It pisses me off the way we’re expected to dance around them. If you fancy someone and you come on to them you’ve always got to be so careful. Not too confident or too sexy or too clever, you’ll scare them off, give the wrong impression, get labelled a slut and a one-off shag. Once you’re that sort of girl, you’re in an even worse position. A target.
You want a boy you still have to let him think it’s his idea. He gets to ask, you get to be girly and grateful. And here’s the stupid thing, you are grateful and excited. He wants you and that gives you such a buzz. Like he knows something about you that you don’t. Even if you want to say no to something – for example, sex without a condom – then it’s awkward, he could get upset. You have to take care of his feelings because you’re the girl. Is this biology? I hope not. I wish I could be tough and different and just tell the truth. But then people won’t like me. They certainly won’t like me if they find out what I really am!
Jo found herself smiling. Not even nineteen and Sarah had a pretty mature though cynical grasp of how the game was played. What would she have made of a one-night stand with the boss? Jo was suddenly swamped by an overwhelming sense of regret. How good it would be to go to her big sister and ask her advice.
What would she have made of Steve Vaizey – married, chilly, domineering? And why the hell did Jo even find that attractive? Maybe Sarah could’ve explained it, could’ve told her she was being stupid. They might’ve shared a bottle of wine, moaned about Alison, compared notes on men and sex. In the absence of religion, who better than your sister, your blood sister, to hear your most shameful secrets and grant you absolution?
A yellow van pulled up in front of her. Tears ran down Jo’s cheeks. She brushed them away, blew her nose and got out to greet her knight in shining armour.
He had smart overalls straining over his paunch and a jolly demeanour. Apologizing for the wait, he had the bonnet up in a jiffy and as he worked started a monologue on the subject of Astras: a sturdy workhorse of the road, unfortunately radiators were the weak spot of many older vehicles. His diagnosis and explanation of what he was doing slid into Jo’s brain and out again. Her gaze glided through the drizzle and came to rest on a grey Insignia.
The car park was busy with comings and goings; in the hour she’d waited, although she’d been focused on the journal, her subconscious had been on autopilot, scanning and noting the turnover of vehicles.
The Insignia had followed her in, possibly a couple of cars behind, and had parked in the next bay, facing away from her. The tinted rear windows made it impossible to see the occupants. Now it was one of only three vehicles remaining in that sector of the car park that had been there since her arrival. The other two comprised a Ford Galaxy with a large Asian family – the kids kicking a football around on the slippery grass – and two scaffolders in a van, who’d consumed the contents of three large buckets of KFC and were taking a nap.
Jo studied the Insignia – it looked empty – its owner was probably a salesman who was inside in the warm working on his laptop. She hadn’t noticed anyone get out but she could have easily missed it.
Why was she even doing this she wondered? Habit? A distraction for her churned-up emotions? She’d left her father on superficially better terms but feeling ashamed like a guilty child. To have accused him of such a crime felt shocking now even to her. The years of resentment and self-pity had simply spilled over and obliterated rational judgement.
The mechanic was pouring something viscous and evil-smelling into the radiator to seal it when the passenger door of the Insignia opened, a man got out and jogged towards the building. He had his back towards her, the hood of his dark sweatshirt up and concealing his face. But the curve and tilt of the narrow shoulders as he ran, hands thrust in pockets, sent a shudder of recognition through Jo. It was Jabreel Khan, she was sure of it.
CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO
The mechanic advised Jo to wait thirty minutes for the gunk – not the technical term he used – to solidify properly before driving the car. As soon as he’d left she strode towards the main services building. If it was Jabreel she was going to confront him and demand to know what was going on. Was he back undercover and, if so, why was he following her? It could be a bizarre coincidence, though that seemed unlikely.
Her head was scratchy with questions and speculations. Were the Kelmendis still targeting her? Surely all that had been dealt with. Had he been dispatched to protect her? Had she been followed all the way to Norfolk or picked up later on ANPR? But then how did they know she was driving her mother’s car? She hadn’t discussed her plans with anyone in the office. Her thoughts skipped to her phone. She’d texted. But the notion her phone was being tracked was absurd. Why?
The building was triangular in shape, glass-fronted and airy with the various catering outlets and seating areas arranged around an open corridor. The place had a vibrancy and bustle as travellers escaped the winter chill, queued for hot food and beverages, made a beeline for the toilets or browsed for sweets and magazines. Jo scanned each area systematically but there was no sign of Jabreel Khan.
She hovered outside the toilets. If that’s where he was hiding, she’d wait him out. But after fifteen minutes of pacing and hawkish observation there was no sign. Perhaps she’d made a mistake and paranoia was taking over.
Returning to her car she saw that the Insignia was gone. She felt faintly foolish. The world was full of young men in hoodies. Jabreel had moved on to another job, he’d told her that. Perhaps she’d been wishing subconsciously for a better rescuer than her garrulous mechanic.
She drove south and on the outskirts of the city joined the belching tailback of red winking lights stretching ahead into the early encroaching darkness. Crawling through the rush-hour traffic she finally made it back to Greenwich and parked the car. It seemed doubtful it would pass its next MOT and neither she nor her mother could afford to replace it. Nick would’ve probably stepped into the breach and bought something for her – quad bikes for the boys, why shouldn’t she get a car – but the idea of being beholden to him stuck in her craw.
Letting herself into the house she found the place in darkness. She called out, flicked on a couple of lamps, then saw a glimmer of light from the painting shed in the garden. Switching on the security lights at the back of the house she picked her way down the damp and slithery path. It was composed of old brick, crumbling at the edges and had acquired a coat of lichen which made it treacherous when wet. She made a mental note to get someone in to sort it out before Alison slipped and broke her neck, creating yet more problems.
The windows of Alison’s painting shed were fogged with condensation and a gush of warm air met Jo as she opened the door. Alison was on her feet, in front of her easel. Her face was animated and she waved her brush.
‘For me it’s all about texture. The interplay of texture and colour.’
Standing beside her, arms folded, nodding sagely, was Nathan Wade.
‘I like it. It’s got real energy.’
Jo stared in disbelief. They were chatting comfortably, like two art buffs at a gallery opening and beamed in unison at the sight of Jo.
‘Hello, darling. Look who’s come to see us.’ Alison slotted her brush into a jar of white spirit.
Jo glared at him. ‘Who the hell gave you this address?’
‘Kayleigh. It was in Briony’s address book.’
Alison gave her daughter a testy look. ‘Don’t be so aggressive, Jo. I think we could all do with a nice glass of wine.’
CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE
The sight of Nathan Wade lounging on her mother’s battered old sofa with his legs languidly crossed struck Jo as an insult and an invasion. There were certainly questions to be answered but he was still her sister’s convicted killer. He refused wine and asked for a cup of tea. To buy herself some time, Jo retreated to the kitchen to make it. Alison followed, went straight to the fridge and poured herself a glass of wine.
Jo caught her eye.
Alis
on slopped wine on the kitchen worktop. ‘Don’t look at me like that. I opened the door, there he was. I didn’t know what to say to him.’
‘Go away?’
‘Oh, yeah, right. You’d’ve done that.’ Her mother took a hefty slug. She seemed rather hyper and Jo knew that the alcohol was likely to bring her down, probably with a bump. Nathan Wade had thrown them both onto the back foot. But Alison was right, curiosity would’ve got the better of her. She boiled the kettle and made a pot of tea.
By the time Jo finally sat down in front of him she was fully composed and fixed him with a glacial stare.
He picked up his mug, sipped, smiled. ‘You must be wondering why I’m here. As I explained to Alison, I’ve come firstly to apologize and to answer your question.’
‘My question?’
‘You wanted to know where I was on Wednesday night, when Briony died. I was in bed at the hostel. With Kayleigh. I was still with her when the police rang and told her about Briony. If you call her she’ll tell you it’s true.’
She nodded and waited for him to say more.
‘You’ve met Kayleigh and I’m sure you’ve observed how upset and indeed angry she was about what happened. She was very close to Briony.’
‘She wouldn’t lie to protect you, is that your point?’
‘Yes. But please, ring her and check. I can give you the number.’
‘Oh, I will. Is that it?’
‘No. I’ve been doing some thinking.’ He leaned forward and sighed; it was the charming, self-deprecating manner he’d adopted before and Jo found it deeply suspect.
He rubbed his palm over his close-cropped scalp. ‘Look, I made up my mind years ago to accept my guilt and serve my time. But the truth is I didn’t kill Sarah.’
‘That doesn’t make a lot of sense. If you are innocent, why wouldn’t you continue to argue that? Even if you couldn’t afford a lawyer—’
‘I said I didn’t kill her. I didn’t say I was innocent.’
Jo glanced across at her mother, perched on the edge of the armchair; she’d already drunk most of her wine.
Nathan Wade turned to her with a sad smile. ‘I am so sorry, believe me. I was stupid and arrogant. But I loved Sarah. They were trying to get to me. And they used her.’
Alison blinked at him, got up and moved unsteadily into the kitchen to refill her glass.
‘Who did?’ Jo shifted forward in her seat.
‘I sold drugs on campus. Cannabis mainly. I dunno, I thought I was being cool. Made a few quid, plus paid for my own stuff. I got it from a dealer called Rigzi. I owed him a couple of hundred. I thought it was no big deal, he could wait for his money. He struck me as a bit of an old hippie. I didn’t think he was dangerous.’
‘Did you tell the police this?’
‘I didn’t know at that time, didn’t think it was connected. In fact, I didn’t know until five years later. I met this other guy in prison. He’d worked for Rigzi too. He told me Rigzi had done it to put the fear of God into all his other street dealers. He’d put it about that if anyone crossed him they’d end up like me. In jail for life, convicted of their girlfriend’s murder. Apparently, it worked.’
‘You saying this Rigzi killed Sarah?’
‘Or had her killed. I don’t know.’
‘What convinced you this story was true?’
‘I wasn’t convinced at first. In the nick you hear this kind of stuff all the time. Mostly it’s rubbish. I thought Rigzi could’ve just exploited the situation. Used it to put the frighteners on people.’
‘Did you discuss it with anyone? The prison authorities?’
Nathan shrugged. ‘I had no proof. No one would’ve given a shit. They would’ve thought I was trying to make excuses. It would’ve scuppered my chances with the parole board too.’
Jo scanned him. It had some plausibility as a story but she was still finding it difficult to let go of her view of him. It struck her he was trying too hard. But could she bring herself to accept anything he said at face value? This could be the truth as Nathan saw it or an elaborate lie to get the Bodens onside. She remained deeply suspicious.
Alison was frowning. She was already quite drunk. ‘A drug dealer killed Sarah? My God, a drug dealer!’
Jo put a gentle hand on her mother’s arm. ‘It’s only a theory, Mum. And I’m guessing Nathan can’t even tell us Rigzi’s proper name.’
‘Oh, but I can. A couple of years later I saw him on the telly. That’s when I started to think it could be true.’ He had a faraway, dreamy smile that she’d seen him deploy before. It made him appear harmless. A clever trick. ‘I saw it reported on the news. His name is Richard Green and it was the biggest drugs bust in the south-east for years. A black gang out of Lewisham. All in their teens and twenties except for one. The ringleader. He was much older with, they said, Yardie connections going way back. And there he was, Rigzi. He’s in jail.’
CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR
Calvin Foley had returned from Manchester once the interviews were completed and all the suspects formally charged. He was sorting out his desk, covered with detritus from other users, and was dumping coffee cups and a stale sandwich in the bin. As Jo approached he looked up and smiled.
‘All right?’
She’d rehearsed her spiel and thought the whole matter through, at least she hoped she had. If she was about to put any promotion, not to mention her career, on the line she intended to be careful.
‘Yeah. Good result, skip.’
‘I think so.’ He was looking her up and down, blatantly she thought. But she hoped this would distract him.
‘I didn’t know if I’d be staying with Grebe, or what. So the last couple of days I’ve been following up with something I was doing for my old squad. Didn’t have much else to do.’
‘Yeah? That’s very bright-eyed and bushy-tailed.’
‘I am bright-eyed and bushy-tailed.’ She treated him to her best smile. ‘The thing is, I got a sniff of something. The Kelmendis beat this trafficked Syrian girl half to death. She was my chis. We’ve been looking for her sister. Only twelve. We think she was sold to a pimp in Manchester. I’ve got a name of a drug dealer. Richard Green. He’s in the nick. He might know about her, if I can get him to talk to me. Mind if I follow this up?’
Foley shrugged. ‘You should be asking Hollingsworth, not me.’
‘Strictly speaking, I still work for Vaizey’s firm.’ She gave him an arch look. ‘And I know the two of them don’t get on. I don’t want to upset anyone. You know what they’re like.’
Camaraderie in the ranks, us against the bosses, she knew that would appeal to Foley.
‘Okay. You think you might get some traction, go for it.’
‘Thanks.’ She was about to walk away.
‘Couple of the team I met up in Manchester are pretty good blokes. They might be able to help you. I could give them a bell.’ Foley had a smirk, as if he was dangling some juicy titbit.
Jo wondered what he was up to, though she could guess. ‘Yeah. That’d be great.’
‘Email me the details on this girl. I’ll pass it on.’
‘Okay. Thanks.’
‘So, now it’s quietened down a bit, maybe you’d like to go for a drink sometime?’ He was tipping his chair back like a schoolboy, arms up over his head, his barrel chest thrust out. Tough but gauche, there was something touching about it. Jo could like him, almost . . . But. There was always a but with Foley. He was a good DS and probably decent enough on a personal level once you got beyond the usual masculine bullshit.
He was gazing at her and she glimpsed how nervous he was. ‘Y’know, I enjoyed our trip down to Hampshire. Made me think we could get to know each other a bit better.’
Jo sighed. It was tempting to agree just because it was easier. ‘I appreciate the offer, Cal. But well, I’m not, y’know, looking to get involved with anyone right now. Especially not at work.’
He chuckled and his face seemed to snap shut, any trace of softness gone. As he leaned
forward and folded his arms, his bull-neck seemed to expand. His tongue skated over his lower lip. ‘Yeah? C’mon, Boden, that’s not what I heard.’
CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE
Jo travelled down to Winchester by train. She knew she was sailing pretty close to the wind. Her brother’s assertion that she never took risks slipped into her head; it showed how little he knew about her. Using the Police National Computer for personal matters was a serious disciplinary offence. But was tracing Richard Green strictly a personal matter? She hoped she would never have to argue this point with her bosses. Her ruse with Foley, she hoped, would keep it under the radar. Technically, he’d given her permission, even though it was based on a lie.
She’d used the PNC to access Richard Green’s records and the Prison Location Service to find him. She’d put in a request to interview him. He’d been convicted of the cultivation of cannabis with intent to supply and false imprisonment. His cannabis farms in Sussex and Kent and the network they supplied were extensive. He’d used enslaved Vietnamese teenagers smuggled into the country illegally to tend the crops. Approaching the halfway mark of a twelve-year term he had one eye on the parole board and declared himself more than happy to help Jo with her enquiries.
The prison was old and Victorian, though currently being refurbished. She faced him across a rickety table. He greeted her with a polite handshake and then proceeded to fold a square of tissue and wedge it under one of the table legs.
He beamed at her. ‘Annoying, innit. Place is falling apart.’
According to his file he was fifty-five and Jo could see from his languorous manner why Nathan Wade had assumed him to be a bit of a hippie. His face was tawny and weathered, a wispy goatee, his hair braided into neat cornrows but the dark eyes were hard and watchful.
He laced his fingers. ‘What can I do for you, Officer?’
Jo wondered if she was finally looking at her sister’s killer.
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