Crossing the road to the estate agent’s, Jo tossed back her head, loosened her honey-blonde hair and lengthened her stride as she slipped into the mindset of the character she was creating. Charlotte, she told herself, was definitely the kind of girl who would’ve spent her holidays, as a teenager, tormenting gullible boys. Like Sarah, she’d done some modelling but discovered it was tedious. She had family money, obviously. But things had gone a bit awry for her; she’d hooked up with the wrong bloke. Now she was intent on escaping by finding a new flat. Was she going to follow instructions and make a direct appeal to his sympathy? That would be too obvious. The target had to be captivated first before he could be turned into a white knight. He could see her injuries for himself. Only later would she bring Foley into the mix.
As she pushed open the shop door Ivan Rossi looked up from his screen. Then he beamed, jumped up, buttoned his jacket and stepped forward to greet her.
CHAPTER TWENTY
In preparation for his actual release, Nathan Wade was given a ROTL – release on a temporary licence. He’d had a couple of these before to check just how ready he was to return to society.
The first time out alone he’d taken a train and visited his old hometown only to find his parents’ bungalow had been knocked down and replaced by two semis crammed on to the narrow site. He’d stood in the rain and tried to remember his mother dead-heading the roses in what had been her immaculate front garden.
But for this outing Lech had invited him to stay for a couple of days. It seemed bizarre to Nathan that this was his first sleepover at a mate’s since schooldays. He also found the prospect nerve-racking.
The Pole lived in the rented basement flat of a large Victorian property not far from the seafront in Littlehampton. He shared it with his cousin Mateusz and Mateusz’s girlfriend. They’d cleared out the tiny storage room, installed a camp bed and put a vase of freesias on the windowsill to make it look cheery.
Lech and Nathan walked back from the coffee shop after work and as they clattered down the metal staircase to the front door they were assailed by the robust meaty aroma of a large pot of Bigos stewing on the hob. Danuta had made it in honour of Nathan’s visit before going off to teach a boxercise class at the gym where she worked.
Opening the fridge, Lech pulled out two beers, flipped off the caps and handed one to his friend.
‘Twoje zdrowie!’
They chinked. Mateusz was gabbling anxiously in Polish. Danuta had given him some specific instructions about stirring the pot, adding the veg and not letting it burn.
Nathan held the dewy bottle like an exotic gift and watched his hosts jostling round each other in the narrow galley kitchen as they chopped cabbage to add to the pan. The normality of it all and their good-natured hospitality left him feeling awkward. It was a harsh reminder. Prison had robbed him of experiences like this. He could hardly remember the last time he’d cooked for his mates or been invited to dinner. He turned away to hide his resentment and took a slug of beer.
Briony Rowe arrived shortly after seven. She was red-faced and flustered, having driven down from London. A wodge of documents spilled out of her wicker basket and Nathan picked them up for her. They faced each other with self-conscious smiles.
Briony held out her bejewelled hand. ‘Thank you for agreeing to this.’
He took her clammy palm reluctantly. ‘Well, I suppose . . . I dunno.’
The decision to exploit the situation had been taken in the privacy of his cell. Carrying it through was another matter. He couldn’t think of anything to say.
Lech stepped in. ‘A beer, Briony?’
She extracted a bottle of red wine from the depths of her basket and offered it to Lech.
He examined the label. ‘Hey, the good stuff! You want some?’
‘It’s for you guys. Beer is fine, I’m driving.’
You guys. Nathan hadn’t heard anyone say that for years. It was a feminine phrase of the sort that would never feature in prison lingo. It was yet another reminder of how isolated he’d been, how shut away from the scurry and scamper of ordinary life. And from women.
He still felt desire. He fantasized often. He looked at porn and gave himself physical relief, but that depressed him. Occasionally he allowed himself to watch some of the female prison officers; they weren’t all dykes or crones. There were a couple of young ones who took particular pleasure in tantalizing the inmates. It was subtle, a special smile, a lingering look. The bitches enjoyed the power, Nathan was certain of that. But he was careful, he refused to give them the satisfaction of seeing they’d hooked him.
The Bigos was served with boiled potatoes. The four of them sat squashed round the narrow table, but it was a jolly meal, Lech and Mateusz made sure of that. Mateusz told tales of his life on English construction sites; he was a jack-of-all-trades, though he’d studied at art college and trained to be a graphic designer. He hoped to go back to it one day.
Nathan realized how little he knew about Lech. They were a similar age, Lech was a good manager, he knew that. But his Polish friend rarely revealed anything personal about himself. This was one of the main things Nathan liked about him.
Mateusz teased his cousin about a girl back home but Lech dismissed the conversation and poured more wine.
Nathan found himself niggled by memories that had been firmly put away. In his last year at school he had started to drink red wine; as a poet he’d felt it incumbent on him to cultivate sophisticated tastes. But he hadn’t touched it since. The flavour seemed odd to him now, lacking in the sweetness of the fizzy drinks that were his usual tipple. The fact he didn’t much like the taste made it easier to sip, he didn’t want to get drunk. Staying on an even keel, keeping control of his emotions seemed essential.
The dessert was ice cream, which Briony refused, leaving Nathan a double helping. Then the Polish cousins started to clear away the dishes. They retreated to the kitchen to make coffee and do the washing up.
Nathan had reflected long and hard on how to deal with Briony Rowe and turn the situation to his advantage, but somehow it all seemed to have slithered out of his brain. Playing the prison system was one thing, this required another approach. Patience, finesse even. It was a totally different kind of con. He scanned her; up close, he could feel how nervy she was.
‘Listen, Nathan.’ Her smile was tentative. ‘I know none of this is easy for you.’
He shrugged. ‘I think I’ve just blocked a lot of things out.’ The evasion was deliberate. It was going to take him some time to get used to her. She had a curious smell, some kind of pungent perfume. Expensive, no doubt. It wasn’t attractive.
She was nodding like a robotic little dog ‘That’s understandable. Have you got anything you’d like to ask me initially?’
‘How much money’ll be in it?’ The question popped out more abruptly than he’d intended. But then, what was the point beating about the bush?
‘Money? For you?’ She gave a nervous chuckle.
‘I’ve got sixteen years of lost earnings to make up.’
‘Surely the priority is to clear your name?’
‘You think that’s possible? How?’
Reaching down to the bundle of documents stuffed in her basket, Briony adopted a brisk manner. ‘I’ve talked to the Free Representation Unit. If we can interest them in your case, we should be able to get someone pro bono. But what we need in order to go to the Criminal Cases Review Commission is fresh evidence.’
‘What if there is no fresh evidence?’
‘At the moment we don’t know that. There might be something in the trial documents that’s been overlooked. And the whole field of forensics has moved on hugely. DNA collected at the scene may have been too difficult to read sixteen years ago, but they may be able to do something with it now.’
‘It all sounds very complicated.’
‘It is complicated. Lots of hoops to jump through. But we also have an alternative suspect, if we can track him down. The stalker.’
&n
bsp; ‘You really remember him?’
‘Yes.’
‘But not his name?’
‘Sarah called him Bruce. Remember the Die Hard films? Bruce Willis running round in his vest to show off his muscles?’
‘A postgrad? Let me guess, he had a car.’
‘Possibly.’
‘I always thought she was having a thing with that theatre bloke, the American.’
Briony chuckled. ‘Oh, God, no! She was faithful to you, Nathan.’
He gave her a sour look. ‘What planet are you living on? We’re talking about Sarah Boden here.’
‘You shouldn’t speak about her like that.’
‘Why not? She’s the reason my life is fucked.’
‘No, Bruce is the reason your life is fucked.’
Nathan stared down at his fingernails, ragged and work-worn. This was their first skirmish, the first of many he suspected. But she had to know that he wasn’t a sucker.
‘Surely films make money? I mean, let’s be honest, Briony, you’re not doing this for nothing.’
She looked offended. ‘I’m not doing this just for the money. We’ll need a production company who can take it to a broadcaster and get it commissioned. Then there’ll be the actual cost of production. It’ll be a long way down the road before we see any profit.’
He smiled. ‘But without me, you’ve got nothing. That’s the bottom line, isn’t it?’
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
The initial interview went well. Rossi seemed completely ordinary: an M&S suit, a G-Shock watch, the kind of young bloke you might find propping up any bar from Hoxton Square to Brixton. He had a salesman’s easy patter and it would be hard to suspect any link between this estate agent with a cheeky smile and Ukrainian gun-runners. Was the intel on his family even correct? Jo wondered.
She registered with the agency, discussed her property requirements, laughed at his jokes and gave him plenty of coy eye contact. It wasn’t that hard to make him fancy her. And, concealed behind the mask of Charlotte, she certainly found the whole process of flirtation and seduction much easier.
The bruising under her eyes was fading but still noticeable. His gaze kept coming back to it. He wanted to ask, she could feel it, but maybe he needed a little encouragement. She stroked the bridge of her nose gingerly with her middle finger and frowned.
Unconsciously he mirrored her, rubbing his own nose. ‘What happened? I don’t mean to be rude but it looks painful.’
‘Oh, skiing. My family goes every year.’ She let her eyes drift nervously towards the window, enough to tell him she was lying.
He got it immediately. ‘I tried snowboarding one year. Sprained my ankle. But we had a laugh. Went with some mates.’
The hook was in, the moment of vulnerability creating a more personal connection. A soft smugness crept into his face and Jo could see that the role of rescuer was an ego-trip that appealed to him.
‘So, hey, let me show you this new place that’s just come on. It’s over in Battersea. But you are gonna love it.’
‘I need somewhere fairly quickly. My situation is—’ Dropping her gaze she swallowed and let him glimpse the anxiety. ‘Well, it’s complicated.’
He gave a gentle nod. ‘Yes, I do understand.’
They moved on to a discussion of properties. But he was watching her all the time, speculating, calculating. Beauty in distress, men love it, Foley was certainly right about that. When she left the office after three quarters of an hour, he gazed into her eyes, gave her hand a comforting squeeze and held the door open for her. He was going to set up some appointments and call her.
Jo felt she’d made a good start. There was not the least whiff of suspicion on his part. If he was alert to any potential surveillance she was fairly confident she’d slipped under his radar.
In spite of the rain, walking across Shepherd’s Bush Green towards the tube she felt more light-hearted than she had for some days. She could report back to Foley and Vaizey with confidence. If nothing else the recording she’d made of the encounter on her phone was clear proof she was up to the job.
She’d always had an inkling that working undercover might suit her temperament and her encounter with Jabreel Khan had reinforced that feeling. Despite the initial hostility between them she had a sense they were kindred spirits, happiest keeping a low profile, watching covertly from the sidelines. She’d come to the conclusion that he must feel the connection too; why else would he have tracked her down to warn her about the Kelmendis? He’d gone to a lot of trouble for someone he didn’t even know.
And if she was honest, secretiveness had always felt exciting. Years before Sarah’s death, when she was still small, some instinctual intuition led her to conceal her thoughts and fears from Alison. There was always a whirlwind of anxiety around her mother, nothing solid you could rely on. Afterwards, Alison’s frequent floods of anger and paranoia could inundate everyone in its path and insulating herself from this became Jo’s priority.
At school too she’d faced a deluge of concern. Teachers and counsellors were always keeping a watchful eye and writing reports on her. She didn’t want to be the girl whose sister was murdered. She hated being singled out in any way. Being special was a term of abuse; the special needs kids were the divvies and deviants. Avoiding unwanted attention became her priority. Always appearing obedient and compliant, she discovered, was the way to keep the intrusion at bay. And she was good at it. She became expert at knowing how to evade questions and the right lies to tell. The hidden power of the deception gave her a buzz; it made her feel smart and, more important, it gave her the armour to protect herself.
Her parents had never liked the idea of her joining the police. Nick Boden had tried to persuade his daughter to become a lawyer instead; he found that more acceptable. He’d argued it was safer, but Jo had detected a hint of snobbery in his attitude. He didn’t want his privately educated daughter out on the street dealing with drug dealers, pimps, the violent and the homeless. That was a job for someone else and the pay reflected it. But their disapproval had galvanized her.
Jo was never an obvious rebel. The necessity of taking care of Alison had made her teenage years sober and staid. Getting drunk with her mates was always circumscribed by the need to get home and check on her mad mother. She went to university in London and lived at home because Alison wouldn’t countenance her going away and risk a repeat of what had happened to her sister. It wasn’t until she joined the Met that Jo had finally found her escape route.
The person who’d probably had the most influence on her choice of career was Katie Carr, the family liaison officer, who’d spent months practically living in their house. She was always professional but her calm presence gave Jo something to cling to while her parents imploded with grief and then tore each other apart. Jo adored Katie and wanted to be like her. They kept in touch for years, exchanging Christmas cards. Katie encouraged her ambition to join the police. When Jo received a round-robin email from some niece, announcing that Katie had died of cervical cancer, she cried buckets.
Zipping into Shepherd’s Bush tube station Jo shook the rain from her umbrella and, swiping through the ticket barrier, she joined the stream of damp travellers scurrying and slipping over the rain-slicked tiles towards the escalators.
It was mid morning, a drizzly January day, but that hadn’t deterred the hordes of Westfield shoppers bustling along with their bags. Jo got shoved by a couple of bedraggled Chinese tourists, but she gave them a benevolent smile. They were in her city spending their money, she wasn’t going to be unfriendly.
Arriving at the top of the bank of escalators she edged into line and joined the queue. Each of the moving staircases had two lanes: standing on the right, walking on the left. There was something quite British about the whole process, but foreign visitors seemed to get the idea.
Jo went for the left-hand lane of the far escalator, the fast lane. Stepping on to the initially flat treads the moving belt carried her forward and then abrupt
ly down into the vertiginous chasm of the underground.
She started to walk, scooting past the passengers riding on the right. The young lad in front of her had speeded to a trot and was clearing the path. She was thinking over the report she’d send to Foley and she was feeling upbeat. He could be as snippy as he liked, but he would have to acknowledge that she’d made progress.
The sense that someone was close behind her, propelling her forwards, was subtle at first. There was nothing unusual about being jostled or even shoved on the tube. But her intuition flashed warnings to her brain. She’d heard of a colleague who got stabbed on an escalator. Was she being paranoid? The Kelmendis were out to harm her. But could this really be the prelude to an attack? She had maybe seconds to decide and take evasive action.
Speeding up she got two thirds of the way down the moving staircase but he kept pace, then she stopped dead and braced herself. He ran straight into the back of her, hard enough to knock the wind out of her. She made a grab for the handrail and for a panic-stricken moment it seemed they both might pitch forward and downwards. A man standing to her right grabbed her arm and steadied her.
‘All right, love?’ He was burly, his grip firm.
Jo gasped for breath. ‘Thanks. Sorry.’
Then she turned to get a look at her potential assailant. He was young, rough-looking, a dark face and angry eyes under a tight black hoodie.
He glared at her and mumbled. It might’ve been an apology.
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