Evans closed the door behind him and nodded to the copper who was sitting on the landing with a newspaper.
‘All good?’
‘Getting there,’ Evans said.
He walked down the wide staircase, through the main living room and pushed open the French doors into the garden. It was bright, but cold, and he shivered a little as he stepped outside. Walking across the main lawn and down the slope towards the trees, Evans spotted another copper, fifty yards or so away by the empty swimming pool. The copper, lanky and rail-thin, raised a hand and Evans waved back.
They all seemed pleasant enough.
It still felt strange being the sole resident; the only one who couldn’t toddle off home at the end of the day. There had actually been some company for the last few days, but the boy called Cristian had gone this morning, taken away before Evans was up. He’d known it was coming. The two of them had been allowed to hang out, left alone to watch TV together for an hour or two in the evenings, and, in broken English and in strict contravention of the rules, the boy had told him he thought his mother was being threatened. Clearly a recovering smack-head, he had told Evans he was supposed to give evidence against a gang of people-smugglers who sounded every bit as dangerous as the drug gang Evans now found himself on the wrong side of. ‘I tell the police I’ve changed my mind,’ the boy had said. ‘Simple as that. Even if I go to prison, I won’t risk my mother getting hurt.’
Now Evans understood what Tanner had meant when they’d been talking about Paula. It didn’t make him feel any better, though. Just because his wife hadn’t a clue where he was, didn’t even know why he had been spirited away, it didn’t mean that the people he’d been working for wouldn’t ask the question, and he knew better than most that they didn’t waste time making polite enquiries.
He remembered the look on that junkie’s face when he’d lifted the gun up.
He tried not to think about it, to tell himself that whatever drugs had yet to be flushed out of him were making him paranoid. That everything would be done to keep Paula and Sean safe.
He jogged down the hill to the perimeter, pushed his fingers through the holes in the fence and wrapped his fists around the thin metal strips. He looked right and left, but couldn’t see anybody. He knew there were patrol cars making regular passes, cameras dotted throughout the grounds, but still, he didn’t reckon the place was quite as secure as everyone made out. What was to stop him stealing something from the kitchen and cutting his way through the fence?
It didn’t look like it would be that hard.
He had never seen it, but he presumed there was a kitchen, somewhere. One of the cops had told him that when there were a few more residents someone would be brought in to cook for everyone, staff and inmates. But they’d decided it wasn’t worth the effort when the place was so empty, so he and the members of staff who stayed overnight had been sending out for takeaways. Curries and Chinese, pizza and KFC. It was a damn sight better than he’d been used to inside, but he still wasn’t keeping everything down so it didn’t make a lot of difference anyway. As it was, he liked fast food as much as anyone else, but more than anything he wanted to be at home, sitting at the table next to Sean and eating something that he’d cooked with Paula. Pasta maybe, or a nice roast. Beans on toast… biscuits. Anything.
He turned and trudged back towards the house and climbed up the stone steps that ran to the paved balcony outside the sitting room. He stopped at the top of the steps, spun slowly around and sat down.
He closed his eyes, took deep breaths, tried to concentrate on the sound of the water running from the fountain away to his right.
Only half the job…
Call Me Rob had no idea, though it wasn’t for want of trying. Evans just wasn’t ready to talk about any of it, not yet. Hard enough getting himself straight without spewing any of that up.
The walls of the cell he still spent a few terrible seconds every morning thinking he’d woken up in. The stink and the noise and the wish that one of the nut-jobs on his landing might snap and kick the shit out of him because he needed to feel something… and the look on the woman’s face; the mother of the boy he’d killed. Screaming down at him from the visitors’ gallery when the sentence was read out. Arms reaching out to hold her back and bubbles of spit at the corners of her mouth.
And now another image, clear as day, of his wife; a gun to her head, a knife pressed across her throat.
Evans looked up to see the cop who had waved walking towards him and he watched him come.
‘Got the place to yourself again, then, Andy?’
‘Anything from DI Tanner?’
The cop sniffed and stared out across the gardens. ‘Not a dicky bird, mate. Want me to get a message to her?’
Evans said it was fine, nothing urgent, and lowered his head until the copper strolled away again.
He looked down at his feet; the trainers tapping against the stone.
His stomach churned and acid rose up into his throat.
He hoped more than anything that Tanner got her act together and caught the Duchess soon, but right that minute he would have given almost anything to have the old woman pay him a visit.
THIRTY-SIX
There had been no recurrence of the raised temperature of a few nights before, but Helen was still keeping an ear out for Alfie, and, sprawled on sofa and floor after dinner, the three of them were taking care to keep the volume down. Hendricks had brought Chinese food over; something of a peace offering as it was the first time he and Helen had seen one another since their disagreement almost a week before.
They were certainly not going to talk about drugs again, though Helen’s mood was already good enough for her to raise no objection when Thorne had slipped a Johnny Cash CD on.
American II: Unchained.
The perfect soundtrack to a nice, cosy chat about murder.
‘It’s just a glass,’ Hendricks said.
‘Yeah, just a glass, but it’s what swung the jury,’ Thorne said. ‘What put Terry Summers away.’
‘Easy enough, you ask me.’
‘A glass found in Karen Butcher’s living room, with Terry Summer’s prints and saliva on it. Next to one with Karen Butcher’s DNA on it, like the two of them had gone back to her place for a drink after their dinner.’
‘Yeah, but even I can figure out how the killer might have set that up. And I’m just an ignorant northerner.’
‘Nobody’s arguing.’
‘Go on then,’ Helen said.
Hendricks leaned back against the sofa. ‘He waits until they’ve left the restaurant, then swipes their glasses before the waiter’s had a chance to clear the table. Piece of piss.’
Helen looked at Thorne. ‘He’s not wrong. We both know how easy it is to do if you’ve planned it.’
She did not need to elaborate. In the case they’d all worked in Helen’s home town of Polesford a year or so before, a suspect had been wrongly arrested on the strength of a discarded cigarette butt, picked up then planted by the real killer. Forensic evidence like that, or the glass found at the Karen Butcher crime scene, rightly carried substantial weight with coppers and members of the public alike, but all three of them knew that once malicious intent or simple human error was thrown into the mix, the Gospel according to DNA was rather more flawed than viewers of CSI liked to believe.
‘It means he’s watching them,’ Thorne said. ‘In the restaurant or the bar or whatever. When they meet.’
Helen grunted her distaste. ‘Like he’s not creepy enough.’
‘Well, he’s got to, hasn’t he?’ Hendricks said. ‘He needs to see the man leave, so he knows it’s safe to follow the woman home.’
‘I’m betting he knows where she lives already,’ Thorne said.
‘Every chance, if he’s got access to their account on that website.’
‘So, what happens if the man doesn’t leave?’ Thorne looked from one to the other. ‘I mean, what does the killer do if our singletons decide they
fancy the pants off each other on that first date and go home together?’
Hendricks shrugged. ‘He moves on. Goes back to his sad little bedroom and finds himself another couple.’
‘Our singletons get lucky in every sense,’ Helen said.
Hendricks reached across for the wine bottle on the TV stand; poured himself a top-up, while the Man in Black sang ‘Sea of Heartbreak’, like that deep dark body of water was one he was all too familiar with.
‘Makes me glad I’m not single any more,’ he said. ‘I reckon I’d rather go back to cottaging than risk any of this internet dating stuff.’
‘You sure about that?’ Helen said.
Hendricks sat back again and grinned. ‘Happy days.’
‘Really?’ Thorne asked. ‘Everything OK with you and Liam?’
‘Yeah.’
They looked at him.
‘Yeah… but… just because you’ve gone vegetarian doesn’t mean you don’t occasionally miss a big, fuck-off bacon sandwich.’
‘Or a big, fuck-off something else,’ Helen said.
Hendricks looked pleased with himself in a way that reminded Thorne of Christine Treasure. ‘No worries on that score. Liam’s got plenty to offer.’
‘Too much information,’ Thorne said.
‘I just mean that sometimes you miss a bit of adventure, that’s all. You miss…’ He stopped. ‘Christ, I nearly said “the danger”.’
Helen turned to look at Thorne. ‘There’s probably men and women registering on that website right now.’
‘I know.’ Thorne said it rather more sharply than he had intended. ‘We close it down, though… he’s going to know we’re on to him.’
‘Uploading pictures which may or may not be genuine.’ Hendricks swirled his red wine around and spoke quietly, as if he was talking to himself. ‘Answering all those endless questions about their personalities and hobbies. Likes and dislikes.’ He stared down into his glass. ‘Can’t imagine too many of them would be happy to be meeting a serial killer.’
Driving east through drizzle on the North Circular, Tanner listened to people arguing about globalisation on Radio 5 Live and decided that, when she retired, she wanted a dog.
When…
That time was still a good way off, besides which she wasn’t certain that once she’d done her thirty years she would take the option to walk away. It was no longer compulsory and, after all, she would still be in her early fifties. There were plenty, and she knew several, who were burned out well before then, couldn’t wait to take the pension and run, but she didn’t think she’d be one of them.
She hoped she wouldn’t be.
A few years before Susan had died, there had been an ongoing discussion about getting a dog that had lasted rather longer than the one about having children, though the end result had been much the same. Tanner had grown up with dogs, but Susan had been a good deal less keen. She had said, quite rightly, that Tanner’s uncertain work timetable would result in her having to take on the majority of the dog-duties, besides which she was worried about how the cat would react.
Tanner had found it hard to argue, and in the end, had given up.
Now, though, as a single woman, there would be nothing to stop her. She was sure that the cat could cope, would still be the boss, especially if she got a puppy, though she also thought a rescue dog was a good idea and knew that the majority of those were fully grown. It was certainly something she would need to bear in mind if she was going to carry on looking at flats. A garden would be important, and a decent park nearby.
Presuming that, when the time came, she was still a single woman.
She drifted into the inside lane and slowed a little.
As things stood, it was almost impossible to see any sort of future that involved any kind of significant other, but equally hard to picture herself growing older with nothing but the Job to talk about and only a dog for company. Right then, that seemed the more likely outcome. She knew, of course, that there were dating sites and apps catering specifically for gay women, and she found herself wondering how terrible she would feel, taking a step like that; how long it would be before she could even consider looking without feeling guilty.
Perhaps it was just because of developments in the Alice Matthews case that she was even thinking about such things. Lonely women: separated, divorced, widowed.
Perhaps that was why she indicated and pulled across on to the hard shoulder. Why she put the hazard lights on and turned off the radio, and sat there until she’d stopped crying.
Half an hour later, she had found a parking space at the end of the road in Bounds Green and walked slowly up to the unmarked car. The passenger side window slid down and Tanner showed her warrant card.
‘All quiet?’ She looked across at Paula Evans’s house. There were no lights on.
The officer in the passenger seat nodded towards his colleague. ‘All except his rear end. I should step back a bit if I were you.’
‘A few cars,’ the driver said. ‘But none that looked out of place; nobody slowing down.’
‘We took the numbers anyway.’
‘A couple of lads smoking weed on the corner… a fox helping himself to a bird that had been run over. Sod all else.’
Tanner nodded and took her bag from her shoulder. ‘Why don’t you two take a break for half an hour? Go and get a coffee or something.’
The two officers looked at each other, nodded.
‘Go on… there’s a petrol station round the corner.’
Tanner watched them walk away and climbed into the driver’s seat. She left the window open and leaned towards it. She tuned the radio in to 5 Live and stared at the dark house and wondered how long Paula Evans would have to spend alone.
She decided that, if and when the time came, she’d get a Labrador or a golden retriever. Something solid and dependable. Susan hadn’t much cared for dogs at all, but those had been her favourites.
THIRTY-SEVEN
A junior stylist had done the washing, massaged Tanner’s head briefly – checking to make sure the pressure was OK – then towel-dried her hair. She’d led Tanner across to the mirror and given her a newspaper to read, but before there was time to open it, Graham French had arrived to take over.
He said, ‘Thank you, Keisha.’ Then, ‘Right, so what are we doing?’
Tanner hesitated, then did her best to explain what she was after, why she had decided to take French up on his offer, though in the end it sounded as though she wanted exactly the same cut that she already had. ‘Just a bit tidier,’ she said. ‘Smarter, you know?’ She briefly caught French’s eye in the mirror. ‘Whatever you think, really…’
The hairdresser placed a hand on either side of her head, lifted the still damp hair and examined it. He let it run through his fingers. ‘There’s a bit of grey, but not a lot.’ He cocked his head. ‘Shall we get rid of it?’
‘It’s fine.’
‘You sure?’
‘Like you said, there’s not a lot. I’ll probably go full-on Granny-chic when the time comes.’
‘You’re lucky.’ He lifted the hairdryer from its metal holster. ‘You’ll be one of those women who look amazing with grey hair. Like Helen Mirren.’
‘I’ll settle for that,’ Tanner said.
French gave Tanner’s hair a thirty-second blast with the dryer then reached for his scissors and went to work.
Tanner had always disliked this bit, unsure as to where she should look. It somehow seemed wrong to stare at herself in the mirror for that long, and if she closed her eyes there was always the worry it would be mistaken for relaxation or, even worse, ecstasy. She certainly couldn’t look at whoever was doing the cutting, in case their eyes met. In a mirror, that moment always seemed oddly more intimate than it might otherwise. In the end, she settled for keeping her head still, lowering her eyes to the newspaper and trying to read. It was difficult, and not helped by the strands of hair that slid down the nylon cape on to the pages, so she gave up, fixed
her gaze on a space six inches above her head and listened to the music. It was rather more… ambient than it had been the last time she was here, which was a huge relief. Perhaps, she thought, the beats were cranked up when the place was busier. She had come in deliberately early, asking for the first appointment when she had called, and she was pleased to be the only customer they had.
In and out, with as little fuss as possible.
‘Must be hard trying to look stylish all the time,’ French said. ‘Doing your job.’
‘Why’s that?’
‘You know, all that chasing around.’
‘It’s not The Sweeney.’
French laughed. ‘I bet you’d give them a run for their money.’
‘Back when I was in uniform, maybe. You have to wear those stupid hats all the time, so your hair always looks rubbish.’
‘You prefer being a detective then? Plain-clothes, I mean.’ He straightened up and smiled, looked at Tanner in the mirror. ‘Not that they are plain, obviously.’
Her eyes flicked briefly across to the thick gold bracelet that swung at French’s wrist as he worked. ‘The best M&S has to offer.’
French hummed as he worked, occasionally breaking off for a few seconds to deal with a query from the receptionist or give instructions to one of the junior girls. Tanner turned a couple of pages in the newspaper.
‘Any luck finding the Duchess?’ French asked.
‘Not as yet.’
‘Yeah, well, she’s not daft. Does she know you’re looking for her?’
‘Possibly.’
He nodded. ‘She can certainly take care of herself, that one. I always thought she was very… self-contained, you know what I mean?’
Tanner said she wasn’t sure.
French stopped cutting, though he still worked the scissors in his hand. He lowered his voice. ‘I always got the impression that apart from the actual drugs, she organised the rest of it herself. Like a… cottage industry or whatever. I think she wanted to be in control of all that stuff, took pride in doing it properly. Hollowing out the Mars bars, spraying those kiddies’ pictures. I’m guessing she was given the Spice by the people paying her wages, but then she did everything else.’ He went back to Tanner’s hair, slowly using the comb to assess the length.
The Killing Habit Page 19