He opened his eyes. The wall in front of him was grey and stained from the Blu Tack left by the previous inmate. Nathan had picked off every last speck and scrubbed the wall with a scouring pad but he could still see a hint of blue residue left by the adhesive. It irritated him deeply. He preferred plainness, no decorations, no distractions, just an expanse of clean plaster.
In the middle of the spring term she’d bumped into him in the library. He wore sunglasses all the time and she’d commented on it. It was typical Sarah, sarcastic, but accompanied by a provocative look. After that, things moved swiftly. His experience of sex comprised one proper girlfriend, when he was at school, and a series of, usually drunken, one-night stands. As with everything else, Sarah seemed confident and experienced. She liked to needle him, provoke an argument, and then make up. And making up was always passionate.
Although they never really discussed it they soon became regarded on campus as an item. This brought about a change of status that he’d enjoyed. People who’d previously blanked him sought him out. He was with Sarah, which meant he was cool.
Was there envy that she’d chosen him? The police had badgered him about that. Such a beautiful girl, they said, was he scared he’d lose her? Was he jealous?
He did wonder why she’d picked him but he’d never come up with an answer. Sometimes she was all over him, playing with his dark corkscrew curls, calling him ‘Lord Byron’; other times she’d ignore him for days. Her moods were as unpredictable as the weather.
If she’d lived, what would she have become? She belonged to the Drama Society and had won the lead role in one of their plays, but after a row with the director, she’d pulled out. He remembered her in the student bar, jabbing her finger in the poor bloke’s chest, calling him a sexist bastard. Life had never been quiet around Sarah.
Now, when he sat for some hours, his joints would stiffen and become painful. His body was adept at reminding him that the years were passing. He looked in the mirror as little as possible. His greying hair had become wispy and the stodgy prison diet left his skin prone to eruptions.
He had a strict rule about self-pity. But the imminence of his release had started to cause speculation. And it was hard to resist. He wondered about his own life, what would have happened to him if malign fate hadn’t cast him in the path of Sarah Boden? Perhaps he’d have become a film-maker himself? If a pathetic creature like Miss Piggy could manage it, surely he could have?
She hoped to manipulate him, that was clear. And there was no way he was falling for that. But now his temper had cooled he started to consider how the situation might work to his benefit. Maybe he could get something out of her. Money would certainly help. His needs inside had been few. But once he was out he didn’t want to have to survive on coffee-shop wages.
He would need to wait until his release date was confirmed before he made any move. But then perhaps it might be to his advantage to cooperate with Briony Rowe and her film. It was certainly an option worth considering.
CHAPTER SEVEN
As she headed eastwards in the driving rain Jo began to feel conflicted. This was what always happened. She would be forced to drop everything and rush to Alison’s rescue. But she’d been up all night, in and out of hospital, and was desperate for clean clothes and a shower. She decided to make a detour.
Her current home was an old LCC deck-access block off Southwark Bridge Road, where she shared a flat with another girl. It was central, a five-minute walk to London Bridge, and close to the chic delights of Borough Market. The flat itself was pretty grotty with a tiny ill-equipped kitchen and mould growing on the bathroom wall, but this meant she could afford the rent.
The place belonged to a jovial Nigerian, who, together with his brother, owned half the flats in the block. He wasn’t a bad landlord, in comparative terms. He responded to complaints and had a bevy of ‘cousins’ who carried out repairs. The mouldy bathroom got a lick of paint when it got too bad and Adebayo would come round in person to look things over. Each time he would ask Jo out and make a joke about how he’d love to be handcuffed by her. She always gave him the same reply: she never went out with married men.
When she got home she was annoyed to find her flatmate’s boyfriend in the shower. Marisa worked shifts – she was an A&E nurse – and was fast asleep. He did very little as far as Jo could see. He had the radio blaring as he sang along, using up all the hot water that he wasn’t paying for. Jo suppressed her anger for the best part of a whole minute then hammered on the bathroom door. As a result it was nearly two o’clock by the time she got to Greenwich.
Since her divorce, Alison Boden had lived in a Victorian terraced house in King George Street. It was small – originally a two-up, two-down – but its location close to Greenwich Park had seen its value accelerate into the stratosphere. A few years back, desperately short of ready cash, Alison got conned by a dubious equity release scheme. She nearly lost her home and Jo had to cajole her father into bailing his ex-wife out.
Letting herself in the front door, Jo was struck by the quiet. Her stomach lurched and her mind flew back to a similar occasion when she’d found her mother collapsed on the bed with an empty bottle of sleeping pills beside her. An avalanche of guilt surged through her, she should’ve come straight away, jumped in a cab.
The downstairs was open plan, the living area running into a galley kitchen at the back. Jo took the stairs two at a time, but her mother’s bedroom was empty, so was the bathroom and the small box bedroom where she’d spent her miserable teenage years. Returning to the ground floor she felt a draught of cold air and noticed the back door was ajar.
The garden was generous by London standards, enclosed by a brick wall at the rear and wooden fences, which in the summer were heavily hung with clematis and honeysuckle, creating a pleasant and secluded refuge. In her better moods, Alison was an enthusiastic gardener. But her other passion was art and she’d built a studio – more an extended shed – at the end of the garden.
Jo followed the short path between dark shrubs sombre and damp in their winter foliage. The double glass doors to the studio were shut but she could see her mother inside, sitting on her cane chair.
She opened the door. ‘You all right, Mum?’
Alison turned at the sound of her daughter’s voice. A small fan heater was blasting out hot air. She had a mug in her hand. ‘I’m doing what you said. Having a cup— My God! What’s happened to your face?’
Jo did a quick scan. Alison’s eyes were red, cheeks pale, but she seemed calm enough. ‘An accident, that’s all. Sorry I took so long to get here.’
Alison had a look of horror on her face. ‘What sort of accident?’
Jo fingered her nose. She told her mother as little as possible about her life. It was easier.
‘It’s nothing, Mum. It looks worse than it is.’
Jo knew this probably wasn’t true. After her shower she’d replaced the hospital dressing with a smaller plaster. But both eyes were underscored with huge mauve welts. Even Marisa had been shocked.
‘Has some man hit you?’
‘No!’
‘All this online dating! Tinder, whatever it’s called. I’ve told you before, it’s dangerous. You don’t know who you’re meeting.’
‘I don’t do Tinder. It was a work thing—’
Alison Boden wasn’t listening. ‘I couldn’t stand it, Jo. If something happened to you as well, it would do for me. You can’t tell what kind of man you’re dealing with just from a picture. You have got to be so careful.’
‘Listen to me, Mum. I was at work. We were arresting a suspect. There was a scuffle. It was an accident. He’s under lock and key.’
‘Looks broken to me.’
‘It’s not. Just badly bruised.’ Another lie, but necessary.
Her mother gave her a sceptical look, sighed and pointed to the canvas set on an easel in front of her. ‘What do you think? I think it’s shit but the gallery wants two more the same.’
The painting
comprised abstract shapes set in a symmetrical pattern. The colours were bright with the addition of impasto blobs of gold and silver.
Alison screwed up her nose in disgust. ‘Happy pictures that match any décor, I think that’s my brand.’
‘Why don’t you paint something for yourself?’
‘This sells at five hundred quid a pop. I need the money. People round here have no taste, if you ask me.’
Putting her mug down, Alison pulled a crumpled pack of Marlboros from the pocket of her long cardigan. She extracted a cigarette and sparked up. ‘Want one?’
‘I told you, I’ve given up.’
Inhaling deeply, she started to cough, a mucousy rumble deep in her chest. She pointed the cigarette accusingly at her daughter. ‘And don’t give me the spiel.’
‘I wasn’t going to.’
‘Bloody vaping! I’m not interested.’
‘I didn’t say anything.’
‘Good. Cause I’m not in the mood today. Injury at work – will you get compensation?’
Jo smiled to herself; for all her craziness, Alison was still sharp as a tack. ‘I doubt it.’
Her mother was looking straight at her now. Those startling blue eyes, the cheekbones, the straggly blonde hair fading to silver at the temples. Even now, at fifty-eight, she was a remarkably handsome woman – she’d had a brief modelling career in the seventies before she married – and this striking beauty had been passed on to both her daughters.
‘You sure it was a work thing?’
‘Yes! So tell me what they said.’ Jo settled herself on a stool in the corner of the studio.
Alison drew on her cigarette. ‘He’s been granted a release date by the parole board, though they can’t tell us what it is. There are all sorts of conditions. He won’t be allowed to come anywhere near us. Sarah’s dead but he gets his life back. And they call it justice.’
Jo sighed. ‘Well, like it or not, that’s the system.’
‘Why in God’s name did you ever join the bloody police? Accidents at work! The whole thing’s an accident, if you ask me.’ This abrupt change of subject, the sour anger in her mother’s tone, was all too familiar to Jo. Alison was on the attack. It was what she did when she had nowhere else for her feelings to go.
‘It’s a worthwhile job. I like it.’
‘You could’ve done anything if you’d set your mind to it. Something creative. Or taken a leaf out of your father’s book and made some money.’
‘This suits me.’
‘What? You want to end up like me? Without two pennies to rub together because I relied on a stupid man! I brought you up to be independent.’
‘I am independent.’
Jo could feel her body tensing although she kept an even tone in her voice. To react with the least hint of annoyance always made things worse. She’d learnt that the hard way.
‘On a copper’s pay? That’s why you live in that squalid little flat.’
‘It’s a good location. Easy to get to work.’
Alison slumped back in her chair; the drooping tail of ash on the end of her cigarette dropped to the floor. The rant seemed to have drained off some of her bile. Now she stared listlessly into space.
‘Sarah wanted to be a theatre director, did you know that?’
‘Yes, Mum. I knew that.’
‘I think she would’ve probably ended up in films. She had a very good visual eye. Like me.’
Jo said nothing.
‘I always wanted you girls to be creative. It was different for Carl.’
Everything was different for Carl, Jo thought bitterly, though she still said nothing. Her brother was the middle child, three years younger than Sarah, four years older than her. He’d opted to live with their father.
Both the men in her life had responded to the family tragedy by walking away. In Carl’s case, he’d kept on going. He’d won a scholarship to study in the States and had subsequently made his home in Toronto.
Alison stubbed out her cigarette. ‘We should probably call him and tell him. D’you feel like doing it?’
‘Not really.’ She met her mother’s eye. ‘But I will.’
Alison didn’t mention her ex-husband and Jo wasn’t about to.
Nick Boden took early retirement from his job as an insurance broker in the City. He’d moved to the north Norfolk coast, where he renovated flint cottages and barns, then sold them on to Londoners in search of a chic coastal bolthole, at inflated prices. He’d married a schoolteacher twenty-five years his junior and they had two boys.
After the acrimonious break-up of her parent’s marriage, Jo had been left to take care of her mother and in the years since then little had changed.
She painted on a smile. ‘Have you eaten anything today?’
Alison shook her head. She could rarely be bothered to cook for herself and subsisted on cheese and crackers and fruit.
‘Got any eggs?’
‘How should I know? Probably not.’
‘I’m going to go out and get a few bits, make us a nice lunch. What d’you think?’
Her mother responded with a peevish frown. ‘Have you put on a bit of weight? You look, I dunno . . .’ She puffed out her cheeks.
‘Don’t be spiteful, Mum. I’m offering to make you lunch. Just be grateful.’
Seeing the steel in her daughter’s eye, Alison shrugged. ‘I don’t mean to upset you. You know me, I’m a visual person, I notice the details.’
‘I’m not upset.’
‘You should go to the doctor. You might need surgery to reset that. I’m sure you could get your father to pay. You don’t want to end up looking like a rugby player.’
‘It’s been looked at. It’ll be fine.’
Mother and daughter faced each other, as they’d done many times before.
Alison shook her head wearily; tears welled in her eyes. ‘I’m sorry, I know I’m being a bitch.’
‘No you’re not. I won’t be long.’
Leaving her mother in the garden, Jo collected a hessian bag from the hook in the kitchen and an umbrella and headed out. She walked down Royal Hill towards the Sainsbury’s Local on Greenwich High Road.
Escaping from the house, if only for half an hour, was a blessed relief. She’d known for some time that her sister’s killer was probably coming up for release. Still, she’d dreaded this moment. Intellectually she understood and accepted the notion of justice and rehabilitation. But emotionally she harboured the same dark fantasies as her mother; she’d like to have seen the bastard strung up for his crime. She wondered how they were going to get through this.
Grabbing a basket, she walked briskly round the store, filling it with tomatoes, peppers, leaves, the ingredients for a salad, which she planned to serve with a cheese omelette. Although Alison could be extremely picky and had phases where she insisted she was a vegan, she did like omelettes and had once even admitted that her daughter was a decent cook.
Jo was opening an egg carton to check the contents were intact when she became aware of a presence at her elbow. A man, a hoodie, and he was standing far too close. Abruptly she spun round, putting the wire basket between them. He was probably hoping to grab her bag or extract her purse while she was busy with the eggs.
Facing him she fixed him with a hostile glare. His dark eyes stared back from under the hood. He had a beard. Then she recognized DC Jabreel Khan.
He glanced around. ‘We’ve got a problem. We need to talk.’
‘Are you following me? That is a problem and I’ll be taking it up with Hollingsworth.’
Under the shaggy beard his lips curled into a grin. ‘I get it, Boden. You think you’re hard. Now can we find somewhere quiet to talk? Cause I’ve got some important intel that you might want to hear.’
CHAPTER EIGHT
While Jo paid for her shopping Khan waited outside. He had the knack of merging with his surroundings. Melding into the flow of people on the High Road his eyes were everywhere, scanning, searching out anomalies, he missed
nothing. Jo followed several paces behind and he led her towards Greenwich Park.
The day was raw but the rain had given way to splashes of brightness with enough thin sunshine to bring out the tourists. Once they’d passed through the gates and negotiated the small gaggle of visitors milling around them they headed up the hill and Jo fell into step beside him. He was narrow across the shoulders, wiry and full of jittery energy. Jo was fit but as they climbed the steep hill towards the Observatory he set a blistering pace. She wondered whether he was deliberately trying to challenge her, or maybe he was simply being male.
What would it be like, operating out there in bandit country, living off your wits? Maybe it was the ultimate test – could you hold on to your identity and retain your moral compass? It placed Vaizey’s offer in a different light.
Veering off the main path, Khan headed across the grass towards a small copse of trees. The turf was sodden underfoot and soon they were well away from the dog walkers and the joggers and any other prying eyes. The trees were stark and bare resting on a ridge looking out over the baroque splendour of the Old Royal Naval College. He stopped, leant his back against the trunk of the nearest tree and folded his arms.
Jo’s trainers were caked in mud. She huffed. ‘I haven’t got a lot of time. This had better be good.’
He was studying her. ‘Nose looks painful.’
‘It’s fine.’ She resented his sympathy.
‘Listen, I’m sorry about your chis.’
‘Tell that to her.’ Jo was searching for a dry enough patch under the trees to put her shopping down.
He pushed back the hood and pulled off his knitted beanie; his dark hair was messy and damp. ‘I’m just trying to do my job here. Ardi is an unpredictable psycho. He didn’t say anything about the girl. They turned up with her. I didn’t even know why they’d brought her there.’
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