Archer can see that Quinn is troubled but all the same can’t help but feel let down. ‘Do you need time off? I can get Hicks to fill in for you.’
Quinn arches his eyebrows. ‘I would not inflict that on anyone. Give me five.’
She hears the shower running, followed by a knocking at the front door. After a moment of deliberation, she answers it.
Zelda Frutkoff is standing outside holding a small casserole dish. Archer can smell garlic and tomatoes.
‘Breakfast,’ she says, entering the flat as if it is her own. She makes her way to the living room and places the dish on the table.
‘Are you hungry?’ she asks.
‘No, thank you.’
‘You could do with putting on a few more pounds.’
‘Thank you. I’ll bear that in mind,’ replies Archer with a flat tone.
‘There’s plenty if you change your mind.’ The neighbour disappears into the kitchen, returning moments later and setting the table for one.
Archer turns her attention to the misty park outside and tries to decipher Dom’s odd text but is distracted by Quinn’s neighbour who is watching her.
‘Are you married?’ asks Mrs Frutkoff.
‘No,’ replies Archer.
‘I’m a widow.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘Harry was married.’
Archer gives her a half smile.
Mrs Frutkoff folds her arms. ‘Poor man. He needs a woman in his life. Arguably, I am past my prime. You, however . . .’
‘Colleagues, Mrs Frutkoff. We’re colleagues.’
‘Call me Zelda.’
Archer is relieved to see a freshly showered and dressed Quinn, looking much better.
‘Are you two getting to know each other? That’s just peachy.’
‘Always the comedian,’ says Zelda. ‘I brought breakfast,’ she adds.
‘Aww, Zelda, I thought I could smell shakshuka. Thank you.’
‘I crumbled feta on top. I know you like that.’
‘You’re the best!’
‘Eat and be careful out there.’ She turns to Archer. ‘Goodbye, Miss Archer.’
‘Goodbye, Zelda.’
Quinn asks, ‘Have you eaten? I can get you a plate or some tea?’
‘I’m fine, thanks. Go ahead and eat.’
‘Hope Zelda didn’t give you the third degree.’
As Quinn tucks into the shakshuka, Archer gives him a rundown of this morning’s meeting.
‘What do you think is going on with Pierce?’ she asks.
‘What do you mean?’
‘She’s so unpredictable. I asked her if I could bring in Klara and she said no. This morning she had a complete change of mind.’
‘My guess is her dinner with the Chief Constable changed matters ever so slightly.’
‘How so?’
‘She was trying to convince him to give her a bigger team for this investigation, which I assume was unsuccessful. Also, since being outed as DI Rees’s lover after his arrest she is on borrowed time and the Chief Constable knows it. He’s given her two high-profile cases. If she fails to close both or even one of them, then she’s out. I may be wrong but time will tell.’
Archer recalls the DCI looking tired and drawn this morning. A small part of her thinks that maybe Pierce deserves it, but she can’t help but feel sympathetic. After all, wasn’t Pierce just a victim of circumstance? She fell for the wrong man and is now being judged and juried by other men because of it. Despite Archer’s real feelings about her new boss, the way Pierce is being treated is unfair.
15
J
ORDAN KELLY WAKES LYING ON his side with his knees bent and pressed into his chest. His neck hurts and his arm feels numb. He is drowsy just like that time Mum gave him cough medicine.
He feels a knot form in his stomach.
Something happened.
Something not good.
He tries to remember but his head feels woozy and he struggles to assemble his thoughts.
Blinking the sleep from his eyes he begins to shiver.
It’s dark.
And cold.
So cold.
He struggles to swallow and feels horribly weak. His mouth is sticky, he is thirsty and desperately wants a glass of cold water. Rubbing his face, he tries to remember when he last ate.
He pushes himself up but his head begins to swim.
Placing his palms on the floor, he steadies and gives himself a moment to feel better.
The numbness fades but in its place is a throbbing ache. His heart sinks and he wonders if he has broken his arm again. He wriggles his fingers and is relieved there is no pain. It just feels heavy. He lifts it and hears a rattle. Confused, he touches his wrist. There is a thick metal band around it with a chain attached. Jordan shudders.
What is that?
‘Mum!’ he calls out.
He waits and listens but she doesn’t respond.
He calls again and again, his voice sounds so small in the darkness, and still she doesn’t reply.
He notices a horrible smell, a weird sickly-sweet chemical odour, that makes his stomach turn.
He stands up and tries to focus but he cannot see anything. It’s so dark, like a cave.
He feels his breathing quicken and he trembles.
He tugs at the chain but it’s fixed to something.
He takes it in both hands and follows it upwards until he reaches a wall. The surface is rough like concrete. Crouching down he feels what seems to be a metal rung, which the chain is connected to. He tries to pull it, but it doesn’t give.
There must be a light switch somewhere, he thinks, and he starts to run his hands over the wall, sliding them up and down until at last he finds the switch.
He flicks it on and closes his eyes at the harsh white light that blinks into life. After a moment his eyes adjust and he sees grey walls made from concrete blocks. Nearby is a small stairwell leading up to a green door.
He doesn’t recognise this place.
He turns around to get his bearings.
The room is no bigger than his bedroom. There are no windows and it looks more like a bunker or a cellar than an actual room.
He has the sense that he is being watched and for the first time notices a tall glass tank filled with liquid at the opposite end of the room.
He gasps and stumbles backward.
Something . . . someone is inside it.
Floating upside down is a man wearing a mask. One part of it seems to have been torn away and from underneath, a pale lifeless eye stares back at him.
Terror sweeps through Jordan like a wildfire and he screams.
16
I
T’S MID-AFTERNOON AND ARCHER AND Quinn sit alone in the incident room analysing the modest amount of evidence and data they have acquired so far. Archer glances at her phone and notices a missed call from Grandad. He has left a voicemail asking if she will be home for dinner because he has decided to go shopping and cook for them both. Guilt spirals through her. She has been working all waking hours since the case started three days back and hasn’t seen a lot of him. So much for moving in to help with his care.
That’s how it is with this job and she knows he understands, but that doesn’t ease her remorse. She will phone him shortly, explain the situation and promise to make it up to him.
Archer starts searching through profiles of possible suspects with an artistic bent on the Police National Database. After twenty minutes she finds nothing, which is no surprise considering being artistic isn’t yet a crime.
‘So, what made you want to be a copper?’ asks Quinn, out of the blue.
Archer looks up from her computer and shrugs. ‘Seemed as good a career as any other.’
The Irishman frowns at her. ‘Yet a career in the police isn’t like any other career.’
Archer folds her arms and considers her response. She has been asked this question many times over the years and gives a different answer e
ach time, although all are valid. ‘My dad. He was a DI, here in Charing Cross. He was a good man and believed in his job and the difference it made to the community.’
‘Mark Beattie and I sometimes used to have a few drinks together and he reflected on the mad old days of the Frankie White gangland murders. He always spoke fondly of your dad.’
Archer focuses back on her computer. She appreciates what Mark Beattie says about her dad and she knows Quinn means well. But her father was murdered by a lackey of London drug lord Frankie ‘Snow’ White. She doesn’t need to be reminded of that.
Quinn continues, ‘He would often repeat himself if he’d had a few too many. He would talk about his old colleagues, but your dad . . .’
‘It was a long time ago,’ interrupts Archer.
Quinn hesitates before saying, ‘I’m sorry to bring it up.’
They work in silence for a moment before Quinn says, ‘Holy LGBT!’
Archer looks up from her computer and follows his gaze.
Klara Clark has stepped into the third-floor office. All heads turn to look her way.
Archer gives Quinn a withering look and wonders if she’ll ever understand his sense of humour. She exits the incident room. ‘Klara!’ she calls.
Klara smiles and makes her way across the office, gliding like a swan with the confidence and presence of someone on a much higher pay grade. She bends over to embrace Archer, who gets lost for a moment in the light citrusy tones of her perfume.
Archer steps back and takes stock of her friend. She is wearing a pale grey tweed trouser suit, Oxford boots and a tilted brown fedora. Around her neck is a long striped woollen scarf that falls to her ankles.
‘Stylish as ever. It’s so good to see you,’ says Archer.
‘You too, Grace.’
Archer looks down at the bulging trolley case at Klara’s side. ‘You’ve come equipped, I see.’
‘Of course. You thought Mary Poppins’ carpet bag was impressive. Wait till you see what’s in here. Where am I sitting?’
‘There’s an empty office next to the one with the grimacing pale face peering out at us.’
‘Is that Rodney Hicks?’
‘You know him?’
‘I worked with him for a time before I started going by Klara.’
Quinn joins them. ‘Hello, Klara. DI Archer has been singing your praises. Good to put a face to the name.’ He extends his hand. ‘DS Quinn. Call me Harry, though.’
‘Thank you. Nice to meet you too, Harry.’
‘I like your threads. You have something of the fourth Doctor about you?’
Archer isn’t sure what that means but is relieved when Klara smiles. ‘Thank you. He was my favourite.’
‘Mine too. My son’s was Matt Smith.’
‘Was? Who’s his favourite now?’
Quinn doesn’t reply. Instead, the colour drains from his face.
‘Are you OK?’ asks Archer.
He scratches his forehead. ‘Aye . . . It’s just . . . he . . . he’s no longer with us. It would have been his birthday today.’
Archer is speechless and realises why Quinn didn’t show up for work that morning. She also recalls Mrs Frutkoff’s ‘Poor man’ remark and the happy family photo next to the whisky bottle.
‘I’m so sorry, Harry,’ says Klara.
His shoulders slump. ‘Don’t be . . . I shouldn’t have mentioned it. You know . . . sometimes stuff just comes out of my mouth at the wrong time. I . . .’ He doesn’t finish his sentence but turns, picks up his jacket and leaves the office.
Archer watches him go and is unsure if she should follow and talk to him.
‘Judging by your expression this revelation is news to you.’
Archer nods. ‘I’ve only known him a few days.’
Hicks’s voice interrupts their conversation. ‘Excuse me, I don’t think we’ve been introduced.’ The DI extends his hand to Klara. Archer notices he is holding in his pot belly.
‘Detective Inspector Rodney Hicks. You can call me Rod.’ Hicks holds Klara’s gaze with his own as she takes his hand. ‘I’m sure we’ve met before?’
‘Klara Clark. We worked together once before, DI Hicks, around eight years back. I was called something else then. You may remember me as Keegan Clark.’
Hicks’s face glows pink and he snatches back his hand.
Archer grits her teeth and looks to Klara with a reassuring smile. ‘Let’s get you set up.’
‘Nice to see you again, Rod,’ says Klara.
Hicks’s eyes narrow and his mouth widens to a hyena-like grin.
Archer’s gaze fixes hard on Hicks as she leads the NCA analyst to DI Rees’s old office with the view over Bedfordbury. She’s had it cleaned and is relieved it smells fresher than it did a few days back.
‘Sorry about Hicks,’ says Archer.
‘Don’t be. Hicks is . . . Hicks.’
‘He is that,’ agrees Archer.
‘Anyway, getting down to business, I was scanning the web this morning and caught the pictures and location of Stan Buxton and Noel Tipping’s graffiti by you know who.’
‘Klara, that’s great.’
‘I’ll get set up and send you the details.’
As Klara unpacks, Archer’s phone rings with a London-based number she doesn’t recognise.
‘Hello?’
‘Hello, is that Grace Archer?’
‘Yes.’
‘This is Charlotte Woods. I’m a nurse at the University College Hospital. I’m calling about your grandfather, Mr Jake Archer.’
Archer feels a twist in her stomach.
‘What’s happened? Is he OK?’
‘Nothing to be alarmed about, Miss Archer. He took a bit of a knock on Oxford Street and fell over. He hit his head.’
‘What do you mean a knock?’
‘It’s hard to say as he doesn’t remember much. I think it was an accident, there were a lot of shoppers around as you can imagine. He lost his footing and fell over onto the road.’
‘The road?’
‘Yes. He was lucky.’
‘Is he hurt?’
‘He’s a little bruised. His pride is, too, however he was helped by a Good Samaritan. A very nice man who is still with him.’
‘I’ll come straightaway.’
‘That would be helpful. I’ll let him know.’
‘Thank you.’
The call ends.
‘Shit!’ says Archer.
‘Everything all right?’ asks Klara.
‘I think so . . . I hope so. I have to head out to UCH. Grandad’s taken a fall. I’ll get Tozer and Phillips to follow up on your leads.’
‘If there’s anything I can do . . .’
‘Thanks. Let me introduce you to everyone before I go.’
Archer quickly introduces Klara to the rest of the team before grabbing her coat and rushing out of the office, worried about Grandad and the investigation in equal measure. She makes her way to Bedford Street, hails a black cab and spots Quinn in Maiden Lane emerging from the Corpus Christi Church.
‘University College Hospital, Euston Road,’ she tells the driver.
The cab drives off and she looks back at her DS as he walks in the direction of the station, hands in pockets and head down, seemingly unaware of anyone else around him. Archer recognises his suffering and feels for him. She was cautious of the entire team, including Quinn, when she started three days back, but to her surprise he has become an ally. He is different to the others and nothing like Hicks or Pierce, she reflects. As Quinn grows smaller and the cab turns a corner, Archer hopes he has found some solace in the chapel.
She arrives at A&E to discover Grandad has been moved to the Neurology ward.
‘Why? Has something happened?’ she asks the receptionist, a stern woman with horn-rimmed glasses.
‘You really need to speak to the doctor,’ she replies.
Archer navigates the hospital maze for ten minutes and eventually finds the
ward. Scanning each bed she halts and holds her breath at the sight of Grandad sleeping open-mouthed, face gaunt and pale, forehead bruised, cut and stitched.
Her throat tightens.
Oh God.
She approaches quietly and sits on the chair by his bedside.
His eyes flicker open. He looks in her direction and smiles.
‘I knew you’d come,’ he says.
She reaches across and squeezes his hand. ‘How are you feeling?’
‘Just a little tired, but I’m chipper. Head hurts, though.’
‘I bet it does. What were you doing on Oxford Street?’
‘I wanted to get us something nice at Waitrose. And a nice bottle of wine too. I suppose that’s out of the question now.’
Archer is relieved to see Grandad is better than she initially thought.
‘Did they say why they are keeping you in?’
‘They did, but I couldn’t take it all in.’
A voice interrupts their exchange. ‘You must be Grace.’
Archer looks up to see a man with dark wavy hair smiling and looking her way.
‘Grace, let me introduce you to my new friend and neighbour, Jamie. Jamie, this is my beautiful granddaughter, Grace.’
The stranger called Jamie approaches and shakes Archer’s hand with a firm but gentle grip.
‘Jamie Blackwell. I think we might have said hello a few nights back on Roupell Street.’
Archer recalls the couple she saw leaving number forty-three. ‘I remember.’
‘I didn’t want to leave until you got here.’
‘That’s kind of you.’
‘It’s no problem. I’ve heard so much about you I feel I’ve known you for years.’
Archer shifts uncomfortably in the chair and wonders what Grandad has told him.
‘It was Jamie who pulled me from the road.’
‘Did you have one of your dizzy spells?’
‘No! Some careless idiot shoved me over. If it wasn’t for Jamie I’d be flat as a pancake under a bus.’
The thought of Grandad under a bus makes Archer shudder inside.
Jamie laughs. ‘I really didn’t do anything, Jake. The driver saw you and put on the brakes.’
‘You’re a lifesaver, Jamie. A hero.’
Jamie shrugs and smiles at her with perfect white teeth.
Archer looks away, takes off her coat and drapes it over the chair. ‘I need to talk to the doctor or a nurse.’
The Art of Death Page 10