‘Maybe a wee bit geeky. You won’t have noticed it as it’s safely buried under the folds of my bodacious masculinity.’
‘If you say so. Anyway, we got along and soon became friends. We were both outsiders, which helped.’
‘Did you know she wanted to transition?’
‘She was becoming increasingly remote and I knew something was up. I thought she might be gay but never once suspected she was desperate to transition. I’m glad she did. She has been so much happier and confident since. I’m glad she’s working with us. We’re lucky to have her.’
*
Archer and Quinn wait in the reception area of Conservative Party Headquarters in Westminster where Melanie Suskind works as a campaign manager.
‘According to DCI Pierce’s notes Suskind was the last person to have contact with Faulkner. They had an argument,’ Archer tells Quinn.
‘I saw that. The neighbours said they were always at it.’
‘Possibly not as reformed as some wish he was.’
‘This might be her,’ says Quinn.
Archer turns to see a woman in her mid-thirties wearing a fitted blue-and-white houndstooth dress. Her hands are pressed together and Archer can see the whites of her knuckles.
‘Hello, I’m Melanie Suskind.’
‘Thank you for meeting with us at such short notice. I’m Detective Inspector Grace Archer and this is Detective Sergeant Harry Quinn.’
Suskind greets them with a wide smile revealing an impressive set of perfect white teeth and escorts them into her office, a modern, untidy space filled with piles of blue flyers, posters and discarded Brexit memorabilia.
‘Please take a seat. Can I get you something to drink?’
They both decline.
‘I have spoken to the police already.’
‘We understand that, Miss Suskind. We’re just following up on another line of enquiry,’ replies Archer.
‘And what would that be?’
‘I’m afraid I cannot say.’
She flashes a wan smile and sits behind her desk.
‘When was the last time you spoke with Mr Faulkner?’
‘Two weeks back. I don’t remember the exact date . . . oh . . . the eleventh, I think.’
‘Was that in person or on the phone?’
‘In person, at my flat in St John’s Wood.’
‘What was his frame of mind?’ asks Quinn.
She steeples her fingers together. ‘He wasn’t depressed, or suicidal if that’s what you’re implying.’
‘You had an argument that night,’ Archer prompts.
She shifts in her chair. ‘We’ve had many arguments.’
‘What was it about?’
‘Are you suggesting our argument is the reason he has gone missing?’
‘Not at all.’
‘Shouldn’t you be asking who his enemies are, or if he has angered some nutter? God knows enough people hate him.’
‘We’ll come to that in a moment. The argument you had . . .’
Her fingers tighten. ‘It was nothing important.’
‘Your neighbours reported a lot of shouting, a scream and the smashing of something like glass or pottery.’
‘What happens behind my closed doors is none of their concern. Anyway, Lewis and I are both passionate people. What can I say?’
‘Do you and Mr Faulkner live together?’
‘We spend most of our time at my place. He has his own place in Soho.’
‘Have you been there since he went missing?’
‘Yes. I went to see if he was there.’
‘And was he?’
‘No. Of course not.’
‘You mentioned that some people hate him. Did Lewis mention anyone that might want to do him harm?’
She begins to twist a ring on her little finger. ‘No one, aside from the usual social media trolls.’
‘Has he been in touch with you since he was reported missing?’
She shakes her head and looks away. ‘No.’
‘Has Lewis ever gone missing like this before?’
‘Not for this length of time.’
‘It must have been quite an argument,’ says Archer.
Suskind’s eyes snap upward and she glares at Archer, who levels her gaze.
‘Miss Suskind, when you spoke to my colleagues you implied that Mr Faulkner might be off on one of his “benders”. When they asked if that involved drinking, you replied, “And the rest.” ’
Suskind rubs her neck. ‘I don’t know why I said that. I was angry, I suppose.’
‘Is Lewis Faulkner taking drugs, Miss Suskind?’
Suskind swallows and shoots a cautious glance at the door behind them.
‘Anything you tell us may help find him. Please.’
‘I’ve said too much already.’
Archer glances at Quinn, who shrugs. She stands and Quinn follows.
‘We appreciate your time. If anything does come to mind . . .’
Suskind’s eyes begin to well and she trembles. ‘There is something.’ She pulls a tissue from a flower-patterned box on her desk and dabs her eyes.
Archer and Quinn sit back down.
‘We argued because I finished with him. I told him it was over.’
She blows her nose on the tissue.
‘You didn’t mention that when you spoke to the police.’
Suskind looks down and shakes her head.
‘May I ask why you wanted to end your relationship?’
‘It was becoming too much. He’s a controlling bully.’
‘Why you did you keep this back from the police?’
‘It wasn’t relevant. Anyway, I just assumed he’d disappeared to blow off steam.’
‘Did he hurt you, physically?’
‘No.’
‘Was he using drugs?’ asks Quinn.
Suskind hesitates before answering. ‘We were out at a party and he was gracious, polite and sociable, as always. He kept disappearing to the loo to “spend a penny”, as he liked to say. Each time he came back his personality would change. He’d be more fired up, loud, obnoxious. His colleagues noticed it too and he was warned, but he ignored them. He was becoming toxic and no one wanted anything to do with him. He was put on gardening leave and I’d heard he was about to lose his job. He knew that was coming. Everyone did.’
‘Did Sir Peter Davis know about this?’
Suskind nods, pulls two more tissues from the box and weeps quietly into them. ‘Despite all that I’m so worried about him.’
‘I’m sorry, Miss Suskind,’ says Archer. ‘We will do whatever we can to find him.’
Archer and Quinn exit the campaign headquarters and walk back to the car.
‘Odd that Davis never mentioned anything about Faulkner’s drugs or estrangement from the party,’ says Quinn.
‘Say nothing and protect the party at any cost.’
‘Politicians like to keep their dirty secrets under wraps.’
Quinn unlocks the car and they both climb inside.
‘Could you call Hicks and put him on speaker?’ asks Archer.
‘Sure.’
After three rings, Hicks picks up. ‘Quinn. What’s up?’
‘What’s the craic, Rodders?’
‘I told you not to call me that!’
Quinn smiles. ‘DI Archer would like a word.’
‘DI Hicks, this is Grace Archer.’
Archer hears him muttering something before he politely asks, ‘How can I help you, DI Archer?’
‘How did the interview with Faulkner’s ex-wife go?’
Hicks clears his throat before answering. ‘She was very obliging. “A selfish, cheating toe rag wanker” I believe were the words she used. I think DS Felton would agree with me.’ A pause for confirmation. ‘He’s nodding.’
Archer looks to Quinn, who rolls his eyes.
‘She said he did knock her about a bit. It became the norm until one day while they were doing the business, he gripped he
r neck and started strangling her. She blew her top and he told her to calm down and that she would have a better orgasm and that everyone was doing it that way, even celebrities. That was the final straw for her. Poor cow.’
Archer bristles at Hicks’s ‘cow’ comment.
‘That was pretty much it.’
‘Thank you, DI Hicks. Please could you put everything into finding Lewis Faulkner. Ask Klara to help you.’
‘Sure. I’ll pop over and see him now. Anything else?’
Archer frowns. ‘Have some respect, DI Hicks. Klara is here to help us. Not to put up with your petty bigotry.’
‘Slip o’ the tongue, DI Archer. You know how it is.’ Hicks hangs up.
‘Asshole,’ says Quinn.
‘That’s putting it mildly.’
They sit in silence for a moment before Quinn says, ‘This really doesn’t look good for Faulkner.’
Archer stares out the window at the passing traffic. ‘No, it doesn’t. We’ll need to get his ex-wife in to make a statement.’
‘I’ll talk to Rodders about that,’ replies Quinn. ‘Where next?’
‘I need to get a replacement phone. Could you drop me close to Covent Garden?’
24
B
ACK IN ITS DAY, THE immense Grade II-listed Victorian building that is Covent Garden’s Apple Store was probably the private residence of a duchess, a marquess, perhaps a surgeon or an artist, or so Archer likes to think. Although still grand and impressive it just feels wrong that it is now a large American tech store. Some would call that progress, she supposes.
The interior is so minimalist it seems unfinished with exposed pale-yellow bricks and immense glass walls that bring the outside in. The shop is a hub of activity with a never-ending stream of Londoners and tourists buying, upgrading or toying with the latest in pricey slimline Apple devices.
The sales staff, dressed in matching maroon polo shirts, are a curious mixture of nerdy hipster boys and pretty young women. In a social context, it might seem that these young men, hanging around with these young women, are punching above their weight. Archer is upstairs at what is called the Genius Bar sitting on a bar stool at a tall table with a young bearded hipster who calls himself ‘the phone whisperer’. He handles her phone like it is a dying kitten and does some weird tech juju with his delicate fingers, but fails to breathe life back into it.
‘Is it broken?’ she asks.
He gives her a half smile and under raised eyebrows shoots her a ‘how you doin’?’ look that lingers too long for comfort. He must be eleven years her junior.
He affects a grave expression. ‘Depends what you mean by broken.’
‘Is that a yes or a no?’
His cheeks flush. ‘Yes . . . erm, it’s knackered and it looks like your sim is missing. Perhaps it fell out when you dropped it?’
Archer is no frame of mind to tell him what actually happened. ‘How much for a replacement?’
‘I can do you a deal on a refurbished phone that is as good as a brand-new model but you’ll need to talk to your network provider about a replacement sim.’
‘So the phone won’t work?’
‘Not until you contact your provider.’
Archer sighs. ‘OK.’
‘I can get you the next model up from this one. It’s a better phone.’
‘Thank you.’
He places her phone gently down on the table top and gives her that look again. ‘Cool. Back in a jiffy.’
The whisperer disappears leaving Archer with her broken phone. Her thoughts turn to Grandad and she feels a pang of worry that he or the hospital might have called her and got no response.
‘Hello again,’ comes a voice.
Archer looks through the throng of customers to see a man with a chiselled jaw, dark wavy hair and an expensive overcoat smiling her way.
Jamie Blackwell.
‘It’s so nice to see you again,’ he says, weaving his way through the horde.
‘How are you?’ she asks.
‘I’m well, thank you.’
‘And you?’
‘Getting my broken phone replaced.’
‘Oh. Sorry to hear that.’
The phone whisperer arrives with a refurbished phone that looks brand new and gives Jamie a dismissive glance.
‘Perhaps we can have a coffee sometime?’ Jamie suggests.
‘That would be nice.’
‘Important question – how do you take your coffee?’
‘I’m more a tea with milk girl.’
‘Tea is sexy.’
Archer smiles. ‘I never knew.’
The whisperer mutters something under his breath.
‘See you soon, Grace.’
‘Bye.’
Jamie turns and disappears into the crowd. Archer feels her mood lightening as she watches him go.
She leaves the busy Genius Bar with her new device, satisfied that she is one step closer to having a working phone. At the exit she sees Jamie under the arches outside, holding two large take-out cups with steam billowing from them.
‘One tea, piping hot,’ he says, handing it across.
‘When you said soon, you really meant it,’ smiles Archer.
‘I thought it best not to waste time.’
Archer takes the tea. ‘Thank you.’
She cradles her hot drink as they casually navigate the tourists and shoppers of Covent Garden market, but something feels wrong. The hairs on her neck rise and she catches a breath. Out of the corner of her eye she sees a figure lurking, watching. She turns her head and through the layers of people sees someone pointing a mobile phone in her direction. Archer shudders. Is he photographing her? The constant flow of people makes it impossible to confirm the man’s appearance.
‘By the way, how is Jake?’ asks Jamie.
Jamie’s question distracts her for the briefest of moments and in that time the person holding the phone, whoever it is, vanishes into the crowd. Archer scans the throng but there is no one looking her way.
‘Grace, are you OK?’
Archer looks at Jamie with a tight smile. ‘Sorry, I thought I saw someone.’
Jamie frowns and looks into the crowd.
‘It’s OK,’ says Archer, ‘perhaps I imagined it. I’m sorry, that was rude of me. You were asking about Grandad. He was sleeping this morning when I called. Doing fine, thankfully. I’m going to see him as soon as I can get some time off work.’
‘Glad to hear it. He’s quite a character.’
‘I really appreciate you helping him out the other day.’
‘My pleasure. Do you hear that?’
Archer listens and hears a violin intro to an operatic aria.
‘I love this aria. Come with me,’ he says beckoning her to follow.
‘I really ought to get back to work.’
‘Just a few moments of your time. You’ll love it. I promise!’
Archer relents and allows Jamie to herd her inside the market and a balcony overlooking the basement where a tall, slender woman in a red woollen overcoat holds her elbows delicately and protectively.
She starts to sing.
Archer doesn’t know much about opera but she does know this woman is a soprano. Her voice is hypnotic and for a brief moment Archer loses herself in the music.
‘“Casta Diva” is a beautiful aria,’ Jamie tells her. ‘Norma the Druid High Priestess has fallen in love with a Roman soldier. The druids will not be happy, apparently.’
‘She’s sleeping with the enemy?’
‘It would seem so.’
Archer finishes the last of the tea, savouring the warm sustenance that spreads through her cold body. ‘I should get back to work.’
‘I’ll walk with you, if you like.’
They stroll down Henrietta Street and cross at Bedford Street.
‘Thank you for the tea,’ says Archer.
‘Perhaps we can go for a drink sometime?’
A date is the last thing on her mind right now
. Not only is the case filling her head, but the situation with Dom needs to be resolved. As much as she knows it’s over, she also knows that they will have to properly talk at some point. She had stupidly thought things between them were improving before she’d moved into Grandad’s, but she couldn’t have been more wrong and his betrayal hurts, more so because she didn’t see it coming.
Jamie can see her hesitation. ‘Listen, no pressure. Do you still have my card?’
‘I do.’
Jamie smiles. ‘Then call when you are free.’
*
Back in the office Quinn is holding a rolled-up copy of Mike Hamilton’s grubby tabloid. ‘You might not want to read this,’ he warns.
Archer feels nauseous recalling her confrontation with Hamilton that morning. Has he dragged something up from her past already?
Quinn hands across the paper.
Archer unrolls it and scans the article. It’s an opinion piece on the investigation peppered with veiled hate against the homeless and a caustic judgement on the killer’s so-called artistic bent. Hamilton clearly has a low opinion of her and how the investigation has been conducted so far. This is bad publicity for the Met and will not give the public any comfort. That aside, she is just relieved he hasn’t written anything about her past.
She crumples the rag and tosses it into the wastebasket.
‘You know what struck me the most about that piece?’ observes Quinn.
Archer removes her coat and hangs it on the coat stand.
‘What a piss-poor writer he is?’
Quinn smirks and then frowns. ‘You read my mind. How did you do that?’
‘Grace, Harry,’ calls Klara, ‘you might want to take a look at this.’
They enter her small office, a space that has been transformed into a computer hub festooned with green, yellow, red and black cables that provide power and connectivity on a grand scale.
Klara crouches in the doorway bunching loose wiring with cable ties.
‘Is it safe in there?’ asks Archer.
‘If there was a serious water leak, we might be in trouble. I think we’re OK, though. Harry thinks I’ve created my very own Tardis console.’
‘Although it’s smaller on the inside,’ says Quinn.
‘Can’t have everything, Harry,’ replies Klara.
They squeeze behind Klara’s desk with its three elevated monitors displaying shots from the ANPR system.
The Art of Death Page 14