It Should Have Been Me

by Susan Wilkins

  Settling back at her desk, Jo spent the next hour chasing round the internet trying to pin down a connection between Ivan Rossi – possibly in the form of a directorship – and one of the many small companies with vessels registered on moorings around Southampton Water. It was a laborious task that Sandra had already begun before she’d gone home to feed her teenage brood. The theory that the two women had developed was that the boat would be registered through a front company, but that, somewhere in the small print, Rossi’s name would appear.

  By six thirty the open-plan office was largely deserted. Outside it was already pitch-black and icy slivers of sleet streaked the windows. Working steadily and methodically had always been Jo’s way of transmuting unruly thoughts or feelings. It grounded her. Being a police officer and consumed by the job was the very thing that had rescued her from the desolation of her teenage years. She often wished that her mother could understand that. But she didn’t.

  Leaning back from the screen, Jo eased the crease between her brows with her index finger. A young woman was strolling across the room towards her. A pang of guilt over Razan caught her off guard, because this girl also wore a hijab. They hadn’t been specifically introduced but Jo recognized her as one of the admin support staff.

  Smiling, she stopped beside Jo’s desk. ‘The Detective Super’s told me to call you a cab and put it on the account. There’s a storm forecast. He says you should go home.’

  Steve Vaizey was thinking about her, he was taking care of her. Her heart soared. Should she read anything personal into it? She wanted to. But, no. Definitely not. That would be stupid. He was her boss, possibly ten years older than her and he wore a platinum wedding ring.

  Still, as she switched off her screen and gathered her things, she felt a faint flush of desire and hope tingling through her veins.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Jo rarely splashed out on taxi rides across London but two in less than a week was a luxury she could get used to. Settled in the back, with a brand-new people carrier to herself, she had time to reflect and maybe even dream.

  Traffic on the Embankment was creeping through the mizzle. But as the temperature plummeted the rain thickened into a deluge of fat icy crystals. The river itself was a churning torrent. The road ahead became a wall of sleet and the windscreen wipers clacked desperately as they struggled to clear the cascade beating down on the cab.

  Forced to slow to a crawl, the driver raised his hand impatiently from the wheel. ‘Look at it! Like a bloody blizzard. They put out an amber weather warning on the radio. Sleet and snow. Just covering their arses, innit? Don’t make no difference. Everything still grinds to a bloody halt.’

  Jo realized that she’d been oblivious. The ice storm had engulfed them without her realizing. She’d been miles away. Thinking about what? A man she couldn’t have?

  The driver was obviously waiting for a response. She smiled. ‘Yeah, it’s awful.’

  ‘This is gonna take a while, love. I’m sorry. I was gonna do Lambeth Bridge, down to the Elephant, then the Old Kent Road.’

  ‘Don’t worry. It’s not a problem.’

  And it wasn’t. Being cocooned in the capsule of the cab suited her mood exactly. The tempest was out there but she was safe and dry. It could snow all it liked.

  When they finally got to Greenwich the cloudburst had eased. The snow had turned back to rain but it was still slushy underfoot.

  The streetlamp across the road from her mother’s house was on the blink but Jo made a dash from the taxi to the front door and let herself in. The house was in darkness. She flicked the light on and jumped out of her skin when she saw Alison sitting there on the sofa, clutching a large glass of white wine. It didn’t look like her first.

  ‘Mum! What are you doing sitting in the dark?’

  ‘Didn’t you get my message?’

  Jo didn’t want to admit she’d been ignoring her phone. ‘I’ve been a bit busy. Sorry.’

  ‘I’ve been scared out of my wits, Jo. So I kept the lights off. I don’t understand what’s going on.’

  ‘Why? What’s happened?’

  Alison stood up and Jo could see she was shaking. Putting the wine glass down she walked, shoulders hunched, towards the back door and unlocked it. ‘There. See for yourself.’

  There was a black bin bag outside the door in an icy puddle on the paved patio.

  ‘What is it?’

  Alison was close to tears. ‘It was on the front step. I had to pick it up.’

  Jo opened the top of the bag and peered in. The smell that assailed her was both metallic and feral. Blood? Excrement? All she could see was a tuft of ginger fur. It looked like some sort of dead animal.

  Alison put a hand over her mouth and suppressed a sob. ‘Someone hammered on the door in the middle of the storm. Sounded urgent so I went to answer. He was just dumped there, throat cut, covered in blood. Don’t you recognize him? It’s next-door’s cat.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  Two phone calls and a slew of late-night texts went unanswered so Jo was surprised when Jabreel Khan turned up on the doorstep at eight the next morning. She was still in her pyjamas, having spent half the night trying to calm her mother down. Alison had drunk too much wine and refused to go to bed. They’d had a ridiculous conversation about what to say to the next-door neighbours.

  The Sampsons were an elderly couple. She went out rarely, he struggled down to the shops with a stick. They had a daughter living somewhere on the south coast. Alison shopped for them occasionally but they were proud people, unwilling to ask for help. The cat was an amiable old tom called Marmalade. His regular perch was Alison’s front wall, so he could’ve easily been mistaken for their cat.

  Jo’s strategy was simply to tell them that the cat had been run over, she’d found it and would dispose of it for them. Alison argued with this. What if they wanted to see it? Bury it in the garden? Jo thought it unlikely. They went round in circles, trying to second-guess the Sampsons’ reaction for what seemed like hours.

  It was Saturday morning and a watery sun was struggling to break through when Jo opened the door to Khan. She hardly recognized him. The dirty hoodie was gone and the beard shaved. He was wearing a blue polo shirt, a soft leather jacket and chinos.

  Alison was still upstairs in bed. Jo took him straight out into the damp garden and showed him the dead cat.

  ‘I’m sorry about all the texts. My mum got a bit hysterical about the whole thing. And I didn’t want to involve the local force in case it complicated the issue.’

  Jabreel was peering into the bin bag. ‘Thank you for that. Your cat?’

  ‘No. Next-door’s. But he always sat on our wall.’

  He shook his head and exhaled. ‘Well, Fejzi Kelmendi was arrested on Thursday. He left North Cyprus, went down to Limassol and got into a fight in a bar. The Cypriot authorities are happy to act on the EAW and hand him over to us. They want rid of him.’

  ‘So you’re off the case?’

  ‘There are some loose ends.’ He sounded evasive. ‘But it was decided that I was too compromised.’

  ‘Bet you’re relieved.’

  Jo was fishing, hoping for more details. Although his appearance had changed, he still looked bone-weary, with deep shadows under his eyes.

  But he ignored the comment. ‘As regards you, we think the Kelmendis subcontracted the job out to a street gang from Peckham.’

  ‘And this is their handiwork?’

  ‘Probably. But don’t worry, we know who they are.’

  He was trying to sound reassuring even though his gaze zigzagged nervously round the room. He grasped the door handle in an attempt to control the tremor in his hands. Jo watched with concern. It was obvious that DC Khan wasn’t even running on adrenaline any more; he was completely burnt out.

  Jo knew she should probably be having this conversation directly with her old boss, Dave Hollingsworth. But he hadn’t even wanted her to be told that she was being targeted.

  Sh
e sighed. ‘There was something else that happened. It could be related but I’m not sure.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘A kid came up behind me on the escalator on the tube. It felt threatening. I thought he was going to try and push me.’

  Jabreel frowned. ‘When? You should’ve called me.’

  ‘Couple of days ago. But I’m probably being paranoid.’

  ‘Did he look like a gang member?’

  ‘He was young and black and wore a hoodie. But I don’t want to jump to any conclusions. Most likely it was just random.’

  He squinted into the bag at the dead cat. His whole body was jittery, he couldn’t meet her gaze. Jo continued to scan him.

  ‘You think the two things are connected?’

  He shrugged.

  She’d been part of the team that had taken down the Kelmendis but it was clear that there were aspects of the operation she simply didn’t know about and it seemed unlikely that Jabreel would fill her in.

  Lying awake most of the night, hyper-vigilant and listening for any unusual sounds, the questions had crowded in on her. If it was Ardi Kelmendi’s intention to terrorize her as a punishment, he’d pretty much succeeded.

  ‘Jabreel, how did they even know I was here?’

  ‘We’re looking into that.’

  ‘How could an informant on the inside, in the office even, come up with my mother’s address?’

  ‘You may have been followed?’

  ‘I’ve got a teenage gang from Peckham stalking me? Is that what you’re saying?’

  ‘Jo, we are handling this. It’s all under control, I promise you.’

  The day was raw, the garden a mass of dank foliage. But beads of sweat had formed on his forehead.

  ‘Why don’t I feel reassured?’

  He shrugged and picked up the bin bag. ‘Want me to get rid of this for you?’

  She nodded. They went back into the house. He carried the dripping bag through to the front door and rested it on the bristled coir mat.

  Jo raked her fingers through her hair. Exasperation engulfed her. ‘So if I go to Hollingsworth about this, you’re in trouble for telling me?’

  He heaved a sigh. ‘I’ve been stood down, sent on leave. So, yeah, probably. But, end of the day, it’s up to you.’

  ‘What the hell am I supposed to do, Jabreel?’

  ‘Look, there’s a team on it. Warrants have been issued. It will be all right, Jo. You have my word.’ His dark eyes seemed feverish.

  She was about to reply when Alison appeared on the stairs. As she came down, Jo wondered if her mother had heard the tail end of this. But she simply smiled. She was dressed up in a skirt and her best silk blouse.

  ‘Mum, this is Jabreel. He’s a colleague. He’s come to sort Marmalade out.’

  Alison gave him a calm and regal smile and Jo immediately realized that she was zoned out. A double dose of benzodiazepine usually had this effect.

  She held out her hand. ‘That’s very kind, Jabreel.’

  ‘No problem, Mrs Boden.’ He shot a glance at Jo. ‘I should be off. And don’t worry. You won’t be bothered any more.’

  Jo opened the front door for him. There was little she could say. ‘Thanks for coming round.’

  She watched him carry the bin liner containing the dead creature to a parked Ford Focus. He opened the boot, put it inside and gave her a nod. Jo suspected it was the last she’d ever see of him.

  As she stepped back into the house she found Alison had picked up her handbag and appeared to be waiting. Her zombie-like manner confirmed Jo’s worst fears.

  ‘Mum, what have you taken? You can’t just double up the dose because you’re feeling stressed.’

  ‘You need to get ready. We’ll be late.’

  ‘Late for what?’

  ‘We’re going out to lunch.’

  ‘I haven’t even had breakfast.’

  ‘I sent you a text. We agreed to go and meet Briony, the film-maker. And have lunch.’

  ‘What? You’re kidding. Not today?’

  ‘You said maybe this weekend.’

  ‘I’m sure I didn’t.’

  ‘Well, I’ve arranged it. Lunch. Today.’

  ‘No, Mum, no way!’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  The restaurant was in Soho and not what either of them had expected. Jo’s refusal had been met with a well-aimed guilt trip from her mother. The medication did have the effect of calming Alison and making her more rational. Her argument was that Jo had agreed to meet Briony Rowe and after the brutal murder of Marmalade, which she had in no way explained, it was the least she could do. In the end her daughter caved in. It seemed simpler than answering a barrage of questions about who had killed the cat and why.

  They walked down Greek Street until they found the place. It was French, situated in an elegant Georgian building, and struck Jo as being far too expensive for a struggling film-maker.

  As they mounted the steps to the entrance Alison gave her daughter a ghostly smile. ‘You see, it just goes to show.’

  ‘Goes to show what?’

  ‘That these people are serious.’

  Jo shook her head wearily. A dose of her mother’s snobbery was the last thing she needed.

  A narrow panelled corridor led to the reception desk. Alison gave Briony’s name and a smart young woman escorted them through into an elegant old-fashioned dining room.

  The high ceiling was decorated with ornate cornices and hung with crystal chandeliers. The style was classic – starched white linen with heavy silver cutlery – and nearly half of the diners were Chinese. Probably the only ones who could afford a place like this, Jo reflected sourly.

  Briony was seated at a round table in the corner. She got up as they approached, as did her two companions.

  ‘Alison, I’m so glad you could come.’

  ‘Sorry if we’re a bit late.’

  Jo hung back, her mother’s attitude was annoying. It would take more than a posh restaurant to get her to take this farrago seriously.

  The film-maker was grinning from ear to ear. ‘Let me introduce Tania Jones, who’s going to be our producer. And Harry McNair-Phillips, Nathan’s lawyer.’

  Handshakes were exchanged and Jo found herself imprisoned in Tania Jones’s double-handed clasp. ‘I’m so glad you decided to come, Jo. I know you have reservations about all this. I did myself, initially.’

  Jo gave her a curt nod and they all sat down.

  The business of menus and drinks orders took up the next five minutes and gave Jo a chance to get the measure of the situation.

  Tania Jones played hostess and presumably she was footing the bill. Harry was a pretty typical young barrister, Jo had encountered his type in court. Glib, bags of confidence and, given his obvious youth, there because getting his face on the telly would be a huge career boost.

  Alcohol and benzos were not a good combination, nevertheless Alison was soon knocking back the wine. Jo let her mother run on – how difficult it had been, what a clever, talented and amazing person her dead daughter was.

  Jo sat back and watched as she became all too aware that she herself was being scrutinized. Tania Jones’s eyes hardly left her face. Briony Rowe shot the producer the odd surreptitious glance. It felt like they were plotting.

  Finally Tania interrupted Alison’s monologue. ‘The thing I’m amazed by is the family resemblance here. Sarah was so beautiful – of course I’ve only seen photographs – but she clearly gets her looks from you, Alison.’

  Jo watched her mother down another slug of wine. ‘Everyone’s always said how much she took after me. Jo’s got the look of her father.’

  Tania’s calculating gaze came to rest on Jo. ‘Oh, I don’t know. I think both your daughters look very much like you.’

  Jo stared right back at the producer. She’d spent enough of her life being a stand-in for her sister. If that was their agenda, they could stuff it.

  She’d ordered a gin and tonic and took a small sip. ‘I thought we
were here to talk about evidence. If you reckon Nathan Wade was wrongly convicted, where’s the proof?’

  Briony beamed. ‘Cut to the chase. You can tell she’s a detective!’

  Jo gave the film-maker an icy stare.

  But Harry McNair-Phillips, who’d been quietly demolishing a bowl of olives, piped up. ‘Well, I’ve got the transcript of the trial from Nathan’s old lawyers and two things immediately stick out. First, the CCTV footage from the station.’

  ‘Which is relevant how?’ Jo had no intention of giving them an inch. They could wine and dine her and flannel her with their expertise and charm, but she refused to be suckered.

  Harry grinned. ‘Well, as a police officer you’ll be well aware that many cold case convictions turn on the forensics. The advances of the last ten years mean that evidence gathered at the time can be re-examined—’

  ‘That wasn’t my question. I don’t need a lesson in forensics.’

  ‘Sorry. Okay. The post-mortem established a time of death that was after 2 a.m. The defence argument was that Nathan left campus and took the last train back into town at 11.55. Even allowing for a margin of error on the PM, that would exclude him. The CCTV from the station shows passengers boarding that train. The defence argued that a young man in a brown anorak, similar to one owned by Nathan Wade, was indeed him. But the quality of the footage made proper identification impossible. However, if that footage is digitally re-mastered now, there’s a good chance they could use facial recognition software to make an identification.’

  ‘Well, yeah. Some CCTV footage can be improved a bit. And there are several techie outfits who claim to have clever software that works miracles. But I know of cases in the Met recently where crap CCTV has been re-examined and is still crap CCTV. Just not enough pixels. On top of that, it could still turn out to be someone else.’

  She lounged back in her chair and smoothed her napkin. If this was what they had then her suspicions were confirmed. It was all a scam.

  ‘True.’ Harry fortified himself with a large mouthful of wine. Tania Jones was watching the exchange with a sly smile.