by JL Merrow
So to speak.
Maybe it was the porn career? Like, she was used to separating sex from emotions? Or was it a fetish in itself? Like, she got off on hearing about him shagging other men? I swallowed.
Lilah scrubbed her face with her hands. “And now they’re both gone. You know what? I’m scared. I told my girl she’s not going back to work, not while that bastard’s running around loose. That git’s mental. If Loos has any sense, she’ll shut the shop down for a week or two, not just today. It ain’t safe. I got my ex coming round later.”
Phil leaned forward. “You still think Kelvin Reid is the killer?”
“Who the bleedin’ hell else? He killed my poor Jonny ’cos he left him, and now he’s killed that lad because of them shagging. I rang them up, you know. After I spoke to you. I rang them up and said, ‘Why ain’t he in jail?’ But all they did was fob me off. ‘Can’t give out information about an ongoing investigation.’ Ongoing load of bollocks, more like. I told them that and all.”
I guessed they were Hertfordshire constabulary. And I wouldn’t mind betting our Mr. Reid of the big fists was even now helping them with their enquiries. I wondered if he had an alibi for last night. Then again, I still couldn’t see how he could’ve got Oliver to let him in. Not without waking Pete up.
That made me think of something else. “Your daughter”—calling her Hazel to Lilah’s face seemed rude, somehow, but no way on earth was I calling her Lola—“are her and Pete good mates?”
“Oh, yeah. More than, I reckon. On her side, anyhow, though she always says not.” Lilah made a face. “Like she’s going to tell her mum anything, right?”
“Did she meet him through Oliver?”
“Other way round. They were in sixth form together, Pete and my girl. She used to go round his house and play these Dungeons & Dragons games and whatnot. I ask you, what happened to teenagers going out on the piss? That lot just sat around drinking tea and playing flippin’ board games. Not even video games, they weren’t. Unnatural, I call it. That was when his mum and dad were still alive, of course. He was living there on his tod after they had that accident, until Oliver’s landlord kicked him out ’cos he wanted to sell the place. So my Lola says, ‘Why don’t you move in with Pete?’ And he’s been there ever since. Lived there and died there, Gawd rest his soul if you believe in all that bollocks.” She drew in a deep breath, and Christ knew she must’ve needed one after all that. “He’s a good lad, that Pete. Bit of a weirdo, but who ain’t? Living on your own, it’s bad for a boy that age. ’Specially working nights. He never had a right lot of friends, and now he’s gone and lost another one.”
I hoped for Pete’s sake she wasn’t planning on repeating this to the police. Then again, even I was starting to wonder if maybe young Mr. Steadman was a better actor than we’d given him credit for.
“Is your daughter at home now?” I asked, expecting a Gawd, yes, I’m not letting her out of my sight till she’s thirty.
“Lola? She’s gone round to see Pete, bless her heart.”
“What, at the—” I stopped myself just in time from saying, murder house “—house by the railway?”
“Nah. Crime scene, innit? They made him put up in a hotel, and what bloody use is that when you’re working nights? I told her to bring him back here, poor lad.”
“Is that a good idea?”
“More the bloody merrier if you ask me. Safety in numbers, innit? Tell you what, you two’d be welcome and all if you want to kip here tonight.” She gave Phil’s broad, muscular shoulders an approving look. “’Specially you.”
Hands off, love. This one’s taken. “Uh, sorry, but we’ve got to be home to feed the cats.”
“Was it just me, or was Lilah giving out seriously mixed messages about Pete Steadman?” I muttered after the front door had closed behind us. “There she is inviting him round to make himself at home, and in the next breath she’s one step away from saying ‘He was always a quiet one, kept himself to himself.’ That’s practically the dictionary definition of serial killer.”
Phil huffed. “Don’t reckon she realised she was doing it.”
“Think we should tell her?”
“What, not to trust him? Or to watch her mouth when she’s talking about him?”
I shrugged. “Either. Both.”
“I can’t see the lad trying anything at Lilah’s house. Likes to get his victims out on their own, doesn’t he, our murderer? Dark canal path, dark railway . . .”
“Yeah. Think he’s got a thing about transportation?”
We reached Phil’s car, which was parked a little way down the street, and he zapped the central locking. “Don’t know. But for the meantime, you might want to steer clear of motorway overpasses. At least at night.”
“Or footbridges. Or cycle paths,” I added as I opened the passenger door, since even murderers probably like to be environmentally friendly and keep in shape every now and then.
Phil gave me a look over the top of the car. “Cycle paths? Worried you’d get stabbed with a spoke?”
“Oi, he could throttle a bloke with a lock and chain. Or bash him over the head with a bicycle pump.”
Phil was shaking his head. “Doesn’t fit the MO. Our murderer’s not the hands-on sort.”
“Yeah, I s’pose they’ve got that whole out of sight, out of mind thing going on.”
“You think that’s why you were able to find Proudfoot’s remains? I’ve been thinking about that. They weren’t exactly hidden.”
His tone was sharp, and I felt intimidated by the focus of my beloved’s gaze, despite the fact there was a metric tonne and change of metal between us. Neither of us made any move to get in the car. “I dunno. I mean, I know they were just, well, lying there, but would anyone have found them if they hadn’t been looking? You’d get foxes and stuff taking them away and eating them, wouldn’t you? And eventually they’d rot and stuff.” I was getting queasy thinking about it. “Maybe it’s, uh, the intentions? Like, I don’t get vibes from stuff that’s lost, so it was all to do with how the murderer was feeling? Like they reckoned that was Oliver out of the way, body disposed of, job done?”
Phil nodded slowly. “That could explain it.”
Great. “Cheers, mate. Good to know you’re willing to believe there’s an explanation other than I put him there myself.”
He audibly tsked. “Christ, you know I know you didn’t kill him.” Then he grinned. “Haven’t been away from my side long enough, have you? No, I was wondering if . . . whatever it is that lets you find things, if it’s getting stronger.”
“Why would it do that?” I’m not going to pretend I wasn’t alarmed at the prospect.
“Been using it more, haven’t you? Getting better at tapping into it, from what I’ve seen. I keep telling you, it’s like a muscle.”
“What, and working these cases with you has been like the psychic equivalent of a few hours in the gym and a five-mile run?”
“Could be.”
“Great. On top of everything else, now I get to worry about my brain bulging out of my ears.” I got in the car and Phil followed suit.
“Anyhow, if you’re so curious about it all,” I asked as I buckled my seat belt, “why’d you shut down that transport copper when he was telling us about his gran?”
“Because it was all family legend, and chances are it was a load of bollocks. And he was treating you like a bloody freak show instead of getting on with investigating the murder. Next thing you knew he’d have been asking for a demonstration.”
Phil switched on the engine, put the car in gear—and froze.
I frowned at Phil—then looked up. There were a couple of cop cars, one of them in plain clothes but with a spinner on the top, coming down the road towards us. No sirens, just the lights.
“You don’t think . . .” I said slowly as they passed us.
We twisted round in our seats, and yep, you guessed it. The cars came to a halt in front of Lilah’s place.
The pl
od piled out. Phil switched off the engine.
“They’re going to make an arrest, aren’t they?” I said, getting out of the car.
“Must be.” Phil’s tone was grimmer than ever as he joined me on the street.
It’s awkward at a time like this. You feel you ought to do something, but there’s not a lot you can do, is there? Help the client resist arrest? That was assuming it was Lilah they were here for, of course. Christ, if it was one of the kids . . . Well, she’d definitely be in need of support. I started walking towards her house.
Phil grabbed my arm. “Don’t be in too much of a hurry. They won’t thank you for getting in the way.”
No, but Lilah might. But like I said—what could we do except stand there like a couple of gawkers at a sideshow, as much use as a chocolate teapot at a coffee drinkers’ convention?
It was horrible. Lilah was led out in handcuffs, her face defiant. Axel, his hoodie down and headphones off for once, ran out after her and threw a wobbly on the doorstep. He had to be restrained by a couple of uniformed coppers, while his mum screeched at them to leave him alone, she’d have ’em for police brutality, the effing bastards. She didn’t seem to notice me and Phil, which was probably just as well given how she yelled at her neighbour, a pleasant-looking middle-aged lady who’d poked her head out of her front door to see what the fuss was all about to “Go on, have a good gawp, I bet you’re loving this, you stuck-up cow.”
Once Lilah had been driven away and Axel shepherded back indoors by a stony-faced copper, me and Phil knocked on the door. The copper showed no signs of softening up when she answered it. Axel was still in the hallway, leaning against the wall, his hoodie now up and his head down.
“We’re friends of the family,” Phil said.
The copper didn’t look convinced.
Axel looked even less convinced. “You let them take her away! It’s not fair. She didn’t do anything.” He jerked himself away from the wall, which made the policewoman tense up, but instead of doing a runner, he sat down on the stairs and hugged his knees.
Phil coughed and casually planted one of his size elevens just inside the door. “What’s she been arrested for?”
The copper glared at my beloved’s foot like she was strongly tempted to slam the door on it. “I’m afraid I can’t—”
“Murder,” Axel broke in wildly.
“They think she killed Oliver?” I asked.
“What? No. Jonathan.” Axel buried his head once more.
Me and Phil exchanged glances. There must have been some kind of breakthrough, some piece of evidence found. We needed to talk to Dave, pronto.
“Uh, you’re going to get the boy’s dad round to keep an eye on him, right?” I said to the policewoman.
“I’m not a bloody kid! I don’t need—” Axel broke off with a sob. “I want my mum back.”
“Don’t worry, sir. I’ll make sure he’s taken care of.” She said it firmly, in a please go away now and stop upsetting him before I lose it and arrest you too sort of way.
So we went.
I rang Dave as soon as we got back to the car, which was totally because we needed information and not at all because I was avoiding the “Do you think she done it?” conversation with Phil. Dave answered on the first ring, with a tired, “Why am I not surprised it’s you?”
“Are you working today?” I asked, remembering it was Sunday morning.
“When am I ever not?”
“Oi, don’t give me that. You can’t have it both ways. Last time I rang, you were complaining about me interrupting your time off. Which, while we’re on the subject, you’ve been taking plenty of since the New Hope came along.”
“Maybe, but no other bugger’s going to get my paperwork done for me, are they now?”
“You sure you’re not just getting out of the house for some peace and quiet?”
“You tell the wife that and you can kiss goodbye to any more favours from this direction. So to what do I owe the very dubious pleasure? As if I couldn’t guess.”
“You’re aware they arrested our client five minutes ago, then?”
“Got you on speed dial, has she? Or did she send up the bat signal the minute they knocked on her door? What is it in your case—a pair of crossed pipe wrenches? Or a bloody crystal ball?”
I decided to ignore the digs at my profession(s). “We were there. We practically tag-teamed your lot on the doormat. So come on, what have they got on her?”
“You do realise informing members of the public about police investigations is not, actually, part of my job? To the extent of being specifically frowned upon? A DCI has to think about these things. Can’t go setting a bad example.”
“Yeah, but . . . Come on, Dave. We’re mates. And you know I wouldn’t do anything to, uh, pervert the course of justice or whatever you call it.”
There was a heavy sigh down the phone that nearly blew out my eardrums. “You know what the really tragic part is? You and Morrison would owe me so bloody many nights babysitting, if only I could believe either of you knows which end of a nipper is up.”
“The noisy end goes up, the smelly end goes down. Easy. Book us in for Friday night.” I fought the urge to cross my fingers he wouldn’t. “So what have they got on Lilah?”
“They found his phone. Which you did not hear from me.”
“Whose?”
“Whose do you bloody think? Parrot’s. It’d been chucked in the water, or fell in when he got bashed on the head”—and yeah, I noticed that was apparently now an established fact—“but they managed to dry it out and get the records off it. Message from one Lilah Parrot, nee Lovett, shortly before her husband went for an unseasonal swim: Meet me down by the canal.”
“What?” My gob was thoroughly smacked. “But that’s . . . Didn’t she have an alibi for when he got offed?”
“Haven’t you heard, Paretski? Only the guilty bother getting themselves an alibi.” Dave sighed. “Got to hand it to you. I always thought you had bleeding tragic taste in men, but your choice of clients tops that, easy.”
“But . . . why? I mean, why would she kill him?”
“Is that a serious question? Bloody hell, he ran out on her; he was probably cheating on her; if she asked for a divorce, he’d probably take her for every penny . . . What more do you want?”
She didn’t mind the cheating. She told us so, I didn’t say, because even as I thought it, I realised how bloody stupid it’d sound. “So Kelvin Reid is in the clear?” I asked instead.
“For the Parrot murder, yeah. And don’t quote me on this, but they’ll be trying to pin the Proudfoot one on your girlfriend and all.”
“Lilah? She’s well under five foot, for Christ’s sake. How’s she supposed to have shoved a strapping lad like Oliver over his own garden wall?” Okay, so strapping was pushing it, but the idea was still pretty far-fetched.
“No room for ableist attitudes in your modern constabulary. And I never said she was acting alone, now did I?”
“Who else have your lot got their eye on, then?”
There was another heavy sigh. “The DI’s playing it close to his chest, but her and Tarbox are each other’s alibis for when Parrot took that dive. Claimed they were working at the office until eight, by which time Parrot was already very literally sleeping with the fishes. So if she goes down, Tarbox is going with her. Whether he helped her out on the job or just after the fact for old times’ sake, I don’t know.”
“What about Oliver?”
“What about him?”
“Uh, why would they want to kill him?”
“Word is, him and Parrot were having it away, so there’s Lilah’s motive for you.”
“Yeah, we heard about that,” I said incautiously.
Phil was prodding at me. I frowned at him, tried to make out the words he was mouthing at me over the sound of Dave’s swearing, and swiftly gave up. “Hang on a mo, Dave.” I covered the bit you speak into with a finger. “What?”
“Ask him about
Lilah’s package. Did they find it?”
I uncovered the phone. “Dave?”
“Still here. Waiting to see if there’s any other minor little details you’ve been holding out on us, like a signed bloody confession from the murderer, maybe?”
“What? Nah, that was . . . We didn’t know for sure about Jonny-boy and Oliver until this morning. Listen, I wanted to ask: did you find Lilah’s package? The one she had me and Phil deliver.”
“Have I mentioned this isn’t my case?”
“Not in the last thirty seconds or so.”
Dave sighed. “Hold your horses.” There was the muffled sound of computer keys being pressed and expletives being uttered. It went on so flippin’ long I was practically climbing out of my car seat in frustration.
“No,” was Dave’s final reply. “It’s on the action list. Priority low.”
“Cheers, Dave. I owe you.” I hung up and reported what he’d said to Phil, whose expression suggested he had a similar view to mine of that priority level. Because what I reckoned, now I’d had a chance to think about it, was that if Lilah had killed her Jonny-boy, that package was key.
And okay, maybe I also wanted to be reassured I hadn’t delivered a death warrant.
“Camden?” I asked.
“Camden,” Phil said grimly, and pulled the car out onto the road.
“He’s got to be on the stall today, right?” I asked as we drove down to Hampstead, where we could hop on the Tube. “I mean, Sunday’s got to be a busy day, with all your tourists and whatnot, and it’s not like he’s got Jonathan to run it for him now.”
“Doesn’t matter. If he’s not there, we can catch him at home. It’s still early for anyone who’s not working to be out.”
“Have we got his address?”
Phil nodded. “Electoral register.”
I grinned. “It’s like I’ve always said: just because the politicians are all useless tossers doesn’t mean there’s no benefit to living in a democracy.”
We got off the Northern line smelling not-so-faintly of burnt diesel. I’ve never been sure how that works, seeing as the trains are electric, but it’s probably best not to ask. Probably best not to think too hard about the black smuts on your hanky when you blow your nose afterwards, either.