by Elena Forbes
‘Elderflower, please.’ She had drunk more than enough of the overly sweet mixture but she wanted to keep him company.
‘Damon, get the lady a drink, will you?’
‘Do you remember Jane McNeil?’ Eve asked, as Damon disappeared into the throng.
‘Damon was just a lad at the time, but I remember the case,’ he said. ‘It was in all the papers and it caused quite a stir at the yard. Why do you want to speak to me?’
‘Because you called Jane on her mobile, the week before she died.’
He shrugged. ‘Harry told me the girl used to work in Tim’s office. Maybe that’s why I called her. Does that answer your question?’
‘It was her personal phone you called. She didn’t use it for work.’
‘She must’ve given me her number, then.’ He smiled, as though it was something that happened to him all the time.
Instead of Damon, a waiter appeared at her side with a small tray and handed her a tumbler of elderflower.
‘So you don’t remember what it was about?’
‘Look, it was a very long time ago. I don’t even remember what the girl looked like.’
‘So, you have no recollection of her at all?’ she asked, noticing how he didn’t use Jane’s name. ‘You made five or six phone calls to her phone in the month before she died, as well as the two in the week immediately before.’
He spread his huge hands, as though it was par for the course. ‘I’m a happily married man. Need I say more? I went through all of this with the cops at the time. They gave me a right going-over because of those calls, but I came out of it with a clean bill of health.’
‘Did you see her at the party here ten years ago?’
He stared at her as if she were mad and gestured to the room with his glass. ‘Look around you, luv. There are a couple of hundred people here. Do you really expect me to remember any of them ten years from now?’
‘But you knew Jane. You had her mobile phone number and you used it several times.’
His face hardened. ‘Harry said to help you, and I’m trying my best. But I told you, I’m a happily married man. End of.’
Again, he wasn’t giving her a straight answer, but she had no authority and no leverage to force him to reply, as he well knew. It was futile pressing for more.
‘I thought they caught the bloke,’ he added.
‘Yes. He’s in jail. It’s possible he didn’t do it.’
‘Really?’ He let the word hang, looking at her with an amused expression. ‘You saying the plods got it wrong?’
‘It’s possible.’
‘Well, it wouldn’t be the first time. Harry says you’re a policewoman with the Met.’
‘Yes. But I’m not here in an official capacity.’
He grinned, this time showing a wide arc of perfect, white crowns. ‘Pleased to hear it. Pretty girl like you should be enjoying the party and not poking around in things that don’t concern you. It’s all dead and buried.’
‘You mean like Jane McNeil?’
He was still smiling. ‘Waste of your time. I’d give it a rest, if I was you, luv.’
In spite of the smile, she knew she was being warned off. It didn’t bother her and, if anything, it intrigued her. Why should he care? If only she had access to the full police files, she could see how far he’d been questioned, although she assumed they had checked his alibi thoroughly.
‘You’re not me and I don’t need your advice.’
‘Sorry I can’t help you, then,’ he added, with mock politeness, then turned back to his group of ladies and sat down again.
She returned to her table and collected her handbag and coat, thinking that it was about time to go, when she saw Gavin coming towards her through the now thinning crowd. ‘I’m glad I found you. I thought you’d already left. Do you have a minute?’
He pulled up a couple of chairs, removing a sleeping Jack Russell from one of them, and set them close together facing one another.
‘Have you had fun?’ he asked, as they sat down. From his expression, he didn’t look as though he had been having fun at all.
‘It was all very interesting. Very impressive. I never imagined anything on this scale. There must be a lot of money involved.’
‘You can certainly say that,’ he said, almost bitterly. ‘Christ, it’s so hot in here, I can’t breathe.’ He took off his jacket and tossed it over the back of his chair, then unknotted his tie and tugged it roughly out of his collar. ‘Are you feeling any better?’ he asked, leaning forwards towards her, as he ran his hand hurriedly through his hair.
‘Better?’
‘Yes.’ He hesitated, as though he didn’t know how to begin. ‘I’m worried about you, Eve. I mean, I was worried when I saw you this morning. Are you really OK?’
There was something intense, almost emotional about the way he spoke. His face was flushed and it struck her that, like almost everybody else in the tent, apart from her, he had probably had quite a lot to drink. One of the problems of being sober was how people around you changed when they drank. They became repetitive, told stories that weren’t at all funny, lost their inhibitions and said and did stupid, uncharacteristic things. Worries, even simple ones, took on gargantuan proportions and even for the most controlled of people, emotion overcame reason. It was why she hated parties and large, prolonged gatherings. She disliked seeing people embarrass themselves. Now she had the feeling that Gavin – the most controlled and level-headed of men – was about to say something he might regret. She had never seen him so ill at ease before. Judging by the way he had been that morning, he seemed to have enough worries of his own. Whatever lay behind it, she decided not to add to them by voicing her own concerns. No doubt he would probably think nothing of it in the morning.
She met his gaze. ‘Please don’t worry about me. And I’m sure you’re right. It was just a poacher.’
He looked unconvinced. ‘Even so … I’ve got to go back to London. But I don’t like leaving you here on your own.’
‘I’ll be fine.’ He was right. The room was extremely hot and she felt suddenly overcome by tiredness. She had barely had any sleep and she needed to get back to the cottage and lie down.
‘OK,’ he said, nodding slowly, but she could tell he wasn’t happy. ‘Look, I’ve got to leave in about half an hour. Someone’s giving me a lift. I really wanted to see you – on your own, I mean. I want to talk to you.’ There was a sharp explosion of female laughter just behind them and he glanced briefly over his shoulder, irritated, then turned and bent forwards towards her. She could smell the whisky on his breath. ‘God, I hate these stupid parties. Every year the same bloody thing. I’ve done far more than my fair share of glad-handing today. The only way to get through it is to drink and I’m afraid I’ve probably had a few too many.’
Yet again, she pictured him as the outsider in the Westerby world and saw how much it rankled – even more than she had imagined, perhaps. Or maybe his disquiet was symptomatic of deeper issues.
‘I wouldn’t worry. Everybody seems to be having a good time.’
‘Not me, and not you either, I suspect. Can we meet up in London, maybe for a drink or a coffee? Whatever suits you. I’ll be there all week. I need to talk to you. There are some things … Some things I need to understand.’
His tone was urgent, almost desperate. She gazed at him, wondering what he meant, and if she should say yes. Something was definitely bothering him. Surely, there was no harm in it, after all this time. Perhaps it would also do him good to get whatever was troubling him off his chest. Perhaps he needed to talk to somebody on the outside, who wasn’t part of his world. Before she could answer, she heard Harry’s voice just behind her.
‘There you are, Eve. I’ve been looking for you everywhere. Was Stuart helpful?’ He put his hand on her shoulder and gave it a little squeeze.
A flash of irritation crossed Gavin’s face. She turned to look up at Harry, but felt suddenly dizzy. She blinked, looked back down again and tried
to focus on Gavin, who was leaning back in his chair, like a grumpy child, arms tightly folded.
‘Hope I haven’t interrupted something,’ Harry said, his hand still on her shoulder.
‘You are interrupting us,’ Gavin said sharply. ‘I need to speak to Eve before I go.’
‘What are you doing later, Eve?’ Harry asked.
She tried to speak, tried to stand up, but found she couldn’t. Nothing was working. Her body was like lead. She tried again and slumped forwards.
Gavin caught her and held her. ‘Eve, what’s the matter?’ His voice was strangely echoey.
‘Do you always have this effect on women, Gavin?’ Harry said, from somewhere above her. There was a hoot of male laughter behind. Were they laughing at her?
She couldn’t keep her eyes open. She felt strong arms around her, lifting her back into her seat, holding her up so she wouldn’t fall. The din in the room reverberated around her head. She felt on fire. Everything was spinning. She was going to be sick.
‘Poor thing. Is she ill?’ A woman’s voice asked in a motherly tone. ‘It’s SO hot.’
‘She’s had too much to drink, that’s all,’ someone else said. Another raucous laugh.
‘She doesn’t drink,’ she heard Gavin say sharply, almost in her ear.
‘If she’s feeling faint, you need to lay her down flat,’ the woman said. ‘Let the blood get to the brain.’
‘No, she just needs fresh air. It’s very hot in here.’ A man this time.
‘You’d better take her home.’ Another male voice. Was it Harry’s?
‘Is there a doctor here?’ someone asked.
Yes, a doctor. Get me a doctor. Her lips wouldn’t move.
‘She probably just needs to sleep it off,’ somebody else said.
The voices started to meld into one. She tried to speak. Even though she was struggling to stay conscious, her brain was still functioning, just about. She knew what had happened. All the classic signs. Rohypnol. GHB. Ketamine. So many options. Which one? When? Who? I’ve been drugged. Someone’s spiked my drink. But the words wouldn’t come. She had been anaesthetized, she wanted to scream.
TWENTY-EIGHT
It was almost midnight. Dan lay in the dark on the narrow camp bed in the back office, listening to music on his phone. He had finally been allowed to leave the police station a few hours earlier. From what he could gather, the police seemed to think Mickey’s death must have been related to his personal life, which was reassuring. Although they hadn’t explicitly said so, he got the impression that they thought it unlikely to be related to any of the cases Mickey had been working on, let alone the Sean Farrell investigation. Their assumption was that the man who had called Dan was some sort of sexual contact, who had tried to extort money from Mickey and, possibly helped by others, killed him, then tried to make it look like a robbery. They made much of the fact that Dan said the men both spoke with foreign accents. The police also still seemed to think that Dan might be tied up with it all too, and their new ludicrous theory was that maybe he, too, had had some sort of a sexual relationship with Mickey. At that point, Dan’s solicitor had stepped in and halted proceedings. They had no proof of anything. They were trying to weave a story out of thin air.
Dan had no idea what had happened to Hassan, although the police still seemed certain that he did. However, the older man, Nasser, who he had met in Covent Garden, and whom the police had chased, was definitely dead. They had shown Dan a photo of him, eyes closed, presumably lying in a mortuary fridge somewhere. They said he had been hit by a car and killed outright. An unfortunate accident, apparently. They had no idea who he was but Dan identified him as the man who had approached him outside the Apple Store. He had to repeat several times, for the benefit of the recording, that he had never met the man before and had no idea who he was. Somehow, he still had the feeling that what had happened was all down to him, even though logically he knew it wasn’t. He was so tired, so totally wrung out, he couldn’t see straight. On top of everything, Kristen had called while he was still at the police station and had left a message saying that she had heard that the CCRC were going to decide on Farrell’s case the following week. She had also heard from her source that, based on the evidence that they had so far reviewed, they were unlikely to refer the case back to the appeal court. He had tried many times to get hold of Eve, but she wasn’t answering her phone and, after leaving several messages, he gave up.
The track on his phone changed to Bon Jovi’s ‘Always’. How ironic, he thought. Would his heart always bleed for Kristen? He listened for a few bars, then switched it off. It wasn’t good to play that sort of sentimental stuff, particularly after the day he’d had. Kristen’s message had been crisp and businesslike, as though she were talking to a work colleague rather than a former lover. Maybe to her, it was just another day-to-day failure for the charity, part of the nature of the beast. The odds were always poor when battling the monolith of the justice system, although 4Justice was as much her charity as his and he was surprised at her lack of emotion. She had once cared passionately about each case. It was one of the main things he had loved about her and it had cemented their relationship in the face of all sorts of differences. She had also felt passionately about him, or so she had once said. It suddenly struck him that she was trying to distance herself from him, not the charity, as though any tenderness or compassion might encourage him. He had never loved anybody with the intensity that he had loved Kristen, but he knew in his heart it was over.
He reached down for the bottle of vodka, but there was nothing much left in it. He stared at it for a moment, trying to work out how many nights it had lasted. He was drinking too much but, unlike the true alcoholics he had known, his father being one, it wasn’t yet unthinking and automatic. He had a choice. He didn’t need an eye opener in the morning and he could wait until the evening, most days, depending on how stressful things had been. He still took pleasure in each mouthful, as well as enjoying the dulling of the edges and the quick buzz and sense of lightness it brought. It was no different to taking painkillers or other forms of temporary medication, he kept telling himself. It was just for now and he was OK with that. He drained the last mouthful and was debating whether or not he could be bothered to go downstairs to the shop on the corner for another bottle, when he heard a sound outside in the main office. He listened more closely. At first he thought it was Zofia, having problems with her key, but she rarely came into the office at night and just an hour before, he’d bumped into her in the hall as he was coming in. She was on her way out in full Goth makeup, looking like she was going to make a night of it. He felt like quipping that Halloween had been and gone, but she was out the door too quickly. Apart from Kristen, the only other person who had a key was the cleaning lady, but she only came in on a Saturday morning. However, somebody was definitely fiddling with the lock.
He got out of bed, grabbed the bottle by the neck and tiptoed barefoot to the door of his room. He had left it ajar and he could see through the gap. The light from the street outside cast a yellow glow into the office and he watched as, after more rattling of the lock, the door slowly opened and a man entered. He was small and very skinny, dressed in a dark hoodie and jeans. He carried a torch in one of his gloved hands, which he shone quickly around the room and over the block of desks, then turned his attention to the bank of filing cabinets beside the window. Dan held his breath, wondering what to do. The image of Mickey’s flat, and Mickey’s dead body, flashed through his mind. Should he call the police? He dismissed the idea. By the time they arrived, the man would be long gone. He was a lot taller and bigger than the man, if it came to a fight, although he might not be a match for a knife, if the man knew how to use it, let alone a gun. Better to wait and see what the intruder wanted. The man took a scrap of paper from his jeans pocket, shone the torch on it, then scanned the filing cabinets. They were ranked alphabetically, everything clearly marked, thanks to a friend of Zofia’s who had come in for a couple of day
s recently to sort everything out. Yet the man hesitated, as though he wasn’t sure where to find what he wanted. He pulled one open, shone the torch along the row of tabs, then shut it again. He tried another, two above, and then another. This time it looked like he had found what he wanted, as he pulled out a thick manila folder from one of the hanging files.
Dan took a step forwards, trying to see which file it was and a floorboard creaked under his weight. The man started, turned and shone the torch at Dan.
‘Hey,’ Dan shouted, blinded by the light as he threw open the door. The man dropped the file and the torch, ran out the door and thudded down the stairs. Dan rushed out after him into the busy street, but he had disappeared.
Upstairs in the office, Dan switched on the lights and picked up the file. ‘Sean Farrell Appeal’ was written on the outside. The creased piece of paper the man had pulled out of his pocket was lying on the floor. SEAN FARRELL was written in capitals in ink on the inside. Also beneath it the name MICKEY FRASER. Using the edge of his sleeve, he picked up the slip of paper and put it in an envelope. The man had been wearing gloves in the office, but someone might have touched it with bare fingers at some point. Eve would know where to have it tested. Even if the CCRC had lost interest, the case was still very much alive for somebody.
TWENTY-NINE
Eve heard the grinding sound of the rubbish truck as it came slowly down the lane and stopped outside the cottage. Heavy footsteps tramped up to the front door. A clatter of bin lids followed, then a man’s voice shouted in a foreign language to somebody down below in the road. The footsteps retreated again, doors slammed and the truck moved on. She could tell from the crack in the curtains that it was just starting to get light outside. She raised her wrist to her face and checked her watch. Just after eight. Monday morning, she assumed. The day after Harry’s lunch. She was lying on the floor of the bedroom, where she had fallen earlier when trying to get out of bed. She was naked, the duvet twisted around the middle of her body, leaving her arms and legs very cold. She was still woozy, but it was a big improvement on how she had felt a few hours before. Whatever she had been given was finally wearing off. She pushed herself up into a sitting position and pulled the duvet around her shoulders. Various items of her clothing were dotted about the carpet like flotsam and jetsam. Her handbag was sitting on a chair in the bedroom and she wondered who had put it there. The last thing she could recall from the party was talking to Gavin in the marquee, then feeling suddenly sick and dizzy. That had been some seventeen or so hours before, she slowly calculated.