‘He committed suicide. Did he tell you that?’
‘He did, yes.’
‘And I expect you could relate to that? Your own father?’
‘Of course. I felt for the boy. Anyone would.’
‘So, what happened to him? After Carrie died?’
‘I’ve no idea. He just disappeared. I never saw him again.’
‘You think he did it?’
‘I don’t know. In certain moods he might have done.’
‘You mean he was violent? Or suggestible?’
Deko won’t answer. Carrie, I think. In love with Jean-Paul. In love with another man.
‘Did you kill her? Carrie? Because she was pregnant? Because she was carrying another man’s child? Because she was once yours?’
‘No.’
‘You’re telling me the truth?’
‘Yes.’
I nod. I have absolutely no means of testing any of this story, but I badly want him out of my life and I think he knows that.
‘Why did you come here tonight?’ I ask him. ‘Be honest.’
‘Because I wanted to be straight with you. That matters to me, believe it or not.’
‘Why? Do you think it will make any difference?’
‘Probably not.’ For the first time he’s smiling. ‘But I always live in hope.’
‘Hope’s not enough. You should have been straight with me earlier.’
‘And?’
‘Now’s too late. Have you told me the whole story? I doubt it. Did you kill Carrie? You say you didn’t. Have you come here to kill me? Christ, I hope not. We’ve had good times, Mr Deko, and that’s what hurts most of all. Good times, the best times, and then you blew it because you thought you could fool me about Carrie. That would never have happened, not in the long run, because stuff like this always comes out. You could have had me for keeps, Mr Deko, if you want the truth. But like I say, now’s too late.’
He nods. I’ve never been so blunt in my life, even with Berndt, and I’m hoping to God I haven’t pushed him too far.
It seems not. I ask him to go next door and leave me in peace for a moment or two.
‘You want me to go?’
‘Not yet.’
He frowns, uncertain again, then steps next door. My dressing gown is hanging on the back of the door. I get out of bed and put it on. My bag is on the sofa in the lounge. Deko watches me empty the contents on the table and pick through all the rubbish until I find the little twist of paper.
‘Yours, I think.’ I give it to him.
He feels the shape of the ear stud between his fingertips, staring down at it.
‘You’ll never see me again,’ he says, avoiding my gaze. ‘I’ll let myself out.’
FORTY-TWO
I wait for Deko to leave. I hear the lift descending and from the balcony outside Pavel’s bedroom, moments later, I watch him disappear along the walkway that skirts the water. He has a small day sack on his back and, much to my relief, he doesn’t once look back.
I lock the balcony doors. DS Williams’s card is among the debris I’ve emptied from my bag. My mobile tells me it’s 04.47. When she finally answers, I explain what’s happened. For a moment, she seems to think I’ve woken up to find a stranger beside my bed.
‘Not at all,’ I say. ‘His name’s Deko. You’ve met him.’
‘Mr Miedema? Your friend? The guy who came to the station?’
‘Yes.’
‘So, what’s the problem?’
I’m tempted to laugh. Problem? Does she want a list?
‘I think he may have killed Carrie,’ I say. ‘And I think it might be my turn next.’
Williams sends a night-shift patrol car. It has to come from Exeter, and I’m showered and dressed by the time the driver appears at the main entrance downstairs. I’ve been checking the view from every window but there’s no sign of Deko.
Williams is waiting for me at the police station in Exmouth. Apart from the driver, whom she asks to stay, there appears to be no one else in the building. She’s obviously dressed in a hurry because her hair is a mess and I sense that Mandolin hasn’t been going well.
We’re talking in her office. I start to describe in detail what’s been happening, but she shakes her head.
‘Give me the headlines,’ she says.
Headlines? I tell her that Deko and I became lovers. I tell her that I trusted every word he said. I explain about the nursing home he’s doing up, and about his place on the Beacon. And finally I tell her about Amen.
‘This is a boat?’
‘A Breton Thonier. We sailed to France last week and picked up a hundred and fifty kilos of cocaine. That’s how he funds all these projects. He’s a drug smuggler.’
At last I have Williams’s full attention. She sits back in her chair, her arms crossed.
‘That’s a lot of money,’ she says. ‘You were part of this?’
‘I was part of him, part of his life. I didn’t know about the cocaine until we got to France.’
‘You didn’t think of going to the French authorities? The police? The Harbour Master? Maybe put a phone call through to us?’
‘No.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because I was in love with the man.’
‘Was? And now?’
I explain about finding the photos of Carrie on the phone. I’d challenged him about his name cropping up in her call records, but he’d told me there was nothing to worry about. Strictly business, he’d said. Nothing more. Then came the photos.
‘You challenged him again?’
‘God, no. We were alone. We were in the middle of nowhere. If he’d lied to me once, what else was he hiding? No, I put the phone back, kept my head down, hoped I’d get back in one piece. He’s a big man, he’s strong, he works out, he’s a boxer. Maybe that was all part of the attraction. But he’s sick, too. Obsessive. Whatever he wants, whatever he needs, he helps himself. Nothing stops him. Nothing gets in his way. That can be a turn-on, believe me, until you realize where it might lead. It’s odd. I thought Moonie was the crazy one. Now I’m not so sure.’
‘And Carrie?’
‘He was mad about her. Literally.’
‘Mad enough to kill her? Once she’d found another man?’
‘Yes. Or mad enough to have her killed. Either way, I’m guessing she wouldn’t be dead had she never met Deko.’
‘And you? What about you?’
‘He’s mad about me, too.’ I shrug. ‘He climbed three storeys to prove it. Might there be a pattern here?’
Williams is checking her watch. I give her an address for the nursing home, and for Deko’s place on the Beacon. She wants to know where Amen is moored, and where the cocaine has been stashed. Most important of all, she wants to know where Deko might have gone.
‘I’ve no idea,’ I tell her. ‘He’s told me he’ll leave me alone now but that’s another lie. He’ll be back, I know he will. The man can’t help himself.’
‘And that’s why you phoned me?’
‘Of course. I’m unfinished business. He’ll come looking because that’s what he does. I’m an itch in his life. He can’t leave me alone.’
Williams nods. The faintest smile has warmed her face.
‘You’re a lucky girl,’ she says.
‘For meeting him?’
‘For surviving.’
She asks me to leave her office. The uniformed driver is downstairs. He’ll keep an eye on me while she makes some calls. I get up and head for the door, then pause.
‘Am I under arrest?’
‘Not yet.’ Williams is already reaching for her phone. ‘That’ll be down to my SIO.’
The Senior Investigating Officer is a lean, balding forty-something with a Zapata moustache and the faintest suggestion of a limp. Williams’s phone call has roused him from his bed, and he’s occupying an office in the Major Incident Room by the time we get to police headquarters in Exeter. Williams has clearly briefed him in some detail on the phone but he ma
kes me go through the whole story again. The fact that he doesn’t make notes or record my account is oddly reassuring. A man with a memory, I think.
Once I’m done, he gets to his feet. He’s looking at the remains of the bruise on my forehead.
‘Did Miedema do that?’
‘No. I fell over.’
‘Really?’ I know he doesn’t believe me, but it doesn’t seem to matter. He and Williams leave the office to confer. More of Mandolin’s team are arriving by the minute, most of them nursing cups of coffee. I’ve found myself a seat in the corner of the big open-plan office, content to feel safe, and none of them even spare me a glance.
The SIO returns and beckons me into his office. I’m not under arrest, he says, but it will be helpful if I remain in the MIR for the time being. At some point this morning, a detective will need to take a full statement. In the meantime, Mandolin will be putting forensic teams into Deko’s nursing home, and the house on the Beacon, while a rummage crew board the boat on the estuary. Is there anything else, he asks, that I might want to tell him?
I nod.
‘There’s a man called Boysie,’ I say. ‘He’s a friend of Deko’s. He runs a hotel up in the woods on the edge of the Common.’
I tell him about the Hotel Zuma, and the hints from both Boysie and Deko that the business might be in trouble. When I mention the casino, the SIO nods.
‘You say your friend has done the cocaine run before?’
‘Twice.’
‘Similar weights?’
‘I think so.’
‘Then he’d need to wash that money. A casino would be perfect. They’re friends, you say?’
‘Bosom pals. Buddies. Birds of a feather.’
‘Chancers?’
‘Definitely.’ The word makes me smile. ‘But talented, too.’
I tell him a little about the efforts Boysie has made to brighten the hotel: the décor, the cuisine, the pigs running wild in the adjoining woods, even a couple of wild boar.
The SIO nods, and I watch him make a note of the hotel’s name. Then his head comes up again.
‘So, will I be free to go?’ I enquire. ‘After I’ve made my statement?’
‘No, I’m afraid not. For one thing you might be a flight risk. You might decide to bale out. And for another, to be frank, you’re currently our biggest asset. We think you’re probably right about Miedema. We think he’ll come back for you. We’ll make every effort to find him today, but if we don’t we’d like you to go back to that penthouse and spend the night there.’
‘Alone?’ I’m appalled.
‘No. There’s a DC I’ll be briefing. His name’s Brett. He’s a good lad. I think you’ll like him. He’ll be in the flat with you tonight and we’ll have other assets in the vicinity. It’s very hard to disappear in this country of ours, especially when you’ve every reason to hang around.’
‘For what?’
‘For the cocaine, Ms Andressen.’ He offers me a thin smile. ‘And for you.’
I nod. A clearing in the jungle, I think. And the tethered goat that will tempt Mr Deko out of cover.
‘What if I say no?’
‘That would be disappointing. To be frank, we’ve yet to take a view about you and the cocaine, but I’m a policeman, and policemen are born suspicious. Don’t get me wrong. This story of yours is persuasive. But did you really know nothing about what that man of yours was up to? Were you really expecting nothing more than a jolly? A couple of nights in France? A stroll on the prom? A meal or two?’
I hold his gaze. The deal doesn’t need spelling out. If I do Mandolin’s bidding, then all will be well. Otherwise, I’m probably doomed.
‘Can you keep me here against my will?’
‘Only if we arrest you.’
‘And would you do that?’
‘Of course. If needs must. In the meantime, you might fancy a spot of breakfast. Brett will take you to the canteen.’
Brett turns out to be a slightly older version of Malo. The same hint of attitude in his slow half-smile. The same hint of mischief in his light blue eyes. Whether or not this is deliberate I can’t say, but I’m beginning to develop a healthy respect for Operation Mandolin. A major enquiry like this, I’ve concluded, is a bit like an iceberg. Everything happens out of sight.
According to the badge on his lanyard, Brett’s surname is Atkinson. When I ask him whether he enjoys his job, he nods.
‘I love it,’ he says. ‘Just like my dad used to.’
We sort of bond over scrambled eggs and brown toast. He’s been reading the interview transcripts and he wants to know about my career in the movies. I assume at first that this is simply conversation, a courtesy you’d extend to any stranger, but the harder I listen to him, the more I realize that this is simply another way of getting to find out about me. Brett has a talent for subtle changes of direction, for skating lightly over the thinnest ice in my private life, for establishing that I became a divorcee with no fixed emotional abode, and that – in my own phrase – bringing up a stroppy adolescent in today’s culture can be a nightmare.
‘I’m sure you’re right,’ he says. ‘Me and Shaz only talk about having kids when we’re pissed. Am I right in thinking that must tell you something? Odds on, we’ll end up with a Labrador. Less bother.’
Back in the incident room, I settle down with a copy of the Daily Mail. Brett reappears at midday, but I turn down the offer of lunch.
‘You like music?’
‘I do. Very much.’
He crosses the office and rummages in a drawer in his desk. Then he’s back with a Walkman and a pair of headphones. He’s on Spotify and he can stream any music I want.
‘Berlioz,’ I say, thinking at once of Pavel. ‘Romeo and Juliet.’
I spell Berlioz for him. He taps the letters in and moments later I’m listening to the opening bars of the piece that always reduced Pavel to tears. Brett is watching me. His concern for my well-being is touching.
‘You want somewhere more comfortable?’
I do. There’s a smallish room attached to the MIR where detectives working late can snatch an hour or two’s kip. I choose the smaller of the two sofas but there’s still room to lie full-length. Brett finds a blanket and a couple of pillows in a cupboard and within seconds, regardless of Berlioz, I’m asleep.
FORTY-THREE
By the time I awake, the MIR is beginning to empty. It’s nearly six, and the Mandolin SIO has just brought the daily wash-up meeting to an end. In the car going back to Exmouth, Brett brings me up to speed. Forensic teams, he says, are still at work in both of Miedema’s properties. One room at the nursing home has definitely been slept in recently, and DNA samples have been submitted in the hope that they match material gathered from Carrie’s bedroom. This, he says, would confirm Miedema’s claim that he fed and watered Moonie in return for services rendered.
‘And the boat?’ I ask. ‘Amen?’
‘The floor was already up in the forepeak. Miedema must have started to ship the stuff out, but there’s plenty left.’
‘Like how much?’
‘Eighty-eight kilos so far and counting. The customs guys are there, too. They think it’s Christmas.’
He says a warrant is now out for Miedema’s arrest on suspicion of class A drug trafficking. I’ve been happy to supply one of my own photos of Deko to Mandolin and this has been circulated nationwide. I took the shot the day we walked the cliff path to la plage du Ris at Douarnenez. It shows Deko among the pine trees with the vast expanse of the beach behind him. He has his leather jacket hooked on one finger over his shoulder and the smile is completely unforced. Another person, I think, in another life. Not Miedema at all, but Deko.
At the apartment, I tell Brett to make himself comfortable. When I say he can have Felip’s bedroom for the night, he shakes his head. His job is to keep me safe. When I ask him about supper, he says he’ll be happy with pasta. When I offer him a drink, he shakes his head.
‘If only,’ he says.
>
I turn the TV on. The news ends with a preview of tonight’s big game. Brett, it turns out, is a big Tottenham fan.
‘You’ve got BT Sport here?’
‘I’m afraid not.’
He pulls a face. Tonight’s game, he says, is absolutely key for Spurs. Slot a couple of goals against Ajax, keep a clean sheet, and the return leg in Amsterdam should be in the bag.
‘Ajax was Deko’s team.’
‘Deko?’
‘Miedema.’
‘He’s into football?’
‘He is. That’s why we came back when we did. He needed to catch the game.’
I retire to the kitchen and put a saucepan of water on for the pasta. I normally make my own topping but tonight I can’t be bothered. A jar of the gloop I keep for Malo will have to do.
The thought of having to spend the evening in the apartment depresses me. The place is full of ghosts: first Pavel, now Deko. I drain the pasta and spoon on the topping. Back in the lounge, Brett is on the phone. I put the tray on a table beside the sofa and wait for the call to end. The DI I’ve met has a nickname.
‘That was Spud.’ Brett pockets his phone. ‘He’s on the boat. They’ve got it all out. A hundred and sixteen bricks.’
‘That’s millions.’ I’m trying to do the sums.
‘Yeah. Harry Kane’s kind of money. Silly, isn’t it?’
I nod at the pasta. ‘I’ve had a thought,’ I tell Brett. ‘Why don’t we go to the pub tonight? Watch the game?’
His first instinct is to shake his head. No way. Then he looks brighter. ‘You want to? You’re serious?’
‘I am. Anything’s better than here.’ Brett begins to fork at the pasta. Then he produces his phone again. ‘I’ll see what Spud says. No harm in trying, eh?’
The DI refers the decision to the SIO. By the time the Guvnor finally phones back, it’s gone half past seven and Brett’s given up.
‘Sir?’ He bends to the phone. Moments later, he’s on his feet. ‘Result!’ He sounds just like Malo. ‘As long as we’re back by ten.’
We drive to the middle of town. Brett knows the Exmouth Arms well. The pub is already bursting, smokers huddled on the pavement, more fans arriving by the second. Inside, it takes an age to get anywhere near the bar. The pub is L-shaped, with room for a couple of pool tables at the far end, and we’re spoiled for screens. I spot a table in the far corner only half-occupied. Brett, who knows the barmaid, mimes a raised glass. What am I drinking?
Off Script Page 30