A Bad, Bad Thing

by Elena Forbes

  ‘Of course you have.’

  ‘Thank God we don’t have the death penalty in this country. Sure, we got it wrong sometimes. But the bottom line is we were just trying to do an honest, decent job for people who’ve been badly let down by the system. End of.’ He met her gaze. ‘I never signed up for anything like this. Finding Mickey … All the heavy stuff with the police … What happened in Covent Garden … Even though it was an accident, the man died almost in front of me. I can’t stop thinking about it, particularly Mickey. The flat. The darkness. How I found him. The disgusting smell of it all.’

  ‘It’s normal to feel that way after what you’ve been through.’

  ‘Is it?’ He looked at her as though she was from an alien world.

  She said nothing. She had no wish to explain why she was so familiar with the trauma he was describing. Maybe over time the memories would fade a little and lose their immediacy, but whoever said that time was a healer had lied. There was no peace. The images would always be there, like splinters dug deep into the skin, festering away. Worse still were the nightmares. She thought of her drugged visions the night before and with a shudder, tried to force them again from her mind. The horror, the terror of those memories, which sleep had brought alive again with a new and terrible freshness, would never leave her. Even though she had told herself over and over again that she looked completely different now, unrecognizable from her twelve-year-old self, and that there was no way anybody would be able to find her, the illogical fear was still there. She had no advice to offer him.

  ‘You feel responsible for Mickey’s death?’ she asked after a moment.

  He turned to face her, eyes burning. ‘Of course I do.’

  ‘You mustn’t think like that, Dan. You can’t blame yourself. Mickey was a pro. He knew the score.’

  ‘And I’m some sort of stupid, dabbling amateur, well out of my depth.’

  ‘That wasn’t what I meant.’

  ‘But it’s how I see myself.’ He spread his hands. ‘What good am I doing? How is any of this helping Sean Farrell? It’s hopeless.’ His hands flopped to his sides and he tilted his head and looked up at the ceiling for a moment as though expecting some sort of divine intervention. ‘I should probably just call it quits. The charity’s on its last legs anyway, unless I can find a new source of funding.’

  ‘Why do you keep going? Why does it matter so much to you?’

  He sighed and looked down at his hands. ‘Sometimes I wonder if I’m mad. But it’s just something I have to do. Something I believe in.’

  ‘There must be more to it than that, surely?’

  He looked up and met her gaze. ‘My brother’s in jail for a murder he didn’t commit. I don’t want to go into the details and there’s absolutely nothing I can do about it. I’ve had to accept that that’s just the way it is. But at least I can help other people. At least I feel I’m doing something.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I had no idea.’ She now understood why his career had taken such a dramatic turn and why, in the face of everything, he still cared so much when most people would have given up.

  ‘It’s not something I talk about. It’s really nobody’s business. But I’m also not the only one who has had first-hand experience of the failings of the justice system. Zofia has an uncle and a cousin in jail in Poland, both imprisoned on trumped-up charges of political corruption. She comes from a little town near the Ukranian border. Her father used to be mayor there, until the scandal hit and, although he escaped jail, he was forced to resign and was financially ruined, even though she says he did nothing wrong. Maybe things are a little different in Poland, but when you’ve been through what we both have, justice is a very tainted word.’

  She saw tears in his eyes, perhaps of bitterness or frustration or hopelessness, and she felt for him. ‘You mustn’t give up. Why don’t you move to a cheaper office, or something? The rent and rates around here must add up to quite a bit.’

  He shook his head. ‘We get the office and flat upstairs for free for the time being, thanks to one of our benefactors.’

  ‘There must be some other way to cut costs and keep going?’

  ‘We haven’t got the human resources. Kristen’s sensibly fucked off elsewhere to do more important things, which just leaves me and Zofia, when she isn’t working on her thesis, and a couple of very part-time helpers. We haven’t paid ourselves in months and I’m broke. I should go and get a proper job.’

  Eve sighed. ‘Fine. If that’s what you want to do, nobody would blame you. But I have no choice. I have to continue. I need to find out if Sean Farrell murdered Jane McNeil, whatever it takes. There’s a lot riding on this for me. That’s why I have to know what you know.’

  He turned to look at her. Suspicion again filled his eyes. He downed his glass and slammed it on the table in front of him. ‘You know, Eve, that’s something I never understood. What exactly is “riding on this” for you?’

  ‘I told you …’

  He waved her away with his hand. ‘Yes, I know you gave me some story about doing a favour for someone, this bloke who gave us some money. I knew at the time it was a crock of shit, but I let it pass. It didn’t really matter then. But it does now. Honesty is a two-way street.’ He leaned forwards towards her, his face only inches away from hers, and looked her straight in the eye. His breath was hot and thick with alcohol. ‘If you want me to trust you, tell you everything I know, you need to trust me first. You need to come clean with me.’

  She gazed at him for a moment, weighing it all in her mind, then she nodded. What was the harm in telling him, she decided. She should trust him.

  ‘What are you drinking?’ she asked.

  ‘Stolichnaya.’

  She went up to the bar and bought them both another drink, then she sat down again, facing Dan this time. She told him about Jason’s murder, about her contact with Duran and about what a dangerous man he was. She described in some detail his brutal killing of Stanco Rupec and how she had helped to put him in jail. She then explained how Duran had told her that she had been deliberately tricked into going to the house in North London, looking for an informant who wasn’t there, and how she and Jason had disrupted an ongoing, high-level, covert police investigation. She said how Duran had promised to give her the proof she needed, if only she would look into Sean Farrell’s conviction. Dan listened in silence, his eyes fixed on a distant corner of the room as though he were being told an extraordinary story that he wasn’t quite sure was true. Perhaps it did sound farfetched to someone who wasn’t part of her world.

  When she finished, he turned to her and said, ‘Why does this man, Duran, care? What’s Farrell to someone like him?’

  ‘I don’t know. I can’t work it out.’

  ‘So you’ve chosen to ignore it? To turn a blind eye?’

  She nodded. ‘He won’t tell me the real reason, other than that he’s dying and has developed an altruistic streak. I don’t buy it, but in the end, I decided where’s the harm? I know I was set up. If I can help Sean too …’

  ‘You mean the end justifies the means?’

  She met his gaze. ‘In this case, yes.’

  ‘Maybe you’re right. Maybe the end is all that matters.’ He reached into the depths of his jeans pocket and fished out a little red memory stick. ‘This is what I found in Mickey’s flat.’

  THIRTY-TWO

  Eve turned away from the screen and looked at Dan. ‘So this is it? This is the big secret you’ve been keeping from me?’

  They were back at his office. Zofia had left for the evening and they had spent the last hour on Dan’s laptop, examining the contents of the flash drive that he had taken from Mickey’s flat. Eve scanned Dan’s face but all she could see was disappointment and weariness. Perhaps he had thought she might pick up something he had missed. The flash drive contained a series of clips and interviews, mostly taken from an old Channel 4 documentary about corruption in the UK horse-racing industry. It must have been sensational stuff
at the time, with a former Jockey Club head of security acting as whistle-blower and a number of trainers, owners and jockeys implicated in a series of dopings and race-fixing scams, all masterminded by a well-known, drug-dealing criminal. But eight years on, was any of it relevant? It seemed unlikely. Nor was there any mention of the Westerby yard, Tim or Harry Michaels, or anyone associated with them, as far as she knew. However, of more interest were a series of JPEGs. The location data said ‘Ascot Racecourse’ and they were dated only ten days before, the day Mickey had gone to the races. Several of the images were of Stacey Woodward looking quite cosy with Damon Wade in a car at the racecourse, others were of him handing her a thick brown envelope. By the shape of it, it could easily contain a big wad of cash, but proving it would be impossible. Further JPEGs taken that evening in Mayfair in London, showed Damon and Stacey going into a nightclub together and coming out again several hours later, arm in arm. The fact that they seemed to be close meant nothing. Even if he had been giving her some sort of a pay-off earlier, it was hardly the smoking gun that someone was searching for, something worth not only breaking into Dan’s office, let alone torturing and killing Mickey. There had to be something else they were after.

  ‘I didn’t know what was on it, until Zofia brought it back last night,’ Dan said defensively. ‘I didn’t want you running off to Fagan saying I’d taken anything from Mickey’s flat. I’m in enough trouble as it is. I told you, he doesn’t believe a fucking word I say.’

  She held up her hand. ‘I get it. You still need to hand it over to Fagan at some point. But it can probably wait a few days. My main question is, why did Mickey bother to hide it?’

  He shrugged. ‘He was the sort to squirrel all sorts of things away in little places.’

  ‘But still … To put it in a bottle of headache pills. It seems a bit impromptu, but it must have meant something. Perhaps he hid it quickly, on the spur of the moment, from someone who came to the flat. You said it was in the bathroom?’

  Dan nodded.

  ‘Maybe the whole subject of corruption in horse racing is sensitive.’

  He threw up his hands. ‘Or he was just paranoid.’

  ‘Given what happened to him, I’d say he had good reason to be.’

  He exhaled sharply. ‘OK. So what do we do now?’

  ‘We need to go back to basics and focus on Jane’s murder. Nothing else. We must tidy up the loose ends. There are three people Jane knew, who I still need to speak to. Holly, the girl who shared the cottage with her, who Melissa sacked. The woman who worked in the office with her …’ She clicked her fingers, searching in vain for the name. Her brain was increasingly fogged and she was beginning to struggle.

  ‘You mean Annie?’

  She nodded. ‘And the owner, Lorne Anderson, who called Jane several times the week before she died. He took his horses away from the Michaels shortly after, so maybe he’ll be more open about what was going on at the time. I haven’t managed to get hold of the other two yet, so he seems to be the best bet.’

  ‘What about what’s on the flash drive?’

  ‘I think it’s worth finding out what happened to all of the people mentioned in the documentary, see if there’s any connection with the Michaels family.’

  ‘I know one of the journalists listed in the credits. He’s a mate of Kristen’s. I’ll try and get hold of him first thing tomorrow. What about you?’

  She stood up, stretched her arms and shoulders and picked up her bag. ‘I’m going to get some sleep. I think you should too. Let’s talk first thing tomorrow.’

  Outside in the street, while she waited for a taxi, she called Gavin. When he picked up, he sounded surprised to hear from her.

  ‘Are you alright?’ he asked. ‘I’ve been very worried about you.’

  ‘I’m fine. Feeling much better now.’

  ‘Melissa said she went around to see you this morning and you seemed a bit wobbly. I was going to call you later.’

  ‘Really, I’m OK now. It was just some sort of twenty-four-hour bug, that’s all.’

  ‘I’m so pleased to hear it. I didn’t know what could be wrong. It seemed to come on so suddenly—’

  ‘It’s nothing a good night of sleep won’t put right,’ she interrupted. ‘Anyway, I’m not calling you about that. I need your help.’

  ‘Of course. What is it?’

  ‘I’m back in London now. I need to speak to a man called Lorne Anderson. He used to keep his horses at the Westerby yard at the time Jane was murdered.’

  ‘I know who you mean.’

  ‘I asked Harry if he could put me in touch, but he wasn’t very helpful.’

  ‘No, he wouldn’t be. There was a huge fuss when Lorne took his horses away. It was soon after my father-in-law committed suicide and it was a very tough time. He wasn’t the only one to leave either, it’s often the way, I’m afraid. But Harry saw it all as a personal betrayal, particularly with Lorne. It got very heated, I remember.’

  ‘Do you know how I can find him?’

  There was a pause at the other end. ‘Is it important?’

  ‘I don’t know, until I speak to him. He called Jane’s mobile a few times during the week before she died. I need to know why.’

  Again another pause. Then he said, ‘How urgent is this?’

  ‘Very. We apparently have a week before the CCRC make their decision on Sean Farrell’s case.’

  He sighed. ‘OK. You know I want to help you any way I can, Eve. Let me speak to Melissa first. If he’s still in racing, she may know who’s training his horses now. Failing that, I think he and I have a mutual friend at the Bar. I’ll try and track him down somehow and get back to you soon as I can.’

  She hung up and as she started to walk towards the Tube, a taxi came long and she flagged it down. She wanted to get home as quickly as possible. As she climbed in, it struck her how, in agreeing to help her, Gavin was going against the Michaels family and their tribal loyalties. He could have said no, she told herself, although she knew in her heart he wouldn’t have. Again she saw him as an outsider in their midst, part of them but not one of them. He had never belonged to their world. Never would. He was well aware of it, from what she could see, and it rankled.

  She called Fagan but his phone went straight to voicemail. She left a brief message asking him to call and was about to try another number for him when her phone buzzed with a voicemail alert. She didn’t recognize the number. When she listened to the playback, she heard an unfamiliar, high-pitched female voice at the other end.

  ‘… this Eve? Hope I’ve got the … number.’ The signal was poor and the voice kept cutting out. It was also difficult to hear clearly over the rattle of the taxi’s engine and the noise from the traffic outside. ‘… gave me a message … said you want to speak to me. Something to do … Jane Mc … … name’s … Shepherd.’

  Eve played it again several times, finally catching the words ‘Blue Cross’ and the Christian name ‘Annie’. She sank back against the seat and exhaled. It was a piece of luck at a time when they needed all the luck in the world. She didn’t believe in fate or telepathy or any of the unconventional ways that people tried to explain the happenstance of such things. But sometimes things just worked that way when you were least expecting them. She called Annie back and arranged to meet her the following morning at a gift shop in Avebury, near Marlborough, where she worked a couple of days a week. She would pick up her car and her things from the cottage at the same time. She had no wish to stay in the cottage again.

  The nausea from the drugs she had been given the day before had finally eased off and she was starting to feel hungry. Realizing there was nothing to eat in the fridge, she asked the taxi to drop her at a Co-Op on the Uxbridge Road a few blocks from her flat. She bought milk for her morning coffee, a couple of croissants and a bag of salad, along with some eggs and cheese to make an omelette. Ten minutes later, she let herself into the house. Her neighbours on the ground floor were back from work, judging by the sound of
their television. She switched on the lights in the hall and started up the stairs to the first floor. As she did so, she noticed a couple of small patches of what looked like mud on the buff-coloured stair carpet. There was another halfway up, and a further one on the landing, right outside her door. She was sure they hadn’t been there earlier. Placing her bag and shopping to one side, she bent down and examined them, feeling the tiny blobs of sandy earth and fragments of leaf-mould between her fingers. They were still damp. Somebody had gone up the stairs very recently. As she raised her eyes to the door, she saw that the strip of magic tape at the bottom had come unstuck at one end. She stood up, heart beating fast, and took a series of deep breaths to steady herself as she examined the lock. The scratches on the cheap, brass-plated escutcheon and the white-painted door were familiar. There was no sign of a forced entry. Even so, somebody had definitely opened the door to her flat, which meant they knew how to pick a lock. Slowly and quietly, alert to any sound or movement, she unlocked the door and peered inside. The lights were switched off, as she had left them, but light flooded in both front and back from outside, which meant somebody had opened the curtains and blinds. At least, peering around, she could see quite clearly that there was nobody there now. She switched on the lamps and started to examine everything more closely.

  At first glance, nothing appeared to be out of place. It wasn’t as though she had many things to check, but if somebody had been through her drawers and wardrobe, they had been very careful. Her eye was drawn to the small desk in the sitting room, where she kept her personal files. One of the bottom drawers was open a few millimetres, the tab of one of the folders caught as it closed. She knew she hadn’t left it like that. She stared at it for a moment, remembering how earlier that morning in her bedroom in the cottage, she had had the impression that the things in her small suitcase had been disturbed. She had assumed at the time it was either Melissa or Gavin, possibly looking for something to make her more comfortable, but had forgotten to ask Melissa. She wondered now if she had been drugged so that someone could go through her things more easily. Maybe the rape was an afterthought, rather than a warning. At least there was nothing sensitive for them to find. Her file on the Sean Farrell case was locked in the boot of her car and, even if they had taken her car key and found it, they would have learned nothing. Knowing that they had wasted their time was some comfort, but they had been in her flat, her private space, eyes restlessly seeking, their foul, questing hands touching her things. It felt like another violation. As soon as she had finished what she was doing for Duran, she would give notice on her lease and move out. If the disciplinary hearing went the wrong way and she was out of a job, maybe she would go abroad.