Elaine motioned at Liz’s flame-red hair. “Get a dye job. Brown. Wear a hat until then.”
Liz stared, her mouth open. Kerry entered, carrying a tray.
“An orange juice, a fizzy water, one chips.” Kerry set the items on the table and pointed. “Pepper, ketchup, and vinegar.”
“Thanks, Kerry.” Elaine sipped her ale and continued. “I mean it. I’ll approve the expense. With that hair you might as well shoot off fireworks. I’ll wager every copper on the force knows about your hair. So it’s brown hair, jeans, loose, dark clothes.”
Liz still looked dubious. “But I’m not entirely clear, guv. Why were we at the house? What were we looking for?”
“I wanted to get a feel for the crime scene without tipping off Novak. I don’t know what we’re up against. Hughes thinks this murder could be connected to money laundering in the real estate industry. He thinks Novak could be involved—disrupting the investigation, obstructing, enabling a cover-up. I think the murder was a message that someone isn’t afraid to kill. So if Novak’s bent, I’ll not have your life or this operation jeopardized due to vanity. Clear?”
Liz didn’t look pleased, but nodded. “Clear, boss. I’ll get it done this afternoon. What about the Anstey woman and the French widow?”
“All we have that links Novak to Lydia Anstey is Costello’s nose. You’ll be the one to verify they’re an item.”
“Are you going to tell Novak that Bull and Costello came to you? When you meet him tomorrow?”
Elaine had expected Liz to ask her this. “I want him to think my reason for the meeting is to tie the murder victim to the Sreckos. He’s bound to know I want to take them down.”
“So nothing about talking to Bull?”
“You do realize he probably already knows. He likely warned them off me just to put the idea in their heads. Nothing I can do about that. I’ll tell him the pathologist, Kumar, told me. I’ve worked with him for years.”
“Sorry, boss. I’m just worried about Bull.” Liz studied the bubbles in her fizzy water, turning the glass with her fingers. Elaine waited. Liz poured more fizzy water into her glass. Bubbles crackled, droplets arced above the rim. “What will you do about Fiona?”
“The murder’s not my investigation, Liz. It’s Novak’s.” Elaine sipped her ale, and shifted her gaze past Liz to a Hogarth engraving on the wall. A bear and a bulldog. Some kind of bull-baiting allegory? “I called her this morning. Told her about Hughes’s operation, said I wouldn’t grass on her. Not yet anyway. That it’s still up to her to decide. I think she’ll come clean.”
“And Jacko?”
“It’s up to Novak to haul that toerag in.”
“Jacko’ll give her up in an instant. Then what? It’s bound to come out that you knew.”
“So what? I’m pretty much beyond help. Don’t worry about me.”
Liz reached out and touched Elaine’s arm. “Don’t say that, Chief. Can’t be true if Hughes wanted you to run this op.”
“That’s one way to look at it. Or he needed a scapegoat.”
Liz slid her glass to the side and leaned forward. “If he did, then it’s all of us for the chop, isn’t it? But he organized it, so when it goes pear-shaped, he’ll go too. If, I mean. Think about that.”
Elaine looked more closely at the Hogarth print. It was titled The Bruiser. The bulldog in the print looked angry. The bear held a tankard of ale and looked at the bulldog affably. She sighed and turned her attention back to Liz. “I haven’t figured out who’s baiting whom yet.”
“Not sure what you mean, guv.”
“Just a nagging thought. Things are rarely what they seem. You go get your hair done.”
“I’ll do my hair myself. But, guv, what was so important about seeing the house?”
Elaine shook her head. “Less you know, the better.”
Liz bristled. “Don’t pat me on the head and call me a good girl! Why?”
Elaine considered. Loyalty. She hadn’t done such a good job of protecting Liz on their last case. And Liz had a point—they were a team.
“Sorry. I had to ask,” Liz said. “Why not top the poor sod on a derelict industrial site where the body could lie for days before anyone noticed? Why ruin the drawing room of a four-million-pound flat? Who decided that?”
THIRTY-FOUR
Thursday night, Brentford
Elaine curled up on her sofa with the remainder of the Malbec that Bull and Costello had brought on their previous visit. She stretched her legs and noticed Scratch looking at her from where he lay on the armchair across the room. He was twisted in a way only cats can achieve, belly up, his back legs splayed, his spine twisted so his front legs hung over the cushion’s edge. Relaxed. She’d fed him.
She felt relaxed too, but her lack of tension seemed out of place. Since she’d agreed to work with Hughes, she was in a higher-stress situation, with more at stake than she’d had at the College of Policing. She realized it was because she was back at work, in her element. Her life was changing. Or rather, she had a chance to change it if she got a good result with this mission.
Had Peter felt this way when he went back to work after he recovered from his burns? Even now, years later, Peter hadn’t fully recovered from the damage to his muscles and skin. He’d probably never fully recover from losing his wife and daughter. Yet he’d made decisions that moved him along the path he wanted to travel.
He was a good man, a man who was determined to move away from the abyss. Productive, caring, seeking to give love. He’d delivered an angry sermon to her that rang with purpose. About how learning to give and receive love was the way back from grief and pain. Recognize that what you think you need may not be what you truly need. Make the decision to move forward. Do it. It sounded trite, but it was so hard to do.
And late tomorrow afternoon she’d meet with Novak, who was angry she’d talked with Bull and Costello. She’d never met him in person before, but on the phone he sounded like an officious little git. She knew how to play that type. She’d told him she suspected the Sreckos had been involved in the murder, and she had approached the detectives as part of her rogue investigation. He’d laughed and said he’d be happy to meet face-to-face.
So tomorrow would be interesting. For most of the day, she’d be meeting with Liz, going over logistics and procedures for the obs on Novak. She’d insisted Novak meet her at Nelson’s Glory, a pub only a mile up the road from Liz’s flat.
It also happened to be her favourite pub, the one where she and Peter had frequently met. Was that also a reason she’d insisted on meeting there?
She looked at Scratch. “Much to think about, laddie. Time to get ready for bed.” Elaine rose, took her wine glass to the sink, and dropped the empty bottle in the bin. Scratch followed her and watched from the bed as the steam rose from her shower.
Friday morning, Brentford
Elaine sat at her kitchen table and poured herself another cup of coffee. Scratch lay on the floor, stretched in a sunbeam that streamed in through the French doors. She’d received a report early in the morning from Jenkins, who’d been watching Jacko the previous night. She read it through twice while munching buttered toast. What he described couldn’t have happened to a more deserving person. Perhaps that’s why she’d read it twice. She chided herself for the wicked thought, but only gently. The idea of Jacko being on the receiving end of a bit of rough held a certain attraction. The karmic wheel did come around, eventually. She brushed crumbs from her fingers, picked up her burner, and dialled.
Jenkins answered, “Yep.”
“Interesting about Jacko. Your report from last night says two blokes assaulted him outside an illegal casino. Tell me what you left out.”
“Not much,” Jenkins replied. “Casino’s in Fitzrovia, north end. We’ve known for some time he frequents it. Owes thousands. I’ve heard the place hasn’t been shut down because a lot of high-stakes international wanking goes on there. So to speak. Not much for gambling, myself. Don’t see the point.”
“Me neither. So, two thugs beat him up, then took him inside. You left before he came out.”
“You don’t have any right to get on me about that. I don’t report to you. I told Hughes I had to get home. I hadn’t made arrangements.”
His emotional flare puzzled Elaine, but she didn’t pursue it. Instead, she said, “Sorry if I touched a nerve. I didn’t mean anything by it, just a statement of fact. I wonder if he made it home.”
“Hold on a mo’. Let me check.” She heard Jenkins tapping a keyboard. A final heavy clack told her Jenkins was one of those persons who loved the committed finality of the “Enter” key. He was back a second later. “The CCTV tap shows his Jag’s not at his house. Maybe he had an early court appearance.” Elaine heard more clicking before Jenkins continued. “Wait for it … no, his schedule’s clear for today. Interesting.”
“Right. I’ll have Bull or Liz take a run by the casino to see if his Jag’s there.”
“Any other questions?”
“I’m meeting with Novak this afternoon. I’ll keep you posted.”
“Listen. Novak’s a shite with one agenda. Himself. Don’t give him anything he doesn’t earn.” He rang off.
Elaine glanced at the time on her phone. She was meeting with Liz in an hour. As she brushed her teeth, she reflected that the Jenkins of today was diametrically different from the Jenkins she’d known months ago. Respectful. Professional. Perhaps it was time to show him more respect in return.
THIRTY-FIVE
Friday afternoon, Southwark
Elaine inhaled the familiar yeasty fug of the pub and stared into the dark pint in front of her on the table. Nelson’s Glory was a traditional hand-pulled, oak-panelled, dart-boarded bit of England that her father had frequented during the family’s early years in London, before he’d inherited the shoe business and moved them to Glasgow. She took a sip of the stout, its sweet, earthy tones flowing over her tongue, the bready aroma creeping up the back of her throat. Her tongue licked the froth from her upper lip.
She’d revisited the pub in the days after she’d joined the Met, as a nod to her deceased father and an attempt to establish a pied-a-terre in her new city. Fred, the now aging barman, had remembered her dad and welcomed her. Although she’d moved from the neighbourhood a few years later, she returned often to recharge, to watch the people of Southwark pass through. These days it was very often half full of tourists seeking a quiet pint or pub meal after the clangour and bustle of nearby Borough Market.
Most recently, it had been a meaningful place to meet Peter. They’d met here on their first date, if that’s what it was. She’d been engaged in a murder investigation and hesitant to see him, wanting to put this persistent American behind her, expecting to have a polite pint and end the evening with a rushed goodbye-see-you-around. She lifted her gaze to the empty seat across the table. They had sat in this same nook. He’d been lighthearted and undemanding. A gentleman who instinctively understood the boundaries of a woman he respected. Inquisitive about her past and her future, interested but not prying. He’d stayed away from her present, knowing her devotion to the job and that she couldn’t discuss the case—especially not with him.
Her eyes returned, downcast, to the pint. The memory of their first date cascaded into later, richer images. With him at the piano, playing Cole Porter tunes, improvising lyrics, laughing when they ran out of rude rhymes. Sitting at the kitchen table, listening to him philosophise about the horrors of mushy peas. In his bed, locking eyes and then mouths as their passion grew. Curled nude together in his big chair, silent, the scent of their lovemaking gathering warm under a duvet, the lights of Canary Wharf in the distance. She knew he was the kind of man who, once committed, would care for her until death. She had never told him she loved him. She didn’t know if the reason was that she was honest—or afraid.
Why had she chosen this place to meet Novak? She needed her wits about her, and all the sentiment had become distracting. Hadn’t she known the effect being here might have on her? A movement at the edge of her vision brought her back to the moment. Novak must have arrived.
“Hello, Elaine. I’ve been watching you stare at your pint for five minutes.” Peter slid into the nook across from her. “I didn’t expect to see you here.” His blue eyes scanned her startled, open-mouthed face. He sipped his half-full pint of red Irish ale.
She struggled to find her voice. Finally, she took a deep breath. “I didn’t expect to see you.” She glanced at her mobile, lying on the table. Seven fifteen PM.
Peter sat back against the red leather and crossed his arms. “You’re waiting for someone.”
“Why are you here?” The question spilled out before she could stop it.
“I’m not stalking you. I stopped for a quick pint after work.”
After work? She searched her memory. He’d taken a new job at Guy’s Hospital three months ago. “Ah. You’re not at Saint Stephen’s anymore. Guy’s is only a few blocks away.”
“I come here a couple of times a week, but I never sit in this nook. I told myself I wouldn’t unless you were here too.”
“Yet you come anyway.” She took a sip. “They have good beer.”
“Yeah. We had good times here.” He unfolded his arms. “For years I let fate, or whatever you call it, control me. Whatever happened wasn’t my call. Iraq, the burns, losing Diana and Liza. I hadn’t gambled, but I’d lost. I told myself my life was in someone else’s hands. It was easier to accept that way. It kept my needs in check. The work was enough for a while. I met you, took a risk, and thought I’d won you. Then I lost both my job and the woman I loved. Again.”
“I’m not completely gone.”
“Aren’t you? I wonder.” His eyes gauged her face, the corners of his mouth turned up in a slight smile. “Perhaps not completely.”
“I told you months ago that I had things to do before I could come back to you.”
“Things to do. I know you needed time to recover, and maybe you felt like you couldn’t trust a man to help you. I get that, but I admit it hurts that you couldn’t trust me. You know what I think? I think those things you have to do involve pacing around in your own little prison cell.”
“Really! And you know so much about it!” No sooner had she spoken than she realized what she’d done.
“What do you think I did for years? I paced. I didn’t go anywhere, I stayed pissed off and measured walls and paced.”
“Peter, I’m—” she began, but he ignored her and ploughed ahead.
“Life fucked me over!” He waved his hands in the air. “I thought to hell with everything! And after a couple of years, when raging hadn’t helped, I made up something else. I told myself I was damaged. That I’d be alone forever. I kept trapping myself.”
“You said there’d been a few other women before we met.”
“There were a few. I told you they’d pitied me, but maybe it wasn’t that. Maybe I wouldn’t let them in.”
Months ago, when she had offered passion, he had accepted it and returned it. She looked out the window. A fine drizzle floated down, shining the pavement. Overcoated pedestrians opened umbrellas or held their briefcases over their heads. Some ignored the misty drops and walked on.
When Peter spoke again, his voice had calmed. He reached out and placed his hand over hers. “Each of us builds our own cell, and we each hold the key. We let ourselves out when we’re ready.”
Am I ready? Have I lost the key? Here he is. She felt desirous but hesitant, like she’d felt the day she’d started university at Durham or the first time she’d walked into an incident room as a fresh young detective. She’d built a life and career facing challenges, but those challenges had been external. Now, her own heart and mind challenged her.
A cough caused both of them to look up. Novak stood at the end of the table, shaking his head, his black coat folded over his arm. “Such touching sentiment, both of you. Perhaps you should take selfies. If you’re finished with the pop psychology lesson, Dr. Wil
lend, I had an appointment with DCI Hope.”
Peter didn’t move. “I’m not done. You can wait over there somewhere. At the bar. Until we’re finished.”
Novak’s voice edged into a police command tone. “This is official police business.”
Peter didn’t look up. “And this is official people business. Just guessing, but you’re late, aren’t you? What, twenty, thirty minutes?” He sipped his ale and made eye contact with Novak. “I don’t know who you are, but you gave up your spot in line, so you’ll be polite and wait your turn.”
Elaine spoke, “DI Novak, give us a few minutes.”
Novak scoffed and held his warrant card in front of Peter’s face. “DI John Novak.”
Peter laughed. His usually soft Texas accent hardened into a drawl, loud enough to carry across the room. “Well, my goodness. Look what we have here. A real live detective inspector. I don’t know how, but you know my name already. Must be a real good detective. And you don’t seem to care that DCI Hope here, your superior officer, is watching you make an ass out of yourself.”
Peter slid from his seat and rose to his more than six-foot height. He looked down at Novak, who was a full six inches shorter. Conversations in the pub went quiet as the patrons became aware of the confrontation. Fred, the barman, stepped from behind the bar. Elaine motioned to him to stay back and slid to the edge of the nook, ready to intervene if it was called for.
Peter looked over Novak’s head and scanned the attentive faces of the pub’s few patrons. “In fact, everybody’s watching you. Wondering what you’ll do next. Will you be cool? Will you panic? But you know what, Mr. DI Novak? Whatever you do, you need to realize that warrant card doesn’t give you the right to act like a fuck-witted douchebag.”
Elaine stood and took gentle hold of Peter’s hand. “It’s alright,” she said. In the same low voice, she told Novak, “It’s best that you wait outside. I believe Fred, the barman, can find you a table under the awning.” Novak sneered, so she continued. “Dr. Willend’s right. I’m your superior officer, and I have some business to finish. Do as I ask until I’m ready for you, or I’ll write you up for insubordination.”
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