by Elena Forbes
‘If you remember the names, let me know. They’ll be from one of the murder investigation teams at Hendon, so I should know who they are. You said you were in Kilburn?’
He nodded and flopped back against the sofa, stretching his arms out on either side along the back for a moment and flexing his stiff shoulders. He suddenly felt too tired to talk.
‘You went to the station there?’
‘Yeah. It was only a few minutes away from Mickey’s house. I spoke to various policemen. I don’t remember what their names were. They kept coming and going. I gave them a statement. Told them Mickey had been doing some work for us. Then they let me go.’
‘Anything else?’
‘They said somebody might be over to see me again at some point tomorrow.’
‘Please can you make a note of their names so I know who to speak to. I’d like to try and find out what’s going on.’
‘OK.’ She made him feel a little foolish for having lost the cards.
‘Do they have any idea when Mickey died?’
‘They weren’t letting on. They asked for my movements over the past week. That’s all. I told them when I last saw Mickey …’
‘Which was when?’
‘Last Thursday. Midday.’
‘So he can’t have been dead that long.’
‘No,’ he replied, thinking that from what he had seen of Mickey’s body, it looked pretty recent and fresh. Although the blood on Mickey’s face had dried, the black liquid pooled around his head was still a little wet and sticky-looking.
‘Where did you see him last Thursday? At his flat?’
‘No. I’ve never been there before. I happened to bump into him in the street outside Earl’s Court Tube. He was on his way over here. He wanted some money.’
‘What was he working on for you?’
He sighed and was silent for a moment. The quick-fire questions were doing his head in. His brain was fogged. It was like being back at the police station all over again. What was the point? Didn’t she trust him? Again, she reminded him of Kristen. Whenever Kristen wanted something, like a dog with a bone, she wouldn’t let go.
As if sensing his doubt, Eve leaned forwards towards him and folded her hands in her lap, as she held his gaze.
‘Please, Dan,’ she said quietly, with an unexpected gentleness. ‘I know you’ve had a really rough day and I’m sorry to bombard you with questions, but it’s very, very important you tell me everything you know. I’m here to help. Really I am. We’re on the same side.’ The softness of her voice was a soothing balm. He wanted to close his eyes and just listen to her talk. ‘If Mickey’s death is anything to do with the Sean Farrell case, I need to know. The police need to know.’
‘They didn’t seem to think it was,’ he said vaguely. ‘Or, at least, that’s the impression they gave.’ Even as he spoke, he knew it sounded weak.
‘They don’t know enough yet to make that judgement. Nor do we.’
She unbuttoned her jacket, took it off and with an economical sweep of her arm, hung it over the back of her chair. As she did so, he caught a hint of her perfume, something sweet and heady. She was wearing a plain, white blouse, which hugged the contours of her upper body like a glove, leaving little to the imagination. He took a gulp of cold vodka, swilling it round in his mouth, enjoying the bite of it on his tongue and the back of his throat. He felt the vodka warm his blood, as he told himself that her fears were groundless. Mickey’s death was surely nothing to do with the Sean Farrell case. Maybe if he quickly gave her what she wanted to know, she would go away. If he was going to get anything done tomorrow, let alone get through another police interrogation, he needed some sleep.
He yawned. ‘He was looking into two things, specifically. I think I told you before. Maybe I didn’t mention Mickey by name. He was trying to find Grace Byrne and Holly Crowther, Jane McNeil’s housemates. He was also supposed to be speaking to Kevin Stevens’ family.’
‘Where had he got to?’ she asked, a sudden urgency in her voice.
‘Not sure. I know he tried to find the girls via social media but drew a blank. They probably got married and changed their names. I don’t know what he did after that. The problem with Mickey is that he often used to go off on a tangent, do his own thing, then expect us to pay for it. Kristen – my ex-partner – my business partner …’ The phrase sounded so hollow and awkward and he was sure Eve must have noticed. ‘Well … she had several rows with Mickey about it. She kept him on a tight rein …’
‘But you specifically asked him to look into this journalist, Stevens, and the two girls?’
He nodded, aware of her sharp, dark eyes still upon him. ‘Yes. I did. Even so, I can’t be sure where he was with any of it. One thing would lead to another. He didn’t always keep us up to speed. He was a bit of an unguided missile. Brilliant in a way, but erratic. You never knew what he was going to turn up next. But it was usually useful and, occasionally, it was a real gem.’
‘What was his background?’ She was looking at him intently, as though every word was important.
He looked up at the ceiling for a moment. He had never really given Mickey much thought before, just accepted he knew what he was doing and let him get on with it. Why keep a dog and bark yourself, wasn’t that the phrase?
‘He was in his mid-to-late forties, I guess. Divorced. No family that I know of. At least he never mentioned any. He lived alone. Used to be with the Met, but he had a drink problem. Got done for drink-driving and was chucked out. This was before I was introduced to him. He had a few journalist pals, who gave him work, including my old editor. He always said Mickey was one of the best when he put his mind to it. Mickey was also cheap, compared to a lot of them, which is why we used him here.’
‘So, you went to his flat. Tell me exactly what happened. All the details, please.’
He suddenly felt desperately tired and wondered how much longer she was intending on staying. ‘The lights weren’t working. Either a fuse was blown or somebody had tripped it deliberately. I had to use my phone to look around, so I may have missed something. But I’m pretty sure his laptop was gone. At least, I didn’t see it anywhere. There was a filing cabinet in the sitting room. Somebody had been going through it in a hurry. There were files and paper everywhere.’
Her eyes lit up. ‘He wasn’t just untidy?’
‘It was more than that.’
‘Any idea where he might hide his stuff?’
He shrugged. As he glanced over her shoulder into the middle of the room, the little red memory stick caught his eye. It was sitting on the desk behind her, its metallic casing glinting in the overhead light. As his eyes rested on it, it almost seemed to grow in size, as though it were trying to get his attention. He looked away, focussing first on the ceiling, and then on the toes of his boots, then on the door to the office. If he told her about it, she would only tell him to hand it over to the police. Until he knew what was on it, he wasn’t going to do that. He might not tell her about it at all, he decided. He wasn’t sure he could trust her.
‘I don’t know,’ he said, trying to appear casual as though it were a straightforward question. ‘Or at least he never said anything to me about it.’ He glanced up at her.
She was studying him, head a little to one side, lips slightly parted. Her wavy, dark-brown hair formed a halo around her broad face and he thought she looked like a beautiful Pre-Raphaelite Madonna.
‘Let’s hope he backed his stuff up to the cloud,’ she said calmly. Was there a hint of irony in it, or was it his imagination?
He shook his head quickly. ‘Unlikely. Mickey was old-fashioned and very suspicious by nature. He used to go on and on about Big Brother and hackers. He didn’t trust technology and he was very secretive.’
She held his gaze. ‘Even so, he must have had some sort of a backup plan.’
‘It’s possible.’ He couldn’t look at her anymore. He stared down at his glass, swirling the melting ice around until he was almost dizzy, listeni
ng to it clink against the sides.
‘Well,’ she said, after a moment, ‘from the way you describe the state of the flat, it sounds like an amateur job to me. Or they were disturbed. It certainly wasn’t at all methodical, the way we would do things if we were looking for something. Perhaps they didn’t find what they were after.’
He looked up at her. ‘But they tortured him. He must have told them whatever they wanted to know, surely.’
‘Maybe. Maybe not. Hopefully, something will come to light and we’ll know more soon.’
She shifted in her chair and uncrossed her legs, still looking at him. He wondered what she was thinking. It couldn’t be pleasant, he decided. What must she think of him? Then he decided he didn’t care.
‘So why exactly did you go to his flat?’
Was she doubting his account? He sighed. ‘I gave him some money last week. It was part payment for some work he’d done, plus expenses.’ He decided to miss out the part about the sick mother. ‘He said he needed to go to the races, to do with Jane McNeil.’
She arched her brows. ‘Horse races?’
‘Yes. His last words to me were “Gotta see a man about a horse”.’
For a moment, he pictured Mickey’s chubby face, and the cheeky wink Mickey had given him as he tapped the side of his broad, fleshy nose before heading back down into Earls Court station. Then the image of Mickey as he’d last seen him came to mind again, the smell in the room, the pokey, seedy flat. What a place. What a way to die. If only he’d questioned him the other day, shown a little more interest. But he’d just handed over five hundred pounds fresh from the cash point and felt, yet again, as though he’d been scammed. Also, they were standing in the middle of the street, people milling around them, which made it awkward to pursue his questions. Mickey wasn’t one to give up his secrets easily, at least not until he was ready. He probably would have clammed up even if Dan had pressed him, particularly after he had handed over the money. Of course, he should have held it back until Mickey told him what was going on, but hindsight was a wonderful thing. No point beating himself up about it. Zofia was there to do that.
‘I found something at the flat,’ he said after a moment. There was no harm in telling her, he decided, as a gesture of goodwill. Maybe then she’d take the rest of what he’d said at face value. He took his phone out of his shirt pocket, scanned through the photos until he found the one he wanted. ‘This was sitting face down in the printer tray.’ He stretched across and showed her the image of the Racing Post race card.
She peered at it for a moment. ‘I can’t see the details. Can you send me a copy?’
He texted it over and she got up and went to her bag and took out her phone as it chimed. She studied the screen for a moment, enlarging the image with her fingers, then scrolling down over it. ‘Was Mickey a gambling man?’ she asked, glancing over at him.
‘Not as far as I know. At least he never mentioned it. And when we were discussing Kevin Stevens, he didn’t come across as being the least bit interested in horse racing. In fact, now I think about it, I remember his making a remark about people being fools to waste time and money on the sport.’
‘Nine runners, which means nine jockeys, trainers and owners, or syndicates,’ she was saying. ‘I wonder what he was after.’ She was standing with her back to the window, one hand casually propped on her hip, studying her phone again. His gaze rested unchecked on the blatant curve of her breasts. It struck him how odd it was to be closeted there with her all alone, having such an extraordinary conversation, at such a late hour. He barely knew her. She looked over at him and met his eye. ‘You left the original paper at the flat, I hope?’ Her tone was suddenly sharp and he felt as though he had been slapped down, even though she couldn’t have had a clue what he had been thinking.
‘Yes. Don’t worry. I put it back exactly how it was, face down in the printer tray.’ I’m not a complete idiot, he wanted to say.
‘Your prints will be on it, but you can explain that when they ask you. In fact, I’d mention it before they ask. It will add weight to your story …’
‘It’s not a story,’ he replied forcefully. Did she really suspect him of having been involved in Mickey’s death? Perhaps he was being overly defensive, but she was a policewoman through and through.
‘Your account, I meant,’ she said, in a softer voice, returning to her chair and tucking the phone away in her jacket pocket. ‘The key question is, did Mickey make it to Ascot last Saturday and, if so, what was so interesting about that particular race? You should crosscheck all the names on that race card with the Sean Farrell files. You should also check up on what Mickey was doing regarding Kevin Stevens and the two girls, see how far he got. Just to make doubly sure there’s no connection.’
He made no reply. It was something he had already thought of and he didn’t need her telling him what to do, like he was a trainee. She clearly had a low opinion of him and he was tempted to make a pointed comment about what he’d read in the papers about her, concerning the North London shooting. But something in her expression stopped him. He saw, for the first time, genuine concern in her eyes. He still didn’t understand why she was getting involved. Alan Peters had been a little vague on the phone, but reading between the lines, he assumed it was for money. It didn’t make sense otherwise. In a way, it didn’t matter if she were being paid, so long as she was straight with him.
‘How was your meeting with Sean Farrell?’ he asked, wanting to move on. Had Sean convinced her he was innocent? Or was she still as sceptical as before? Did it really matter what she thought? He was just being insecure, wanting reassurance that he was right about Sean Farrell, which was stupid. He should trust his instincts more.
‘Interesting in a way,’ she said flatly. ‘Something came up that I wanted to ask you about. When you spoke to Jane’s parents, did they mention giving her money, or paying off her credit card?’
He shook his head. ‘I told you, I didn’t get very far with them.’
‘Sean described her as spoiled, with a rich daddy. Is that true?’
‘I know very little about them, other than the fact that there was some sort of row and she decided she wanted to get away from them and be more independent. It’s why she took the job at Westerby.’
‘Did the police ever consider blackmail as a possible motive? It’s just something Sean said about her being nosy by nature and interesting herself in other people’s business. He also said she liked to spend money, that she had quite a lot of cash on her at one point.’
‘I’ve never heard anything about that. Nor did it come out in any of the papers or interviews I’ve read. I imagine the police would have gone through her bank account and credit card statements very thoroughly.’ He looked at her questioningly.
She nodded. ‘I’d hope so. He mentioned another man, who Jane had been seen with in a bar. The police ruled him out, but I’d like to talk to him, all the same.’
‘I think you mean Steve Wilby. Last I heard, he was working at the Mercedes showroom in Swindon. I spoke to him about six months ago, but he couldn’t shed any light. He had an alibi …’
‘I know. He still spent some time with her, though, and he was there when Sean made that scene. I’d be interested in his impressions of both of them. I’m going to drive down to Marlborough tomorrow, try and talk to a couple of people who used to know Jane, in order to get a more rounded view.’ She was quiet for a moment, then added: ‘Can you tell me a bit about the Westerby estate and the Michaels family?’
‘I think I told you, Tim Michaels died a while back. The estate and racing yard are now run by his son and daughter. I’ve got some stuff on them, if you want.’
He struggled to his feet and went over to one of the bookcases. Scanning the shelves, he pulled out a dusty box file and took it over to an empty desk. He rummaged through it and, after a moment, returned to the sofa, handing her a foolscap folder.
‘Here you go. There’s a map of the area as well, and the woods
where her body was found, which you might find useful. There’s also a lot of stuff about the family and the racing yard on their website. I doubt if they’ll talk to you, though. I think I told you, since Tim Michaels died, they’ve upped the security big time. They’re very private. When I sneaked in to take a peek at Jane McNeil’s former cottage, I was caught by Harry Michaels and marched off the property. As he was carrying a shotgun at the time, I didn’t argue. Unless you go posing as a prospective owner, you won’t get past the entrance gate.’
TWELVE
Back home, Eve lay in bed, in the dark. The room was getting a little chilly, the heating having recently gone off, and she pulled the soft, blue woollen throw Jason had given her over her legs for extra warmth. She had taken a sleeping pill but it hadn’t kicked in yet. She felt wired, unable to relax, let alone sleep, thinking over everything that Dan had told her. Mickey Fraser’s death had changed things. The fact that he had been tortured before he was killed, and his flat searched, seemed to point towards his having stumbled on something of value to someone. Dan seemed to think it had nothing to do with the Farrell case, but she sensed it was what he wanted to believe, based on what the police had said. Without knowing what other cases Mickey had been working on, it was impossible to form a view. She needed to find out as soon as possible who in Hendon was handling the case, so that she could get more information.
Another thing was troubling her. Dan had been very prickly when questioned. She put his defensiveness down to his being tired and not fully trusting her. She was prepared to make allowances, given what he had just been through. But there had been something really odd about his manner at one point. She thought back to that particular part of their dialogue, picturing him in front of her for a moment, lounging back on the sofa, one long leg crossed over the other, the half-full tumbler of vodka waving around in his hand like a baton as he spoke. He had been struggling to stay awake, as he talked about what was missing from Mickey’s flat and the chaos in the front room. What he said about Mickey’s being secretive about his work and not trusting technology made sense. As a PI and an ex-cop, Mickey would have known how easily systems could be hacked and information corrupted or stolen. In his line of work, security was everything. Dan had been relaxed up until that point, looking as though he was ready for bed. But when she asked if Mickey had anywhere in particular where he hid his backups or more sensitive files, Dan’s facial muscles tensed and he glanced away, his gaze darting here and there around the room. It was all over in a beat, but she knew what she had seen. The righteous man of principles was a bad liar, a really crap liar, as well as a hypocrite. The fact that he clearly thought he had got away with it, made it worse. Did he really think she was born yesterday? He had shown her the photo of the sheet of paper, which he had found in Mickey’s printer, almost as an afterthought, or more likely a diversion. But she was sure there was something else. Whatever it was, she intended to get it out of him, one way or another.