A Bad, Bad Thing

by Elena Forbes

  ‘I’ve proved that Sean Farrell is innocent, which is more than you asked me to do,’ she said, studying his haggard face, wondering if he would try and wriggle out of it. ‘He’ll soon be a free man. It’s time you honoured your side of the bargain.’

  Duran looked at her thoughtfully, back ramrod straight as always, head ever so slightly to one side.

  ‘Of course. As I said, you’ve done a very good job. You’ll receive the proof you need shortly. I’m happy to give it to you. You’ve earned it.’

  Although relieved that he was making no objections, she didn’t let it show. She couldn’t imagine his getting excited or joyous about anything, but she was still surprised that his reaction was so flat. Perhaps, after all, it really meant nothing to him; it was just some bizarre sort of a game. She still didn’t have a clue about his motivation in helping Farrell, but it didn’t matter any longer.

  He yawned, stretching his mouth wide, not bothering to cover it with his hand, and she saw his perfect, Hollywood white teeth, which must have cost a fortune in dentist’s bills.

  ‘I’m just a little intrigued, Eve,’ he said, with a sudden sharpness in his eyes. ‘We had a murder victim and now you’ve discovered she isn’t dead. The supposed murderer is innocent and the happy man will be released. Hurrah! As I said, well done. You should feel very proud of yourself. But aren’t you forgetting something?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘There’s still the woman in the woods. Don’t you care about her? Someone needs to, surely. She needs a champion to stand up for her.’

  ‘You’re joking.’

  He held up a large, bony hand. ‘OK. Perhaps that’s a little melodramatic. But aren’t you interested to find out who she is, and how she got there?’

  She had thought of nothing else since finding Jane, which he had clearly guessed. The loneliness of the dark woods and the unknown, unclaimed woman kept preying on her mind. It was as though she could hear her voice calling out, desperately wanting resolution. Somewhere, her family and friends were still missing her, thinking of her, wondering where she was and if she were still alive. They deserved to know what had really happened. Somebody also needed to pay for it. But she had kept telling herself that she couldn’t solve every mystery. She must walk away and focus on the problems in her own life. It was Wiltshire Police’s job to deal with it now, not hers.

  She held his gaze. ‘I’ve done what I set out to do and I’m quits.’

  Duran sat up even taller in his chair and stretched his shoulders back, arching his neck for a moment like a swan, so that his chin almost touched his chest. He looked as though he was in pain.

  ‘You surprise me,’ he said, relaxing his body again with an audible groan. ‘You keep everything buried so deep, you think you can con everyone. But I understand you. I’ve always thought of you as someone who cared, who’d always go the extra mile, who had to prise out every little detail, however painful and difficult, to get to the bottom of things. Like a grain of sand in an oyster, it drives you mad not to understand. It’s why you’re so good at what you do. It’s why you’re desperate to know why I killed Stanco.’

  ‘I’m not desperate to know anything about you,’ she said, although she could see from his expression he knew he had hit home.

  He shook his head. ‘The fact that you bother to deny it proves the lie. Maybe one day I’ll tell you. Perhaps when you tell me who you really are.’

  She stared at him for a moment. He would never know anything more about her, if she could help it. He would never know her real name or her history. But the fact that he had an inkling of what lay inside her, horrified her. The last ten days had been bruising, both physically and mentally. If she were honest, for the first time ever she felt overwhelmed. There were too many loose ends, but she had to let go. Let someone else deal with it all. She must focus on her disciplinary hearing. Yet try as she might to ignore them, all the unanswered questions kept nagging away at her; their tiny, persistent voices would not be silent.

  ‘I heard about the fire at the 4Justice office,’ Duran continued. ‘Alan Peters tells me everything was destroyed. He said that somebody started it deliberately. He also says Dan Cooper was doing a good job too, so it seems very unfair. He just got mixed up, somehow, with the wrong sort of people.’ He looked at her questioningly.

  She almost laughed. The image of Duran’s killing of Stanco Rupec flashed again through her mind. ‘The wrong sort of people? That’s rich, coming from you. What Dan got mixed up in was trying to prove Sean Farrell’s innocence. Whoever torched the office, also killed a PI who was working for Dan on the Farrell case. It’s all linked.’

  Duran’s expression remained unchanged. ‘Then it’s even more important we should help him. Don’t you think?’ He was studying her, his impenetrable eyes fixing hers, and it was all she could do not to look away. She hadn’t a clue what he was thinking. Then he said, ‘Do you like Dan Cooper?’

  ‘What sort of question is that?’

  ‘I don’t mean something cheap and smutty. Do you think he’s a good person, who works hard and deserves good things to happen to him?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And this charity, you think it’s a worthwhile organization?’

  ‘I certainly do.’

  ‘OK, then. I’ll make another bargain with you. Just solve this last little mystery, this woman’s murder, like you’ve done so many times before. You can then put the ghosts in your head to rest for a while and I will make a very generous donation to 4Justice to get them back on their feet again.’

  She couldn’t hide her surprise. Did he really think he could buy everybody, that everything had a price? ‘Dan won’t take your money.’

  ‘Then he’s stupid. But at least let him decide.’

  ‘Why are you doing this?’

  ‘Because it entertains me. It’s like watching a mystery on TV, only better. I’ve got nothing else to do and I’ve so much enjoyed watching you help Sean Farrell. These are the last few months, maybe weeks, of my life. I can’t take my money with me when I’m gone. As I told you before, I want to help people, do some good.’

  She still didn’t believe him.

  FORTY-ONE

  Room service was a great aid to productivity, Dan thought, putting his empty plate and cutlery back on top of the hotel trolley, next to the remains of his very late lunch. The bottle of iced Grey Goose sat unopened in the cooler, beside the salt and pepper and a tiny vase of pink carnations. For some unknown reason, two glasses had been provided, as though people didn’t drink alone. Farrell would be a free man in a matter of days and he felt like celebrating, but there was still too much to be done and he needed to stay sober. It wasn’t yet five in the afternoon but it was already dark. He drew the curtains and went back to the bed, where the copies of Kevin Steven’s notebooks were spread out in date order.

  After leaving Eve in the street the previous night, he had chased the boy he had spotted in the crowd. He had recognized him as the one in the navy anorak outside the Apple Store and later by the Christmas tree opposite the church in Covent Garden. He was Hassan, Mickey’s friend. But by the time he had cut through the back streets behind the Earl’s Court Road and worked his way around to the far side of the cordon, Hassan had disappeared. Had he been the one who had set the office on fire? Was that why he was hanging around? Why had he tried to lure him to Covent Garden? What was the point? He couldn’t make sense of any of it. Afterwards, having made sure that Zofia was alright and had somewhere to stay, he had gone, as requested, to Kensington police station to give a formal statement about what had happened. He had then checked into a hotel not far from the office. It was a big, functional, charmless, modern building, which he had often passed on foot. The street outside was usually clogged with lines of coaches loading and unloading parties of tourists. It was not the sort of place he would have chosen if he had more time. But Duran was paying for it and, after everything that had happened, he was worn out. It would serve for a
few days, while he worked out what to do. He had sent his filthy clothes for express cleaning and showered, enjoying the endless, power-stream of hot water, as he tried to get rid of the stench of smoke. He raided the mini-bar, then crashed out in the huge, crisp-sheeted double bed. He watched a trashy war film on a flat screen TV mounted on the opposite wall, luxuriating in the rare comfort of it all and eventually, for a change, drifted off into a deep, dreamless sleep. He woke just before nine that morning, feeling amazingly clear-headed and full of energy.

  Several hours later, after the delivery of another room service trolley, with pints of tea and a full English breakfast, he went walking along the King’s Road to look for replacement clothing and other essentials. He was in a clothes shop, trying on jeans, when Eve called to tell him what had happened with Jane McNeil earlier that morning. For a moment, he was stunned, struggling to take it all in. It was extraordinary; almost unthinkable that something like that could happen, and yet he had long since learned that the police were fallible. Eve was in a rush and sketchy about the details, but they had arranged to meet that evening at her flat. He had then gone back to his car and called Sean Farrell’s solicitor, to tell him the good news. He had also asked him to check how the police had originally identified the body in the woods as being Jane’s. Most worrying was Jane’s account of overhearing Stuart Wade threatening to kill Tim Michaels. He had finally managed to speak to the journalist on the Channel 4 programme and had asked him about both Wade and the Westerby yard. The man said that, after such a length of time, he had no recollection and would have to dig out his old notes, if he still had them, and get back to him later.

  The destruction of the office, with so many years’ worth of work, filled him with an unrelenting gloom. Much of it had been backed up, and they could survive without what had been lost, but it was symbolic more than anything. It was the end of one important chapter in his life. Also, at odd, irritating moments, he kept thinking of Eve and Gavin Challis. He had Googled Challis but had found nothing particularly illuminating amongst the various entries, which recorded his academic prowess and his successful career first at the Bar and then latterly in Parliament. The many images of his ridiculously handsome, smug face were particularly irksome. He told himself it didn’t matter what was going on between Challis and Eve. She could see whoever she damn well liked, but at the back of his mind, he knew he was deceiving himself. Part of the problem was that seeing them together had reminded him yet again how much he missed Kristen. It wasn’t just the sex. He could easily go down to one of the many local bars in Earl’s Court, or the Fulham Road, pick up a pretty girl and maybe, if he felt like it, bring her back to the hotel. But it wouldn’t solve anything. He missed the closeness, the all-enveloping, unrelenting female presence that had filled his life for several years. Losing it had left a deep, dark hole.

  Finally, that afternoon, he had felt sufficiently strong and clear-headed to read through Kevin Stevens’ notebooks. He had pored over the copies, page by page, until he was dizzy, still with the smell and sound of the fire in his head. As he analysed the endless detailed entries, people interviewed both on and off the record, including a former head of security at the BHA, lists of suspect racing results and accounts of odd betting patterns, all documented in the meticulous, but difficult to decipher notes, his heart grew dark and heavy. Taken together, they documented a wide-reaching conspiracy of corruption. Stuart Wade’s name, and that of Westerby Racing, appeared over and over again, along with others, which he didn’t recognize. Had Stevens lived to see his scoop published, it would no doubt have had as dramatic an impact as the Channel 4 programme. Dan was sure the information contained in it had cost Kevin his life. The catalyst for it all coming alive again had been Mickey. There were a few more pieces he needed to quickly piece together, then he would call Andy Fagan.

  He was about to make himself a quick coffee from the Nespresso machine in the room when he heard the ping of his phone on the bed next to him. Checking it, he saw a text from an unknown number. Come outside hotel

  His heart missed a beat. Who knew he was in a hotel? He thought of the fire, of what had happened to Mickey. It felt like a trap. He gathered up the papers and stuffed them hurriedly into his bag, ready to run if he had to.

  He texted back: Who are you? What do you want?

  I am Hassan. I wait outside for you

  Hassan must have followed him last night from the Earl’s Court Road. He had probably been watching Dan after he had given up the chase. There had been so many people around, plus he was so distracted by everything, he hadn’t bothered to check behind him when he went to the hotel.

  Why did you run off last night?

  Too much police

  It was just like Covent Garden, all over again. Once bitten, twice shy.

  Why should I trust you?

  Because you Mickeys friend too

  What do you want?

  I want to talk with you

  A few minutes later, having, on reflection, left his bag and laptop with the hotel reception for safekeeping, Dan stood outside on the steps, scanning the dark street. But there was no sign of Hassan. It was a joke, after all. He was about to go back inside, vowing to turn off his phone so he wouldn’t be disturbed again, when he caught sight of a figure standing in the shadows by the railings on the far side of the square, behind a line of parked cars. Dan took a deep breath and went down the steps, walking slowly and deliberately towards him. No point in hurrying this time. If Hassan wanted to run off again, he didn’t care. He had had enough of the games. But Hassan – if it was him – didn’t move. As Dan got closer, he saw that it was definitely the boy he had seen the night before.

  ‘Hello,’ Dan said, approaching him warily, keeping one car between them, in case he tried to do something aggressive.

  Hassan stepped out of the shadows. Shoulders hunched, hands in his pockets, he was wearing jeans, the same navy-blue anorak, with white trainers. The haze of orange light from the street-lamp cast shadows on his face, but he looked to be in his late teens or very early twenties, with short, curly, black hair and olive skin. His body language was uncertain and hesitant. It struck Dan that maybe he was equally fearful, although it still had the feel of a trap.

  ‘I am Hassan. I am Mickey’s friend.’

  It was definitely the younger voice from the phone.

  ‘You mean you were Mickey’s friend. As you and I both know, Mickey’s dead.’

  ‘That’s why I come see you.’

  ‘I’m not giving you any money.’

  ‘It’s OK. I don’t want money.’

  ‘Your friend certainly did,’ he said, sharply.

  ‘The money, it is not my idea.’

  ‘You mean Nasser, or whatever his name was, talked you into it, right? The man I met in Covent Garden?’

  Hassan nodded. ‘He want money. He say he make you pay.’

  ‘And he’s dead too.’

  ‘I am there. I see you. I see what happen. Police chase him. He is hit by car. I want to talk to you but police are there.’

  ‘They were following me and tracking Mickey’s phone. What do you want now?’

  ‘To talk. I give you Mickey’s phone.’

  ‘You have it with you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Jesus! It’s not switched on, I hope?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Thank God for that.’ Dan moved around to the other side of the car so he was face to face with Hassan. He was small and slight, and seemed to present no physical threat. Dan wondered if he had been Mickey’s lover. ‘Why do you have his phone?’

  ‘He give it to me. I was in garden having cigarette and making call for him …’ He searched for the word, with a gesture of his hand. ‘When men come.’

  ‘What men?’

  ‘Bad men. Who kill Mickey.’ There was a slight tremor in his voice.

  ‘Where was this?’

  ‘In his flat.’

  Slowly it dawned on Dan what he was saying. ‘You we
re there when Mickey was killed? You saw what happened?’

  ‘Yes. I hide in garden. But I see what they do, before they close curtains.’

  Dan saw the tears in Hassan’s eyes and felt suddenly sick. What Hassan must have seen didn’t bear thinking about. There was only one thing that was important.

  ‘You really cared about Mickey, didn’t you?’

  Hassan nodded, wiping his face with the back of his sleeve.

  Dan wondered if maybe, deep down in Mickey’s cynical old heart, there was a core of softness, which had met Hassan halfway. He hoped so.

  ‘Then you must trust me, OK?’ He held out his hand.

  There was a beat before Hassan nodded again, then took it.

  FORTY-TWO

  Eve sat in the armchair by the window in her sitting room, with her laptop on her knees. She had downloaded the file that had been emailed anonymously to her. She assumed that it had come from Alan Peters, but the address was from a Hotmail account, with no recognizable name. It was easier that way, as the police would want to know where it had come from and she could truthfully say that it had been sent to her anonymously. The file consisted of a voice recording dated over four weeks before, just a couple of days before Jason’s murder. The sound quality was not particularly good, with a lot of background noise. From the buzz of conversation and clink of glasses, it seemed as though it had been recorded in a bar or a pub. However, she recognized one of the voices immediately. It belonged to DS Paul Dent, Jason’s close friend and best man. What was also clear, from the conversation that followed with another, unknown man, was that they were discussing the police surveillance operation at the house in Wood Green, where Jason had been killed. The address of the house was specifically mentioned twice, along with details of the basement flat.