personal. Then Blondie showed up, and his date turned to shite immediately. Tough luck, boy-o.
Jenkins had noticed the van driving past Gionfriddo’s just after Blondie arrived. It came around twice, going slowly, the last time just as Jacko left. Then Hope had shown up. Damn, that woman got around. Why the hell was she here? He’d taken more photos of Blondie as she left the restaurant with Hope. He was uploading them when the shit hit the fan and Hope attacked. He laughed. Those buggers had cleared off quick. A pissed-off six-foot-tall Amazon with an asp is a fearful sight.
Hope’s taxi had turned right onto Kew Bridge Road, when a dark shape sped past Jenkins’s Saab. The van slid into the gap just behind the taxi. Hope’s building was two minutes away now.
Jenkins searched his memory. The entrance to Hope’s block of flats was a recessed, sloping drive that led to the parking spaces under the building. It was protected by an electronically controlled gate. He couldn’t remember seeing a separate pedestrian entrance, but there’d have to be one, wouldn’t there?
They arrived. The taxi circled a small roundabout and parked across the gated entrance. There was a pedestrian door, and he watched as the two women entered. The van slowed as its occupants assessed the situation, then accelerated away. Hope and Blondie were safe for now, so Jenkins followed. Thirty minutes later, his quarry pulled into the forecourt of a house in Saint John’s Wood.
Jenkins called up 192.com on his tablet and keyed the address into the property report section. The current resident showed to be someone named Baker Anstey. The name was familiar. He’d have to do some research.
Identifying the blonde would be harder. He dialled a number. “Hi, Charlie. It’s Jenks. Did you get the photos?”
“You want instant service, don’t you?” Charlie’s voice rasped. “You think janitors rate that high? Haven’t had a chance for an ident yet. Shetland’s on TV and you wouldn’t want me to miss any clues, would you? I’ll get to it once yummy DI Perez has solved the case. Won’t be long.”
Jenkins laughed. “Right, then. I’m heading home. Ring me when you’ve made up your mind.”
Charlie Young was a retired Met detective sergeant, and one of the original members of the “super-recognizers,” a squad made up of detectives known for their preternatural ability to recognize faces. If she’d ever seen the woman before, in any context, she’d remember her.
TWENTY-SEVEN
Tuesday night, Bermondsey
“What news?” Costello opened a container of rice and spooned it onto a plate. “Turn up something from the CCTV?”
“We were busy.” Bull set two open bottles of Belhaven ale on the table and opened another container. “Ah. Prawns in garlic sauce. Good man. We expanded the CCTV search for Jacko’s route home. He didn’t pop out of the neighbourhood until he was way to the west, almost to Brompton Cemetery. Then he went home like a shot. No passenger. But—” He dug in the container with his chopsticks, finally retrieving a bite of prawn and water chestnut.
“Don’t you use a plate? Or a bowl?” Costello chided. “But what?”
“Don’t you start with that. Not all of us are upper-middle-class boarding school products.” Bull chewed another bite, leaned back on the sofa, and placed his feet on the coffee table. “Besides, it’s my night off. Liz is on obs, watching for burglars at some warehouse or other.”
Costello frowned at Bull’s shoes and moved his plate to the other end of the table. “Point taken. But what?”
“I backtracked from where we first picked Jacko up.” Bull opened a small tablet computer and set it on the table where Costello could see it. He tapped an icon. “Looks like he came from a hotel further north on Queen’s Gate. This is from a number-plate camera that’s set to cover the approaches to the Museum of Natural History. About a hundred yards across the street from the hotel.” He tapped the screen. “Here’s the Jag pulling up at the hotel. A valet gets out, then here’s our lawyer exiting the hotel with—”
Costello pulled the tablet closer. “I’ll be buggered. A blonde in a light-coloured coat. Blurry, but she looks like the right height and all. Why didn’t the screener catch this earlier?”
“Dunno. You can’t see the number plate, so I guess they passed over it and didn’t send us the link. Do you recognize her?”
“Not enough to put a name on her.” He squinted at the screen and shook his head. “Classy blondes abound in this part of town, especially at night. See if you can get it enhanced, and send it to the super-recognizers.”
“Well, I wouldn’t know about this part of town. And I’ve already requested. They’re busy. I plan to visit the hotel tomorrow to see what I can find out.” Bull took another bite of garlic prawns. “Tell me about your visit to the Verve.”
Costello chuckled. “We already had her report about the shoe, and it was at the lab. I was more interested in the Peugeot and finding some connection there. So I did some research.”
He pulled out his notebook and flipped through pages. “Remember the Peugeot is owned by that paraplegic French aristocrat?”
Bull answered, “Duclerq. And?”
“His son, René, is a French commercial representative. Based in London. No apparent criminal ties, but he goes to casinos. Hangs out with some shady characters.”
“Hard to avoid if you’re a gambler. I take it you pressed her about him.”
“Yep. As soon as I did, La Veuve’s memory got shaky. Next thing I know, she’s coughing like crazy and asking for her oxygen. Her companion, a woman named Lydia Anstey, got upset and demanded I leave.”
“Sounds like a reasonable thing for her to do.”
“Yes, but I decided to wind the Anstey woman up a bit before I left. She got fucking livid. Aggressive. In my face.” Costello held his hand three inches from his nose. “She was this close. Thought she was gonna slap me. I left then.”
“Who is this Lydia Anstey? The name rings a bell.”
“I thought so too. She’s British, about forty, short and fit. Looks like she lifts weights or at least works out. Arrogant, with a temper. Surly attitude. Not exactly a winning personality. I looked her up after I left.”
“Politics. That’s where I’ve heard the name Anstey.”
Costello nodded. “Baker Anstey. He was a Tory MP until the party kicked him out for his racial conspiracy rants. He claimed Tony Blair was an ordained priest of a Nigerian Satanist cult. Then he put it about that Cameron was a closet Muslim, whatever that is. He made his money in real estate. Lydia’s his daughter. And there’s more.” He took a bite of beef and broccoli and looked smug.
“What do I have to do, put you in a hammerlock? What more?”
Costello finished chewing. “Remember I said La Veuve needed oxygen? Well, when she asked the Anstey woman for her mask, she said ma fille. That means—”
“You know I don’t speak French.”
“It’s what she’d say if Lydia Anstey was her daughter.”
Bull considered the news. No connections between Anstey and the murder leapt out at him, but they’d hardly begun to dig. Still, it was interesting. “So, we’ve got a murder possibly witnessed by a CPS lawyer and his classy girlfriend. We’ve got a French ar
istocrat who lives two doors down from the murder scene, with a possible connection to a car that possibly carried the murderer and his victim. And we have a woman who may be the French aristocrat’s daughter but is definitely connected to a conspiracy crank.” He laughed. “Not a barrister in England who couldn’t cast reasonable doubt on that string of possibles.”
Costello laughed. “It gets better.” He reached into his coat pocket and extracted a small, blue cloth bag, closed with a gold drawstring. “After I looked up Lydia Anstey, I called up my sister, who works in fashion. Together, we went looking for this.”
Bull put down his food container and leaned forward. “That’s not from the Chinese takeaway.”
“Hardly. She took me to a small establishment on Elizabeth Street. Very exclusive. They help wealthy patrons craft their own perfumes and colognes. They asked me to describe the scent I wanted, then they waved various pieces of paper under my nose for me to test. After a while they were able to point me at a shop that sells this delightful little whiff.” Costello opened the bag and took out a tiny gilt bottle. “A normal size bottle costs two hundred and fifty quid. This wee dram cost me ten. It’s what a rich woman would carry in her tiny purse if she needed a top-up. Hold out your arm.”
Bull did so. Costello rolled his eyes and twisted Bull’s hand palm up. He coaxed the miniature glass stopper from the bottle and used it to dab a bit of liquid on Bull’s wrist. “Now, just let it sit for a moment before you take whiff.”
Bull wrinkled his nose. “I can already smell it. It’s familiar.” He sniffed his wrist. “I’ll be damned. That’s what Novak smelled like after he was gone all that afternoon.”
“And that’s what Lydia Anstey was wearing this afternoon.”
Tuesday night, Brentford
Elaine sat at the end of her deep green leather sofa, her legs folded under her. Fiona perched stiffly at the other end, feet flat on the floor, swirling her wine glass. They hadn’t spoken much in the taxi or after arriving.
After Elaine had closed the electric gate to the building, she’d looked back and noticed a dark van passing. It had turned left on the High Street and sped away. The number plate was unreadable, so she figured it was the same one. They had her flat pegged now, but she decided not to say anything. A panicked Fiona wouldn’t be very helpful.
Elaine spoke. “I worked with Jacko on several cases when I was in Murder Investigation. How did you meet him?”
Fiona stared a few moments before responding. “We’d always moved in the same police crowd, the lot of us,” She drained her glass. “David, my first husband, introduced me. Mostly couples, but Jonny, Jacko, Alec Cranwell, some other singles. I thought Jacko was harmless at first. You know, jokes, double entendre, that sort of thing. He did it to all the women.”
Elaine laughed. “Don’t I know it? He chatted me up once or twice. Trying for a notch on his dick. I made my thinking on that clear.”
“I think David made his thoughts clear, at some point, because Jacko stopped doing it and stayed away.” She held out her glass. “Is there enough red for another?”
“Lots.” Elaine retrieved the bottle and poured. She remembered now. When David died, Fiona’s picture was in the papers and on TV. The grieving police widow. “Then you married Jonny?”
“Have you ever been married?”
“Never had the time, being a cop.” Elaine shook her head. “Most of the men I’ve known can’t deal with it.”
“Most.”
“There’s one. Was one. Before all this happened.” She pointed vaguely at her face.
“He dumped you.” Fiona scoffed.
“No, he didn’t. We’re … I’m … working through some stuff. I choose not to see him.”
“How does he take that?”
Elaine sighed. “He wants to be with me, but he just got a job offer in the States.”
“Is he solid? Do you think he’s a good man?”
Elaine thought for a moment. “Yeah. The best that’s ever shown interest. I think he wants me to go with him to Texas. He said he’d wait.”
“Then I’d say it’s more than interest. But you have things to do. If he truly loves you, he can help. Don’t be a fool.”
Is that what I’m doing? Elaine poured more wine. “So Jacko came sniffing around after David died.”
“You’re looking to fit Jacko up for something.” Fiona studied Elaine. “Do you think Jacko was responsible for what happened to you?”
“You and I may have a common interest. You didn’t look all that happy with him.”
“Why would I want revenge on Jacko?” Fiona asked.
“I thought those thugs in the van were just kerb crawlers. But that’s not right, is it? I saw your reaction. They called you by name, didn’t they?” When Fiona didn’t reply, she continued, “They wanted you specifically.”
“No, they didn’t.” Fiona pulled her mobile from her pocket and glanced at the screen. “It’s late. I’m calling a taxi.”
“You’re stuck in the middle of something. You’re afraid of me because I’m a cop. You’re afraid of something else too. What have you done, Fiona?”
“Nothing. I’ve done nothing.”
Elaine willed softness into her voice. “Then you have nothing to fear from me. I’ll drive you. You shouldn’t be alone. Is Hughes home?”
“What do you want with me? Why are you so bloody interested?” Fiona’s voice rose. “I can manage myself.” As she began to dial, her mobile slipped from her hand and clattered across the coffee table.
Elaine retrieved it. “How did they know where you were?”
“Give me my phone.” Fiona held out a shaky hand.
“Think. If they know who you are and where you would be tonight, they probably know where you live. Do you really want to be alone? Why don’t you call Hughes? He can arrange protection.”
“I said I’ll be fine. Phone. Please.” Fiona’s hand continued to tremble. When Elaine didn’t give her the phone, she walked to the French doors and looked out into the night.
“Is Hughes home?”
“No. He’s in York.”
“Fiona. I think that van followed us here. I don’t know if they’re still out there, but what would they do if you leave alone in a taxi?” She placed the phone on the coffee table. “I don’t know why you’re afraid of me. I know you’re in trouble, and I care about your safety. This flat is as safe as your house. Safer. It’s got coded gates and a security guard downstairs. Stay here. Call Hughes, tell him what happened.”
“I need to work through this on my own.” Fiona started as gust of wind swirled against the French doors, hissing and rattling.
“You say you want that, but could you have handled what happened tonight? Alone? It’s a good thing I was there. Let me help you.” Silence. “I may be a cop, but I’m a cop who the Met has abandoned. Now, tell me why you’re in trouble.”
Fiona turned, a quizzical look on her face. “Abandoned? What do you mean?”
“I don’t have to report we met, what we say. No case, no team. I’m on leave.”
“Jonny and Alec were devastated by what happened to you. Tell me why you said they abandoned you.”
Patience, Lainie. Give to get. “I’m an embarrassment. A detective who ignored procedure, got raped, and killed the suspect. Most of the chief officers want me to go away because they don’t know what to do with me. Maybe they think I’m a tragic hero.” She laughed. “Or at least tragic. Your husband may be one of them. He talked AC Collins into putting me back on compassionate leave when I think Collins wanted to retire me, or red-card me, or worse. The executives are hoping I’ll fade away.”
“Jonny stood up to Collins? That’s a first. Collins is a bully. It’s one of the few things Jonny rants about.”
“Collins was pushing my buttons, and I almost melted down. Your Jonny interjected and defused the situation. Came up with a solution that wouldn’t leave them facing a Police Federation lawsuit. The funny part is that it was the outc
ome I was hoping for. They’ve cut me loose, so now I can investigate what I want. I’m a woman on a mission, and I refuse to fade away. It might be helpful and safer to have a friend like me.”
“If he stood up to Collins, I’d say Jonny’s on your side.” Fiona looked through the doors and shivered, her arms crossed over her chest. “It’s not so much what I’ve done. It’s what I haven’t done.”
“You and Jacko witnessed a murder. In an empty flat in South Kensington. That’s why those men tried to abduct you. You saw the killer. He’s the one who cornered you outside the restaurant.”
Fiona dropped her arms to her side and sat back down in the armchair, her face turned away from Elaine. “How did you know?”
“Complex story, that. He called you by name?”
“Not by name. Jacko said he hadn’t told them my name. It was his voice. I never saw his face. He wore a balaclava, that night. He held a shotgun under my nose and said, ‘So sorry, lovely lady.’ I thought they were the last words I’d ever hear.” Fiona turned to face her. “Are you going to arrest me?”
“For what? What did you do?”
Fiona shook her head. “Just … Jacko said … I was just there. Peed myself. Saw something I never imagined I’d see. Spewed out the window.”
“Then why do you think I’d arrest you?”
“Jacko said I’d be arrested because I hadn’t gone straight to you lot. Said we needed to stay low. I told him it was idiotic, but he insisted I’d go to prison for withholding evidence. Obstructing the police.” Fiona’s eyebrows arched in a question. “Are you saying he’s wrong?”
“You haven’t broken any laws by not coming forward. It’s a different story if you lie to us, but no law says you have to come forward.”
“Then I’m not sure if I will. If they don’t know who I am and they haven’t followed me, I’m probably safe for now.”
“Probably safe? That’s unlikely. If they really threaten Jacko, he’ll squeal your name to the heavens. I recommend that you come forward. The police may not be inclined to protect you if you refuse.” Elaine paused to let that thought sink in. “Jonny would tell you the same.”
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