Mattie sighed and forced a smile.
‘I fancy an ice cream. You know – one you actually put in your mouth and not jab at passing strangers.’
Nancy smiled back.
‘There’s a cafe somewhere up ahead.’
Nancy reached for Mattie’s hand and let their fingers entwine.
‘PDA . . .’ muttered Mattie, but they stayed hand in hand as they strolled on and ten minutes later they were sat overlooking the park’s boating lake. Mattie was attacking a small tub of overpriced chocolate ice cream with a wooden spoon, while Nancy sipped thoughtfully at a lemon and ginger tea. They’d both thought a day in the park would be a good idea. An extended weekend before Mattie threw herself back into work. Nancy wasn’t sure it was having quite the calming effect she’d hoped.
‘So how are you feeling about tomorrow?’ she asked, not quite managing to disguise the concern in her voice.
‘Okay, I suppose. Do we have to talk about it now?’
‘I just want to know why you’re so tense.’
Mattie resisted the temptation to bite her partner’s head off, largely because it would have confirmed her point.
‘A new nick means a whole new load of bollocks, doesn’t it?’ asked Nancy.
‘Sexist bollocks, you mean?’
‘In part.’
‘It’s just another nick, that’s what you’ve been saying all week. What’s the big deal?’
Mattie’s worries weren’t easily explained to non-police. In her line of work, you needed to hit the ground running. There was a pressure on new officers to prove themselves fast, especially if you were a woman. It was true that even the thickest of male hides understood the old sexist days of the Met belonged to the past, but it didn’t mean the problem was eliminated. It was still there, just subtler and more nuanced. If you bothered to stop and count the moments, they were still unacceptably high. And Mattie was one to stop and count.
There were other concerns too. The canteen talk was full of stereotypes; you could be ‘one to watch’, a ‘smart cookie on the fast track’, or alternatively someone who ‘the penny hadn’t dropped with’ or even ‘a liability waiting to happen’. There never seemed to be much middle ground. Paulsen knew the jungle drums would be beating. Different nicks were linked by not so much a grapevine as a full-on vineyard. You could bet there were people at Cedar House who’d believe they knew all about her already. But they’d be wrong.
‘You’ve got to seize this, Mat. It’s an opportunity,’ said Nancy, still relentlessly searching for the positive. Mattie’s ice cream was melting in the heat and a dollop dribbled down her spoon on to her sleeve. She scowled and grabbed a paper napkin.
‘You know what it is, Nance. What it always is.’
‘I thought that was the point though? “Starting over” as the Americans say.’
‘Like that just washes everything away.’
‘You’ve got to make a choice. Move on, or go under . . .’
‘I did make that choice. I keep making that choice. But tell my subconscious. It’s not listening.’
Nancy groped for a response but couldn’t find one and took another sip of her tea instead. Around them children laughed and families strolled in the warm weather. Mattie looked over at Nancy, but she was deliberately looking away now. Mattie tossed the wooden spoon into the empty ice cream tub and turned to do some people-watching of her own. It wasn’t the first time she’d managed to bring storm clouds to a sunny day.
Chapter 9
Gary Elder took a swig of his beer, then checked his phone for a second time. It was an automatic reaction – he could guess why Phil Maddox was trying to get in touch. He’d stumbled on the news about Adesh almost by accident, the radio in the local One Stop casually revealing it while he’d been buying a carton of milk. The weirdest thing was that he wasn’t sure yet how he felt about it. It was certainly shocking; he hadn’t seen Kaul in years. He’d liked him though – back in the day. Liked him enough to go into business with him briefly. It was funny how people drift in and out of your life, and there was a genuine sadness. But it was the kind of sadness you felt when you heard about the death of a celebrity you liked. The kind of sadness you got over.
It was hard to know what to make of the circumstances of his death too. The police hadn’t given much away. Was it an accident? If so, how the fuck did he manage to burn to death at his own wedding? And if it wasn’t accidental, why would someone do it to him? An obvious answer was lurking at the back of his mind, but it wasn’t one he fancied exploring. It was an impossibility, for a start. No one could possibly know what they’d done at Pacific Square. It was years ago. Any evidence was surely buried by time, burnt to ash.
His train of thought was interrupted by the doorbell. It made him jump, sending his beer can flying and soaking his designer jeans.
‘Shit.’
He wiped the excess liquid off, grateful the dark material helped disguise the damp patch, and went to answer it. As he reached for the handle, he felt a sudden irrational doubt. He stopped and looked through the spyhole. The delivery man was already starting to fill out a card.
‘Hold on,’ he shouted and quickly opened the door. The man looked at him apologetically, tucked the card in his pocket and handed over a large parcel. Elder signed for it and closed the door. He already knew what was inside: a poncey new toaster for his mother’s birthday. He’d almost forgotten ordering it. He dropped the parcel absently on a side table. The adrenaline was still pumping. Just for a second he’d been genuinely worried about who was waiting outside. He needed to get some air, clear the cobwebs; a run would do him good.
He changed into a T-shirt and shorts and grabbed his sunglasses. Normally he’d have something loud pumping in his ears, but it didn’t feel right. He didn’t want to cut himself off from the world today. He wanted his wits about him. He stepped outside, looked around tentatively and frowned. He was being ridiculous, he thought, and he set off.
The man in the car on the other side of the road watched him go, amused by the concern he’d seen on Elder’s face. He’d looked nervous and that was good. He watched him run up the tree-lined street for a few seconds, moving now with a good tempo. The former firefighter looked muscular, still in good nick. Not someone who’d necessarily back away from a confrontation. The man smiled and started his car.
Once upon a time he’d have been invited to Kaul’s wedding, Elder thought as he increased his pace. They’d been that close. He felt strangely hurt by the snub, which made little sense in the circumstances. The boy must have grown up. The Adesh he knew was shy around women. It was Elder who’d encouraged him to come out of his shell back then. Every so often he missed those days – out on the lash with the lads after a hard shift. He couldn’t help but wonder what they were all doing now. Walker’s wife was probably in the grip of her MS, the poor bugger. He could picture Maddox doing something in computers – he was always a bit of a tech geek. Christ alone knew what Portbury was up to. He shook his head; none of it mattered in the slightest.
A car suddenly hurtled past, the roar of its engine making him jump. He stopped and watched it speed into the distance, then looked around uneasily. The street was empty, the noise echoing away. He was just being jumpy, and really needed to snap out of it. He began to move again, his steady gallop turning into a hard sprint.
Chapter 10
‘I’m so sorry for your loss.’
Finn looked at the woman in front of him, and momentarily wondered why the English language offered such limited vocabulary to cover bereavement. His hopes of returning to work without fuss were already over. As he’d made his way through the corridors of Cedar House he’d been intercepted by several well-wishers wanting to pass on their condolences. The effect was counterproductive. He knew it was a touch naïve, but he’d come back to work to get away from the reminders. The woman worked somewhere in IT support, and he thought her name might be Carol, but wasn’t sure. He forced a smile and walked on.
&nb
sp; ‘I mean it, you know. I am sorry,’ she said.
He turned and saw she was looking almost offended. Was there etiquette to how you received these comments too? Were the sentiments even genuine? He wasn’t really interested in whether Carol from IT, who’d never even met Karin, was sorry for her death. People said this stuff for their own benefit. They didn’t want to be seen as insensitive and he didn’t really care whether they were or weren’t. He nodded in acknowledgement and smiled with as much warmth as he could produce. Her face brightened. She’d got the little moment of intimacy between them she’d been searching for, and went on her way.
Finn knew he wasn’t the most popular person at Cedar House. In his time there he’d consciously made little attempt to socialise or even integrate with his colleagues. He firmly believed that just because you spent the day working under the same roof, it didn’t automatically mean friendship could be assumed. In turn, many of them found him arrogant, even plain rude. He didn’t mind, never being particularly one to get exercised by others’ opinions of him. But there was another layer to it too. Finn looked every inch the Oxbridge graduate he was. Add a certain coolness of attitude, and there were the ingredients if not for a class war, then certainly an underlying skirmish. For those who noted his reluctance to join the Friday night drinking clans, there was the reward of a slowly developed mutual trust.
Finn preferred people of substance, and he liked even more those who took the time to work him out. It helped professionally as well. Those in the team who judged quickly and superficially were likely to bring the same qualities to their work. His way of operating produced results, and people who tried to conflate a personal disregard for him with a professional one found it didn’t gather much traction. Every police officer respects competence; it gets you home on time. More importantly, it keeps you alive.
He’d used the previous afternoon to familiarise himself with the evidence gathered so far. The evening was then spent percolating. He’d ordered, then ignored, a pizza as his appetite continued to fail him. He’d then forced himself to go through the evidence again. And it was an effort. In the normal run of things, he was meticulous in his absorption of information. It was a skill most police officers acquired naturally over time, and Finn prided himself on it. But as much as he trained his mind on the details of Adesh Kaul’s wedding, it was the random details of Karin’s funeral that kept resurfacing. Grief wasn’t just tiring, it was merciless too. There seemed to be no activity – washing, eating, sleeping, working – that wasn’t visited by it.
He walked into the large open-plan office of the incident room and took in the familiar low-level hubbub of chatter and ringing phones. He was pleased at the lack of heads turning to register his presence. Maybe he was overselling his own importance. One exception was DS Jackie Ojo, who was at her desk leafing through paperwork. She greeted Finn with a warm smile. Known almost universally as Jackie O, Ojo was one of Finn’s solid citizens. For those officers at Cedar House who found Finn a bit too much like hard work, she was the perfect antidote. Ojo was a single mother, but rarely talked about her private life. If she found combining her job with raising a child on her own difficult, there was no clue. She always looked immaculate, and Finn could never shake the sense of a swan; serene on the surface but working furiously underneath to survive.
‘Good to have you back, guv. You okay?’
‘It’s better than daytime TV, I suppose. Is the boss in?’
‘Yeah, in his office.’
‘What about the new girl?’
Ojo looked awkward.
‘DC Paulsen’s not here; she hasn’t rung in either. I don’t know where she’s got to, to be honest.’
Finn arched an eyebrow. Hardly an auspicious start, and punctuality mattered to him. If he was required to be somewhere at a certain time that’s when he’d arrive, bang on the dot.
‘Have you met her yet?’
‘Briefly, she came in for an induction last week.’
‘And?’
‘Seems smart. Quiet though. Hard to get to know, I think, but it’s early days.’ This chimed with what Skegman told him in YoYo’s. Smart was good, distracted was not.
‘What are you working right now?’
‘The Thornton Heath stabbing. Looks on the periphery of gang-related stuff, but we haven’t handed it over to Trident yet.’ Trident was the Met’s department for tackling gang violence, and if it did come under their jurisdiction, it would usefully free Ojo up.
‘The periphery?’
‘Sounds like a fight over a girl involving some gangster types. Whether they’re actually part of anything and who was actually there, we’re still trying to establish. Usual bollocks.’
‘Keep me in the loop – it’d be good to have you on board though.’ Ojo nodded, and Finn moved on down the corridor towards Skegman’s office.
The DCI occupied a reasonably sized glass box of a private space. In theory it allowed for openness, but the way he sat there – stock-still, eyes darting around lizard-like as he stared at his screen – always reminded Finn irresistibly of Blofeld from the old Bond movies. He felt his phone vibrating and frowned when he didn’t recognise the number on the display.
‘DI Finn? It’s DC Paulsen. I know you were expecting me at the station this morning but I’ve gone straight to the crime scene. I’m at the Manor Park Hotel.’
The voice was distinctive, with a hint of an accent. Dutch possibly, he couldn’t tell. But it was the tone which surprised him; brusque, on the borderline of rude.
‘And why have you decided to do that?’
‘Something struck me overnight. Can you get down here?’
He really didn’t like the sense of being summoned, and by a rookie DC at that.
‘Well, I was intending to come down today at some point anyway.’
She didn’t reply.
‘Paulsen?’
‘Sorry, just saw someone I need to talk to. I’ll see you when you get here, sir.’ The line went dead. As introductions went, it was different, thought Finn.
An hour later, he was parking up in the surprisingly busy forecourt of the Manor Park Hotel. A couple of days on, the area around the banqueting hall remained a crime scene but there was a steady stream of people passing through. The hotel was taking in guests again after being given permission to reopen for limited business. The matter of a gruesome death over the weekend clearly hadn’t put off its clientele. Businessmen and women mainly, Finn noticed as he walked towards the entrance. Heads buried in phones, they seemed neither interested in nor bothered by the police presence.
The first thing that struck him was the smell. It was all pervading as he entered the lobby. Sour and rank, he was guessing it was a cocktail of the fire brigade’s work, the hotel’s sprinkler system and the charred micro fibres of what was left of Adesh Kaul. A slightly haunted young woman was sat behind the reception desk, while a uniformed police officer stood protecting a sealed-off passageway. The PC recognised him and pulled a cardboard box from behind the desk. Finn helped himself to blue plastic overalls, disposable gloves and bootees and slipped them on. He walked down a darkened corridor with the stench growing noticeably stronger until he arrived at a set of large double doors. There was a sign pointing the way to the toilets and he could hear the low-level conversation of the scenes of crime officers at work around the L-shaped corridor. Deciding he’d only be a distraction for now, he pushed the doors in front of him open and entered the deserted banqueting hall.
It was hard not to be affected by the scene inside. The room was untouched since its sudden evacuation over the weekend. Flattened rose petals were strewn over the floor beneath the mandap. Plates of food were still half eaten on tables, broken glass littered the carpet and even the wedding cake, part demolished, sat sagging still on its display table. The smell was now inside his throat, and he started to cough.
‘You’ll stop noticing it after about ten minutes,’ said an accented voice behind him. Finn turned and saw a tall, slight
ly gangly woman with a black bob. Even under the forensic apparel he could see she was distinctive, her face catching his eye. Part rock chick, part academic, it made you look twice. He made a mental note to cut that out straight away, not entirely sure where it’d come from.
‘DC Paulsen?’ asked Finn.
‘DI Finn? I’m sorry for your loss,’ she said formally.
‘Thank you, it isn’t necessary though.’
She looked uncomfortable, as if unsure whether she’d been inappropriate.
‘So, what brought you down here? I was expecting to meet you at the station this morning.’ He was trying to keep the irritation out of his voice, but she’d already managed to get under his skin. Her first choice on her first day was a minor act of insubordination.
‘Some of the wedding guests were due back today. They were staying here for the ceremony, but then left after what happened. The hotel told me they were coming back this morning to pick up their luggage so I wanted to catch them. They’ve had forty-eight hours for the initial shock to wear off and I thought that that, plus seeing the hotel again, might spark something. Bring back a memory or a small detail they’d forgotten in the immediate aftermath.’
When she spoke it was quickly and efficiently, and despite himself he found he was nodding. Not so much insubordination as initiative, it turned out.
‘And have you found something?’
‘Not from anything anyone’s said, but . . .’ She looked around the room again. ‘It’s all this. It’s lavish, very lavish – bells and whistles, and some.’
Finn took in the room properly this time. She was right; add the cost of hiring the hall to everything else and you weren’t talking thousands, more like tens of thousands.
‘Rich parents?’
‘That’s just it. One of the bride’s friends told me Kaul paid for the whole thing.’
‘His family paid?’ queried Finn.
‘No. Just him. He footed the bill for all of this, out of his own pocket.’
The Burning Men Page 4