Grace sighed. ‘Quite right. But have a word all the same, will you? We might get lucky.’
Duncan nodded. ‘I’ll also check with the Met, see what they’re doing their end.’
‘Good. Thanks, Duncan.’ She watched him return to his desk, stopping beside Lance, who must have slipped in without her noticing, to place a friendly hand on his shoulder. She watched as Lance looked up at the older man and gave a ghost of a smile; his face was pale and his brown eyes sad and hopeless. How was she going to look into those eyes and not tell him the truth?
Not wanting to ambush Lance in the open-plan office, she waited for him to come to the relative privacy of her cubicle, which he soon did.
‘How are you?’ she asked. ‘You know you don’t have to be here if you don’t want to.’
He shrugged as if he didn’t care either way. ‘Any news?’
‘You understand that I can’t yet share any operational details with you. I’m so sorry, Lance, but my hands are tied. But there is one thing you need to know.’ She knew she was rushing, gabbling, exposing her nervousness at wanting to get this over and done with before she weakened. She took a breath and tried to slow down. ‘Sit down, please.’
Lance sat, his shoulders bent, his hands between his knees but his eyes fixed on hers.
She took another deep breath. ‘His employers at Buckingham Gate Associates have contacted Peter’s family.’ She paused – even his name was possibly a lie – but the rest still had to be said. ‘His body will eventually be released to them. They want a private funeral and have said that they do not wish any details to be made public. At least for the moment.’ Those last words were wishful thinking, but she had to throw Lance some morsel of consolation.
He stared at her, and she couldn’t divine whether his utter dismay was incomprehension, anger or desolation. He sighed and seemed to deflate physically in front of her. ‘You keep thinking that people have stopped being like that, you know?’
Grace fought back the longing to assure him that the door closed in his face had nothing to do with the denial and distaste that accompanied prejudice and ignorance, but she had no choice but to let him think that. ‘I’m so sorry, Lance. If there’s anything I can do.’
‘If I write a letter, will Buckingham Gate forward it?’
‘Yes, I’m sure they will. I honestly don’t know if you’ll get a response, but I promise to make sure that it reaches Peter’s family.’
Lance placed a steadying hand on each knee and pushed himself to his feet. ‘And cause of death?’ he asked, looking at the floor.
‘Blunt-force trauma to the head.’ Grace no longer cared whether protocol ruled that she shouldn’t divulge this information. ‘He would have died almost instantaneously. Probably literally never knew what hit him,’ she said, echoing the tired young medic in A & E.
Lance sat back down slowly, his head in his hands. Grace got up from behind her desk and went to kneel beside him, putting her arms around him as best she could. ‘Go home, Lance,’ she whispered. ‘Or take my keys and go to my house, if that’s any better for you. I can make up the bed in the spare room. Stay as long as you like. I’m here. I’ll do whatever I can to help you get through this. You’re not alone.’
He pulled back from her, briefly pressed her arm and then let go in order to drag a cotton handkerchief out of his trouser pocket. He wiped his face. ‘I’ll go home,’ he said. ‘I’ll call you later.’
‘Shall I get someone to drive you?’
‘No, I’ll be all right.’
Powerless, she had to watch him go. In those few moments she became aware of the bowed heads and careful hush around him, and was glad for his sake that the reaction to his lover’s death had been not gossip but respectful sympathy.
As soon as Colin returned to the MIT office, she knocked on his door. ‘I’ve sent Lance home,’ she said. ‘I told him the family want no contact.’
‘How did he take it?’
‘I imagine he thinks they’re homophobic.’
‘That may be all to the good,’ said Colin. ‘The less mystery he suspects the better.’
Grace wasn’t sure which she hated him for the most – his heartless pragmatism or his detestable complacency.
‘So where are we up to with the investigation, such as it is?’ he asked, clearly oblivious to her thoughts.
‘The clients who took Peter Burnley to dinner are from the local office of a big wealth-management company called Oakmoor. They were networking in the hope he’d bring in new clients, new business. They said he’d been perfectly relaxed and the evening was uneventful. I wasn’t able to access his mobile phone records because they’ve been blocked, but Lance’s phone shows that Peter Burnley called around the time the clients say they all left the hotel. He and Lance spoke for three or four minutes. Lance’s computer also checks out. Unless he was in two places at once or had an accomplice, he was at home watching the end of a film around the time of the killing.’
‘What about the bar in Colchester?’ asked Colin.
‘Nothing,’ said Grace, well aware that the more time passed, the less people would remember noticing anything or feel moved to come forward with new information. ‘However, we have got a more precise timeline from a couple of guys who remembered chatting to him in the bar. He had one beer and said he was off home to bed. None of the customers that night has any relevant previous or gives cause for concern. No one remembers seeing him leave the bar, and, apart from a camera that picked up his car en route from the Dedham Vale hotel, we’ve nothing else so far on CCTV. Nothing at all to show how the offender arrived at or left the scene. And there are no obvious links to similar crimes.’
‘Fine,’ said Colin. ‘You’ve been very thorough. We can file it as a Category B homicide, and no doubt our friends will be relieved to write it off as an attempted mugging gone wrong.’
Grace suppressed a fresh wave of hatred. ‘So what do they think did happen?’ she asked sharply. ‘Do they have a hand in the lack of evidence?’
‘I doubt we’re going to be taken into their confidence,’ said Colin. ‘Chalk it up as one less thing for us to worry about. I assume you have plenty of other work to get on with?’
Grace, appalled, looked at him in amazement. Was that even a glimmer of amusement in his eyes?
‘Come on, Grace,’ he chided. ‘Lance will get over it. They’d not been together all that long.’
‘Long enough.’
‘Well, I’m sorry. But it’s not like we’re agreeing to some dreadful cover-up. This really does look like a mugging gone wrong, and, for all we know, that’s all it was. Just bad luck. The wrong place at the wrong time.’
Grace could feel the phone in the pocket of her suit jacket vibrating and pulled it out to look at the screen. ‘Sorry, sir, I have to take this.’
Colin waved her away, and she was careful to shut his office door behind her before she took the call. ‘Lance?’
‘I’ve just got home,’ he said. ‘Can you come over? Something’s not right. I think someone’s been in here while I was out this morning.’
24
Grace had been tempted to take Duncan with her: he had a good eye for detail and, given that Lance himself seemed uncertain on the phone whether anything was actually missing, it would be helpful to have a second opinion. But it was cowardly to use someone else as a shield. She had to go alone.
Lance buzzed open the outer door and stood waiting inside his flat. His skin was clammy and his eyes had a febrile brightness. ‘Someone’s been in here,’ he said without any greeting. ‘I just know it.’
‘Do you think you’ve been burgled?’ asked Grace.
‘Not that I can see. But, you know, I sensed the air was different the moment I walked in. Then I noticed a drawer that always sticks was properly closed, and I got the jitters. So I took a proper look around. The stuff on my desk isn’t the way I left it. It looks arranged. And my kayak’s been moved, no question. Come and see. There are marks on the carpet
that shouldn’t be there.’
He led the way quickly into a small room that Grace hadn’t really taken note of before. There was a chair and a small desk with a metal cabinet beside it and bookshelves above, but most of the space was taken up with a red kayak, paddle, life jacket and helmet.
‘I didn’t know you were into kayaking,’ she said.
‘It’s how Peter and I met,’ he said tersely, already squatting down to point out a dusty ridge on the carpet. ‘Look. I haven’t moved the kayak since September. My cleaner just vacuums around it, and anyway she hasn’t been here since last week. You can see here where it’s been shifted. Someone’s moved it. Someone’s been in here.’
Standing in the doorway, Grace had a mental image of someone from MI5 or Special Branch or even a police anti-corruption unit, for all she knew, moving furtively around Lance’s home. She sympathized fully with the panic that had crept into his voice. What should she do? Encourage him to ask questions, to ferret out the truth for himself? Or divert him?
‘But there’s nothing missing?’ she asked. ‘Nothing obvious, anyway?’
‘No. But then I don’t know what they were after, what they wanted.’
‘Did you put the alarm on when you left?’
‘Yes. I mean, I must have. I’m pretty sure I turned it off with the fob when I came home. You know what it’s like. You do these things on automatic pilot. I don’t consciously remember.’
‘You are still in shock,’ she said gently, hating herself for such blatant gaslighting. ‘You’re sure you’re not just being hypersensitive, aware of things you normally wouldn’t notice?’
‘My cleaner comes every Wednesday,’ he insisted. ‘That kayak has been moved since then. And not by me.’
‘Who else has keys? And an alarm fob?’
Lance shook his head as if trying to clear his thoughts. ‘Only my cleaner,’ he said. ‘And Peter, of course.’ He dropped down onto the desk chair.
Grace’s heart sank. ‘But Peter’s keys are safely bagged up with the rest of his things.’ She tried to inject as much dismissive authority into the statement as she could while a scenario unfolded in her head in which the organization Peter had worked for had access to all his belongings and so its people would have no trouble letting themselves in and out of Lance’s flat. They must also have been monitoring Lance’s movements, to know when the flat was unoccupied. She felt repulsed by the notion of one service spying on another when they were all supposed to be on the same side.
She realized that Lance was staring at her as if she’d suddenly turned into an alien. ‘How about a cup of tea or something?’ she said, turning away to head for the kitchen.
She already had the kettle on and had found two mugs in a cupboard before he joined her, though he remained standing by the doorway. ‘Who did the post-mortem?’ he asked.
‘Samit,’ she answered, surprised by the question. ‘Why?’
‘You are telling me the truth?’
‘About Peter’s death?’ she asked, relieved that she could find one bit of safe ground. ‘Yes, of course. And no one’s more straightforward and independent than Samit Tripathi.’
Lance licked his dry lips and nodded, looking at the floor rather than at her. ‘OK.’
The kettle came to the boil and switched itself off, but she ignored it and went over to him, taking hold of his arms. ‘If you want to report this as a burglary, you go ahead. I can make sure it’s prioritized. Maybe your alarm box has some electronic record of being turned on and off. If you want to get to the bottom of this, we will.’
Lance took a deep breath and raised his eyes to her. ‘No, it’s fine. I must’ve just spooked myself.’
‘Are you sure? Really sure? If you want it followed through, it’s not a problem.’
‘No,’ he said decisively. ‘I don’t even know what day it is, let alone whether I shut a drawer properly. I’m sorry I dragged you over here.’
Grace fought the impulse to tell him he was right, to apologize and beg his forgiveness for encouraging him to distrust his own instincts. Lance was the closest friend she’d made here in Essex, and it was dreadful to look him straight in the face and not tell him what she knew. And yet she had to assume that unknown officers in a parallel service had good reason to do what they were doing. Surely it would be unforgivably stupid to stumble blindly into someone else’s operation without any idea of what she was meddling with? After all, she knew nothing about Peter beyond that he wasn’t who he’d claimed to be. And that alone might devastate Lance. Even if she told him what little she knew, was that really going to help him get over his shock when they had no way of finding out the rest?
‘Have you got time to stay?’ Lance’s query broke into her thoughts.
‘Yes, of course.’ She was damned if she’d compound her bad faith by abandoning him because right now leaving seemed a much easier option. She let Lance make some coffee and followed him through to the sitting room.
‘Have you got your laptop back yet?’ she asked, now feeling guilty that she’d never thought about how he’d have to manage without it right when he probably needed it most.
‘Yes, thanks. Duncan had it sent over.’
‘Good. That was kind.’
‘Yes.’ He sipped his drink thoughtfully. ‘He mentioned that I could go away. That he could sort somewhere for me to stay, a welfare break, through the Federation.’
‘Would that help?’ Grace despised her reactive sting of relief. ‘Do you have someone to go with?’
Lance shook his head. ‘My sister offered, but maybe I’d be less lonely on my own, somewhere where there are no associations with anything. And it’s not as if I’ve got funeral plans to keep me busy.’
‘We could hold a private service, a memorial, if that would help?’
‘No. Thanks. Or later, maybe. I’m just so hurt, you know? I can’t get my head around what’s happened. All I want to do is run away.’
‘I know it’s not the same, but I felt like that when my dad died. But you can’t outrun it. Not in the end.’
‘I know. But how else am I to get through the next days and weeks?’
‘Then go,’ said Grace. ‘Let Duncan get it all organized for you. You can always come back if it’s not right.’
‘I’m not leaving you in the lurch at work?’
‘Lance, please, do whatever’s best for you. That’s all I care about.’
‘Thanks, Grace.’ He leaned across the brown leather sofa and kissed her cheek. ‘Sorry, but do you mind if I ask you to go now?’
*
In her car driving back to the office Grace felt worthless and ashamed. She had no idea whether she’d done the right thing in lying to Lance – and she wasn’t going to attempt to dress it up: her deliberate withholding of the truth was a lie. She tried to comfort herself with the notion that she could tell him later, when he was less raw, less volatile and could begin to handle the notion that even the truth was a dead end. He’d despise her later for having lied to him today, but that was her problem.
She parked behind police HQ and got out of her car into the chill January air feeling that she was accomplishing nothing and letting everybody down.
25
Robyn couldn’t quite acknowledge to herself why she had ‘forgotten’ to mention to either of her parents that she had a half-day at school and would be coming home unexpectedly early. Once the idea had entered her head that her father was capable of lying to her, she had watched him carefully. She wasn’t even sure what she thought he might be lying about. That wasn’t what really mattered. And anyway the only actual lie she knew for certain he had told her was small and insignificant, told only for her sake, to spare her feelings. Everybody told that kind of lie. It meant nothing.
What was frightening and had gnawed away at her all the time she’d been busy memorizing her chemistry and biology was the ease and fluency with which he’d done it, his relaxed smile and clear gaze. For him to be so convincing a liar that no thought of
possible duplicity had ever previously entered her head meant that she could no longer take a single word he said at face value. Everything he’d ever said to her could be a lie. He could be a lie. Or she could be totally wrong, blowing something trivial up out of all proportion because she was in a state about Angie and exams and leaving home for the first time in the autumn.
It wasn’t that she wanted to think such thoughts about him. She hated it, hated herself. But now that the idea had taken root, she couldn’t seem to find a way to kill it, to prove to herself that she was wrong.
Robyn told Sally’s mother she was happy to be dropped at the end of the track, and she waved goodbye to them before shouldering her school rucksack and setting off down the gentle slope towards home. Along the road, even in a four-by-four, the high hedges shut off the view of the spreading water, and only after turning onto the track did the view open up. Seeing it now, she felt she could breathe again and hoped perhaps her dark thoughts would simply blow away in the clean, sharp wind. But she was not to have the view to herself today: a familiar green van was slowly approaching, and she could soon make out her favourite driver at the wheel.
She stood waiting on the verge for Kenny’s van to come past. He stopped, wound down his window and greeted her with a smile.
‘Packed it in for the day?’ he asked.
‘Yes. It’s exam week.’
‘Ah well, I was never too hot at exams. But then look at me now!’ He banged the flat of his hand against the metal door, laughing at his own joke.
Kenny’s customary friendliness cheered her. She realized she knew nothing about him despite the fact that he had been picking up and dropping off for her dad for almost as long as she could remember. She felt impelled to ask him something, it didn’t really matter what. ‘Where are you off to now?’ she asked. ‘Long drive?’
‘Nah, not really,’ he said. ‘And at least there’s no more snow.’ He put the van into gear. ‘Don’t work too hard!’ He waved out of his window as the van trundled carefully on up the track.
Shot Through the Heart: DI Grace Fisher 2 Page 13