The tone was sad but not self-pitying. Briony felt a lump in her throat, which was a good sign. She glanced at Tania but her face was inscrutable.
‘You have no memory of what happened?’
‘No. I remember going home. I didn’t live on campus so I caught the train back into town.’
‘Were you sleeping together?’
‘Yes.’
‘So why didn’t you stay?’
‘Exams were starting the next day. We both had to revise. I must admit, I got home and fell asleep.’
‘Who was more drunk, you or her?’
‘Probably me. She made a big pot of coffee, to sober herself up. And she told me to go. She said I’d be a distraction.’
‘The police didn’t believe you.’
‘The shock of her death completely threw me. When they arrested me, I don’t think I could string a sentence together. I was a total mess. They interviewed me for what seemed like hours and hours. They said I might’ve blacked out, just not remembered what I’d done. And in the end I started to believe them.’
‘Why?’
‘I don’t know. I suppose it was because they were the police.’
‘You think they manipulated you.’
‘I was eighteen and I was petrified. I was a good kid, bit of a swot, I’d never been in any kind of trouble.’
Tania Jones nodded her head slowly. Her eyes had never left Nathan’s face. Briony dared to hope.
The producer laced her fingers and took a breath. ‘Well—’
But she didn’t get a chance to say more. The door opened and Gordon Kramer came wandering in with a mug of coffee in his hand. A large man in his middle sixties he had the red, rumpled face of too much sunburn acquired in foreign climes.
Tania snapped into action, giving her husband a brisk smile. ‘Darling, you remember Briony Rowe. Did some brilliant editing for us a few years back.’
‘Absolutely. Great to see you, Briony.’ He seized her hand in his chunky paw.
‘And this is Nathan Wade. He’s been the victim of the most atrocious miscarriage of justice.’
Briony’s heart soared.
Gordon nodded sagely as he shook hands. ‘Judicial system’s a fucking mess. And as for the prisons! You can’t expect to keep people on lockdown twenty-four hours a day and act surprised when all they want to do is take drugs. I think if we can get a couple of hidden cameras in there—’
‘That’s a different project, Gordon.’
‘Oh—’
‘Nathan’s not actually in prison any more.’
‘Oh.’ The big man blinked a couple of times and took a slug of coffee. His eyes were a watery blue, almost girlish, and gave the impression that he was staring wistfully towards some far-flung horizon.
Briony suddenly felt nervous. The atmosphere in the room had changed, she felt the momentum ebbing.
She had to do something. ‘Well, he’s only just been released and—’ And what? She hesitated.
Help came from an unexpected quarter. ‘I haven’t been released officially yet. I’m on a ROTL.’
‘A what?’ Kramer’s restless gaze swivelled to focus on Nathan.
‘Release on a temporary licence. If you’re a lifer they let you out for a bit, sort of see if you can be trusted. Then you go back, get assessed, wait for reports. And you’re right, all that’s a nightmare nowadays, because they haven’t got the staff. Everything’s been privatized and cut to the bone.’
Kramer nodded. ‘How long have you been in?’
‘Nearly sixteen years.’
‘You must’ve seen the prison estate change.’
‘Oh yeah. Loads.’
The veteran reporter nodded again but Briony got the impression he was bored.
Tania Jones stood up abruptly. ‘The really exciting thing here, Gordon, is Nathan’s personal story.’ She strolled over to the side table where the intern had laid out coffee.
He frowned. ‘Yeah, but we need to be challenging these bastards. And the politics—’
‘Are important, obviously, darling. But the viewer needs a prism through which to access them. Emotional engagement is key. And we have more than one issue in play here. Don’t we, Briony?’
‘Absolutely. Prisons but also the whole judicial system. Miscarriages of justice are becoming more common.’
Briony had no evidence for this assertion but it sounded good and had the desired effect of hooking Gordon Kramer’s wandering attention.
‘Fair enough, but proper investigative journalism requires that we back up the argument with analysis. You know my views, Tania, we’re not going soft.’
‘There’s nothing soft about a man who’s spent most of his adult life in jail for a murder he didn’t commit.’ She sounded tetchy.
Nathan watched the couple slugging it out. It felt as though they were talking about someone else, a stranger, not him.
Kramer dumped his coffee mug on the table with a decided snap. ‘Don’t tell me about what the broadcasters will buy.’
Tania sighed. ‘I’m not telling you anything you don’t already know.’
‘There’s not one bloody commissioning editor out there with the cojones to stick their neck out. And as for the bloody BBC! They’ve got their nose so far up the government’s arse. I’ll give them emotional bloody engagement!’
He shook his head sorrowfully then seemed to notice there were two other people in the room.
‘Good luck, mate. Hope it works out for you.’ A brisk handshake with Nathan and he disappeared out of the door.
Briony turned towards Tania Jones with a sinking feeling. Was that it? A thumbs down?
But the producer exhaled and gave them her best professional smile. ‘I’ve got a couple of excellent young researchers I want to work with you on this. Show them all the material and we can put together an outline. As Gordon says, something punchy. And moving. We’ll also need to consider a trailer.’
Briony tried not to look surprised. ‘I’m already working on that.’
‘Excellent.’
Tania glanced at her phone. She had a lunch at Sky and needed to wrap this up.
But Briony was emboldened. ‘I want to retain creative control. For Nathan’s sake.’
The producer shrugged. ‘You direct, we produce. I’m sure we can agree that we both have Nathan’s best interests at heart. And if we’re going to put up development money—’
Briony’s eyes lit up. It also had the desired effect of shutting her up.
Nathan smiled to himself. He knew Briony had been trying to fob him off – no money for ages until the film was out there and made a profit! That had clearly been a lie.
Gordon Kramer may be a legend and an angry old warhorse but Nathan quite liked him; at least he said what he thought. Tania Jones was a far more slippery proposition; in spite of the placatory tone she used with her husband, it was obvious that she called the shots.
She’d become preoccupied with scrolling through the messages on her phone. Nathan suspected this was a ploy. Abruptly she flashed them a smile and sighed. ‘I’m so sorry, I’m being terribly rude here, but we’ve got rather a lot on the slate at the moment. And it’s quite a juggling act keeping all the balls in the air.’
Briony responded by grinning like the cat who’d got the cream. ‘Obviously Nathan’s priority is to clear his name, so I’ve been talking to the Free Representation Unit about getting someone pro-bono—’
‘Excellent. A serious and credible lawyer will help. Plus the faster we can move things along . . .’
Nathan didn’t give a monkey’s about clearing his name. That was water under the bridge. Being out was all that mattered. And getting some cash. He’d had more than enough truck with lawyers and courts to last a lifetime. But he decided not to mention that.
‘Getting an application into the CCRC is what will take the time.’ Briony sounded like an expert.
‘Obviously. And the Boden family?’
‘The mother’s on board. I’m
working on the sister.’
The remark was casual; it hit Nathan like a sucker-punch. He shot the film-maker an incredulous look. It was news to him that Briony had even made contact with Sarah’s family.
‘You plan to involve the Bodens?’
‘Well, yes. Of course.’ She frowned at him dismissively and turned back to Tania beaming like a conjurer about to produce the rabbit. ‘But here’s something you’re going to love, I’ve only just found out. The sister is a police officer. An actual detective in the Met.’
This was enough to drag Tania Jones’s attention from her phone. ‘Seriously?’
Briony gave a modest shrug.
Nathan stared at them both in disbelief. She’d never mentioned involving the Bodens. He needed time to think.
Tania seized his hand, did the awful double hand-clasp again and told him gushingly how great it was to meet him. Moments later they were back out on the pavement.
Briony was thoughtful, she patted his arm. ‘You did well, Nathan.’
He nodded but continued to look glum.
Briony scanned him. ‘You okay?’
‘I need some new clothes.’
‘Clothes?’ She seemed surprised.
‘Yeah. I think we should go shopping.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
For her second encounter with Ivan Rossi, Jo chose skinny jeans and a silky top with a plunging neckline under her leather jacket. As soon as she walked into the estate agent’s shop on Shepherd’s Bush Green he was on his feet, wreathed in smiles.
She’d left it a couple of days, ignoring his phone calls. Then she’d sent him a short text, agreeing to some viewings. Her feigned ambivalence had paid off, he was more than delighted to see her.
The downtime she’d spent in the office looking at the skimpy intel they had on his family. The Ukrainian connection on his mother’s side was short on detail and there was no concrete evidence of a close relationship with his uncle or even if they’d ever met. But she had a useful chat with Sandra, the civilian analyst on the team, on what was known about the European end of the smuggling operation. Vaizey had passed her in the corridor, he’d seemed preoccupied and had given her a curt nod.
A strategy discussion with Foley had gone better than she’d expected. They’d formulated a plan. He’d read her report and listened to the audio – Jo wondered if he’d passed it up to the boss – she couldn’t tell from his non-committal comments. But she was determined not to display any insecurity or lack of confidence, so she didn’t ask.
Dealing with Foley had turned into a bit of a game. Acting tough and disinterested had the effect of making him dial down the sarcasm and aggression, which Jo began to think was a mask for his own hang-ups. He was hardly the first male officer she’d encountered who found it problematic working with younger female colleagues. She’d done a short stint on an MIT, where the lad culture and sexist jibes had bordered on harassment. You couldn’t challenge it, you had to play along or you were dubbed a humourless bitch. It was essential to never show any hint of vulnerability. In the lower reaches, the hidden regressive corners of many large organizations, including the police, it was still how you survived.
Feeling she’d got the measure of Foley had improved her mood. The incident on the tube still niggled, but she’d put it aside. Living in a city like London occasionally exposed you to such ugly behaviour. But if she was to continue to function as a cop and do her job effectively she couldn’t afford to take it to heart or get paranoid. Keeping a clear head, not to mention her nerve, was the priority. She’d heard nothing from Jabreel Khan and presumed that something was being done about the Kelmendis and their threats. Maybe the encounter on the tube was related, maybe not. She couldn’t be sure either way.
Ivan Rossi took her to a coffee shop round the corner from his office, set up his laptop on the table and proceeded to try and wow her with a series of luxury apartments, none of which had a price tag of less than a million pounds.
Jo hummed and hawed. What interested her was the laptop. So she downed her espresso in two gulps and he immediately offered to get her another. While he went to the counter to queue she scrolled through the various sets of property details. She had little expectation that a work computer would contain anything incriminating – she had no time for a proper look – what she was hoping for was some kind of small personal detail that might prove useful. But she didn’t want to make him suspicious.
As he approached with her coffee she leant back in her chair and smiled at him. ‘Thank you. I need this.’ That much at least was true.
He grinned. ‘I’m no good until my third. Brain doesn’t function.’
‘I know what you mean.’ She let her skittish gaze rest on him a moment longer than necessary.
He gave her a bashful look. There was something winsome and chirpy about him that was hard not to find appealing.
‘So, you’re definitely looking for a place on your own? I don’t want to pry, but a single woman, I think security needs to be high up on the list. Secure underground parking, 24/7 concierge—’
Jo threw him a nervous look. ‘I’m not actually single.’
‘Oh. Sorry, I didn’t mean to presume. A girl like you! Why would you be single.’ He chuckled to cover the fact he was being disingenuous. It was clear he’d guessed and made his own deductions from the line she’d fed him at their first meeting.
‘Can I tell you a secret, Ivan?’
‘Of course.’
‘My boyfriend. He doesn’t know I’m looking for a place. I’m trying to get away from him.’
‘I see.’ Another edgy chuckle.
‘He’ll go ballistic when he finds out.’
‘Well, you can rely on my absolute discretion.’ He puffed out his chest.
Jo swallowed hard and blinked her eyes. She didn’t manage to produce any tears but she gave a reasonable impression of holding them back as she whispered. ‘You’re so sweet.’
‘It’s a brave thing you’re doing, Charlotte. You don’t have to put up with stuff.’ He was staring at the yellowing bruise across the bridge of her nose. ‘No woman should.’
‘I know. But it’s hard.’ Placing a hand over her mouth she turned away.
‘My dad’s Italian. Bit macho in many ways. But he taught me this: a man who raises his hand to a woman is not a man.’ There was vehemence in his tone and Jo rewarded him with a sad smile.
Hunching her shoulders, she deliberately changed the subject. ‘Ivan’s not a very Italian name. Shouldn’t you be called Fabio or something like that?’
‘It’s after my grandfather on the other side. Mum’s Ukrainian. I’m a complete mongrel.’
‘Do you speak Italian? Or even Ukrainian?’
He laughed. ‘Mate, it takes me all my time to speak English! My mum hates it, she’s very big on family.’
Jo’s wandering gaze strayed to the screensaver that had popped up on Ivan’s laptop and there it was, the nugget she was looking for: a series of pictures of boats. As each image dissolved and the pixels reconfigured, she realized it was the same boat, a sizeable cabin cruiser.
‘Nice boat! I love the water.’
He folded his arms, gave her a swaggering smile. ‘Actually, it’s mine.’
‘No kidding! You own a boat!’
He responded with a modest nod.
‘I adore boats. When I was a kid, my dad had a forty-foot cruiser, kept it in Cornwall on the Helford River.’ She was improvising now, adrenaline pumping, monitoring his reaction beat by beat. But the flaky, fragile Charlotte act seemed to be doing the trick. His eyes were intense, there was a whiff of desire, he was definitely hooked. ‘Every summer we went down there. Until they got divorced.’ She frowned and looped her tumbling hair behind her ear with one finger. ‘I do miss it.’
‘Hey, I could take you out on my boat sometime.’
She shook her head. ‘No, I couldn’t—’
‘Why not?’ Reaching across the table, he put his hand on hers. ‘Charlott
e, you don’t have to be scared.’
‘You don’t know him. What he’s capable of.’ Pulling her hand away, she hesitated. ‘And he knows people, if you get what I mean.’
A sly smile spread over Ivan’s features. ‘Yeah, well, I’m not the sort of guy who’s easily intimidated. And I know a few people myself.’
‘I can’t involve you in my problems.’
‘Why not?’
Right on cue, her phone chirruped. She glanced at it, scanned the text. ‘Oh shit! I told him I was going shopping at Westfield. He wants to pick me up.’
‘We’re going to find you a flat and you’re going to get away from him.’
She leapt to her feet, shot him an agitated look. ‘He mustn’t see me with you. He gets so jealous. I’m sorry, we’ll have to do the viewings another day.’
‘You know, I can help you. And I don’t just mean sell you a flat.’
‘Take me out on your boat? I’d love that.’ Jo gave him a wistful smile. ‘I’d love to go back to Cornwall, in and out of all those little estuaries.’
‘My boat’s a bit nearer to home, moored off Southampton Water. But it’s in a river estuary too, so it’s pretty similar. You’d like it.’
Her phone buzzed again, Jo gave it a panicky glance and grabbed her bag. ‘Sorry, Ivan, I’ve got to go.’
He got up. ‘You’ve got my number. Anytime, Charlotte. If you need somewhere. I mean it.’
Ignoring him, Jo scooped up the phone and ran out of the door. She scooted across the road, dodging the traffic. She didn’t look back, there was no need to. She knew he was watching.
On the corner of the Green, at the spot they’d prearranged, Foley pulled up in a dark unmarked BMW. Jo opened the passenger door and jumped in. They drove off up Goldhawk Road passing Ivan Rossi, who was standing on the pavement, laptop tucked under his arm.
It Should Have Been Me Page 12