‘Very little,’ says Elizabeth. ‘But if we’re protecting Douglas then I think we should find out a bit more.’
‘Ron and I can use the iPad this evening,’ says Ibrahim. ‘Do a little research.’
‘You’re staying again, Ron?’ asks Joyce.
‘Well, just another night, you know. I can flirt with the nurses, and they make a nice cup of tea.’
‘I’ll bring you more pants,’ says Joyce.
‘Honestly, no need,’ says Ron.
13
PC Donna De Freitas is sitting with DCI Chris Hudson in Interview Suite B. Opposite them is Ryan Baird, wearing a look of poorly attempted nonchalance, and his solicitor, wearing a suit that should be in a dry cleaner’s rather than Fairhaven Police Station. What was he thinking when he put it on? He even has a wedding ring. How did that happen? Being a man was such an easy gig. The work Donna puts into herself and she’s still single. And here’s this guy. Anyway.
‘Where were you on Friday, Ryan?’ asks Chris. ‘Between about five and five fifteen?’
‘I’ve forgotten,’ says Ryan.
His solicitor makes a note. Or pretends to. It’s hard to know what the note might be.
‘How’s your cup of tea?’ asks Donna.
‘How’s your cup of tea?’ replies Ryan.
‘It’s actually not bad,’ says Donna.
‘Well done,’ says Ryan.
Look at him, acne and bravado. A child, really. A lost boy.
‘You own a bicycle, Ryan,’ says Chris. ‘A Norco Storm 4?’
Ryan Baird shrugs.
‘Are you shrugging because I said it wrong, or shrugging because you don’t know if you own one?’
‘I don’t own one. No comment,’ says Ryan.
‘You have to pick one or the other, Ryan,’ says Donna. ‘You can’t answer the question and say no comment.’
‘No comment,’ says Ryan Baird.
‘That’s better,’ says Donna. ‘Not so hard, is it?’
‘A man was mugged, Ryan, on Appleby Street,’ says Chris. ‘Phone stolen, then kicked in the head while he was lying on the ground.’
‘No comment,’ says Ryan.
‘I didn’t ask you a question,’ says Chris.
‘No comment.’
‘Again, no question.’
‘He was eighty years old,’ says Donna. ‘He could have died. He’ll live, if you’re interested?’
Ryan Baird says nothing.
‘Now that was a question,’ says Chris. ‘Are you interested?’
‘No,’ says Ryan.
‘Well, that’s some honesty, finally. Now, cameras pick you and a couple of your buddies up on Theodore Street, that’s a couple of minutes away from the mugging. That’s at five seventeen, and we can see you here on a Norco Storm bike that may or may not be yours.’
Chris passes a photograph over to Ryan. ‘I am showing Ryan Baird photograph P19.’
‘Is that you, Ryan?’ asks Donna.
‘No comment.’
‘In either case,’ says Ryan’s solicitor, ‘it’s not illegal to be near a crime.’
This hangs in the air for a moment. Chris taps his pen on his pad a few times, thinking.
‘OK, that’s us done,’ says Chris, standing suddenly. Donna sees the surprise in the solicitor’s eyes. ‘Interview terminated at four fifty-seven p.m.’
Chris walks over to the door, opens it and motions for Ryan and his solicitor to leave. Ryan is first through the door, but the solicitor holds back.
‘Just wait in the corridor, Ryan,’ says the solicitor. ‘I won’t be a moment.’
Ryan shuffles off and, as soon as he’s out of earshot, the solicitor speaks to Chris in a low voice.
‘That’s all you have? You must have more than just CCTV?’
‘We’ve got more,’ says Chris.
The solicitor cocks his head to the side. ‘So what’s this? A trap? You know if you’re going to call him back in and show him more footage, or introduce a witness, then I need to see it now.’
‘I know,’ says Chris. ‘I’m not going to show him any more footage.’
‘You’re not going to search his flat?’
‘Nope,’ says Chris.
‘You’re not looking for the other two boys?’
Now that Donna is standing at the solicitor’s shoulder she notices a tidemark of dirt on his shirt collar. Donna is delighted that Chris has started taking a bit more care of his appearance since he’s started dating her mum. There were certain men you could allow to dress themselves and certain men you couldn’t. Chris was on the cusp. Soon he would be able to run free.
‘What’s the point?’ asks Chris.
‘The point?’ asks the solicitor.
‘Yep, what’s the point? You know we won’t get enough to convict him, we know we won’t get enough, and God knows what Ryan thinks about anything, but I’m guessing he knows too, the little scumbag.’
‘The what, sorry?’ says the solicitor.
‘We won’t be bringing Ryan back in,’ says Donna. ‘That’s all you need to worry about.’
‘We’re not going to sit through another interview like that,’ says Chris. ‘Not this time. You can go and break the good news to him.’
‘Am I missing something here?’ asks the solicitor, looking from Chris to Donna and back again. ‘I really feel like I’m missing something. You’re going to let him walk free? Can I ask why?’
Donna looks him straight in the eye. ‘No comment.’
She walks out through the open doorway. Chris looks at the solicitor and gives him a shrug.
Donna pops her head back round the door. ‘Look, this isn’t a judgement at all, but with suits you need to dry clean them once a month or so. Honestly, it’ll make a big difference.’
14
‘It was an accident, really,’ says Poppy, wiping the crumbs of a coconut macaroon from the corner of her mouth.
‘Oh, it often is,’ says Elizabeth.
‘I was at Warwick, studying English and Media. A woman from the Foreign Office came along and gave a talk, and there were drinks afterwards so we all went. Anyway, she said the starting salary at the Foreign Office was £24,000 and so I applied.’
‘Not very cloak and dagger,’ says Joyce, walking in with more tea.
‘No,’ agrees Poppy. ‘I had an interview with the Foreign Office; that was in London so I went down with my student railcard, and I’d prepared all sorts of things, reading up about Russia and China and whatever they might talk about, but it was just a chat, really.’
‘It always was,’ says Elizabeth.
‘They asked me who my favourite author is and I said Boris Pasternak, even though it’s really Marian Keyes. But they liked that, and I was invited back for a second interview. I told them I couldn’t really afford to come down to London twice, and they said, “Don’t worry, we’ll pay the fare, we’ll put you up somewhere,” and I said, “Honestly, I’m happier just going home, I don’t need to stay over,” and they said, “We insist,” and on the next interview they told me who they were, and they took me out and got me hammered and put me up in rooms in a club in Mayfair, and the next morning that was that. They sent me home with my own laptop and told me they’d be seeing me when I graduated.’
Joyce is pouring tea. ‘I remember Joanna, that’s my daughter, leaving university. She was at the LSE in London, if you know it, and I was terribly worried when she left because I didn’t know what she was going to do. She said she was going to be a DJ, and I said, well, I knew one of the people who did the hospital radio where I worked, Derek Whiting, and I could put in a word and get her some work experience, but she said it wasn’t that sort of DJ – apparently there was another sort – and she’d be travelling round the world, that was the plan. Then two days later she rang me and said she had an interview at Goldman Sachs, and could I lend her some money for smart clothes for the interview? And that was that.’
‘She sounds a character,’ says Poppy.
/> ‘She has her moments,’ agrees Joyce. ‘Derek Whiting eventually died falling off a cruise ship. You never know what’s round the corner, do you?’
‘And you enjoy it, Poppy?’ asks Elizabeth.
Poppy takes a sip of tea, considering her answer. ‘Not really. Do you mind if I say that?’
‘Not at all,’ says Elizabeth. ‘It’s not for everyone.’
‘I just fell into it. I needed a job and it seemed exciting, and I’d never had any money before. But I don’t have the temperament for it. Do you like keeping secrets, Elizabeth?’
‘Very much so,’ says Elizabeth.
‘Well, I don’t,’ says Poppy. ‘I don’t like telling one thing to person A and one thing to person B.’
‘I’m the same,’ says Joyce. ‘Even if someone has a haircut that doesn’t suit them, I can’t keep quiet.’
‘But that’s the job,’ says Elizabeth.
‘Oh, I know,’ says Poppy. ‘It’s absolutely what I signed up for. The problem is me, it’s just the wrong job for me. I hate the drama of it. Meetings you’re invited to, meetings you’re not invited to.’
‘What would you rather do?’ asks Joyce.
‘Well,’ starts Poppy, then pauses.
‘Go on,’ says Joyce. ‘We won’t tell anyone.’
‘I write poetry.’
‘I don’t have time for poetry,’ says Elizabeth. ‘Never have, never will. Do you mind if we get on to Ryan Baird?’
‘Oh, yes,’ says Poppy, and reaches over the side of her chair for her bag. She pulls out a file and hands it to Elizabeth. ‘Name, address, email, mobile number and recent call log, national insurance, NHS records, browser history, mobile numbers of close associates. I’m afraid that’s all I could get at short notice.’
‘That will do for starters, thank you, Poppy,’ says Elizabeth.
‘Don’t thank me,’ says Poppy, ‘thank Douglas. If it was up to me you wouldn’t have them. I’m sorry to say it doesn’t feel entirely legal.’
‘Oh, nothing’s legal any more, you can barely walk down the street these days. You have to bend the rules sometimes,’ says Elizabeth.
‘But that’s just it, isn’t it?’ says Poppy. ‘I don’t want to bend the rules. It doesn’t give me a thrill. It gives you a thrill, doesn’t it?’
‘Yes,’ agrees Elizabeth.
‘Well, not me. It makes me anxious. And my whole job is bending rules.’
‘I’d be the same,’ says Joyce.
‘Oh, Joyce, get over yourself,’ says Elizabeth. ‘You would have made the perfect spy.’
‘I still think Poppy should do her poetry.’
‘Thank you,’ says Poppy. ‘That’s what my mum says too. And she’s usually right.’
‘Don’t get me wrong, I think you should too,’ says Elizabeth. ‘I don’t want to hear it, but you should certainly do it. First, though, we have this job to do. To protect Douglas.’
‘I can’t wait to meet him,’ says Joyce. ‘Are you worried I’ll fall in love with him?’
‘Joyce, you will find him very handsome, but you will see through him in a moment.’
‘We’ll see,’ says Joyce. ‘Poppy, can I ask why you have a tattoo of a daisy on your wrist? I would have thought you’d have a tattoo of a poppy?’
Poppy smiles and strokes the small tattoo. ‘Daisy is my grandmother. I told her once I wanted a tattoo and she said over her dead body, anchors and mermaids and so on. So I went away, had this done and showed it to her the next time I visited. I said, “Daisy, meet daisy,” and there wasn’t a lot she could say about it then, was there?’
‘Clever girl,’ says Joyce.
‘Then two weeks later I went round again, and she rolled up her sleeve and said, “Poppy, meet poppy.” A great big poppy tattoo all the way up her forearm. She said if I was going to be an idiot, then she was, too.’
Elizabeth laughs, and Joyce claps her hands.
‘Well, she sounds just our type,’ says Elizabeth. ‘Poppy, if this is your last job with the Service, so be it, but I promise we’ll do everything we can to make it a fun one for you.’
‘We will,’ says Joyce. ‘Another macaroon, Poppy? You enjoyed the last one.’
Poppy raises a hand to decline the offer.
‘We won’t let anyone in here who shouldn’t be here. Douglas will be quite safe, which, of course, means you will be quite safe, too,’ says Elizabeth.
‘Unless they show up this evening while we’re eating macaroons,’ says Poppy.
‘And, while we all sit around with nothing to do, I’m sure we can crack the mystery of what Douglas has done with the diamonds.’
‘Well, he denies stealing them, as you know. And, besides, that’s not our job,’ says Poppy. ‘Our job is to protect Douglas.’
‘Poppy, I honestly don’t mind you being anxious, I don’t mind you being conflicted, I don’t even mind you being arty, but I absolutely won’t tolerate you being boring, because I can tell you are not a boring human being. Do we have a deal?’
‘Don’t be boring?’
‘If it’s not too much to ask?’
‘You both really think I should write poetry?’
‘Oh, yes,’ says Joyce. ‘What’s that poem I like?’
Poppy and Elizabeth look at each other. They don’t know.
While she is looking at Elizabeth, Poppy says, ‘In the interest of not being boring, can I ask you a question?’
‘Up to a point, yes,’ says Elizabeth.
‘How did you end up in the Service? Did you follow your dream? And I need the non-boring answer, please. I’m not a tourist.’
Elizabeth nods.
‘I had a professor; I was studying French and Italian at Edinburgh. Anyway, he had friends who had friends who were always on the lookout, and he floated the idea and it wasn’t for me, but then he’d float it again and again.’
‘And why did you finally sign up?’
‘Well, he was desperate to sleep with me, this professor – people were in those days. So I knew he wanted to sleep with me, and I knew he wanted me to interview for the Service. And I honestly felt I should probably do one or the other – you know how men can be with rejection. So I had to either sleep with him or interview with the Service, and I chose the lesser of two evils. And once the Service has its hooks in you, they don’t like to let go, as you will find out.’
‘So your career was just to avoid sleeping with someone?’ asks Poppy.
Elizabeth nods.
‘What do you think you would have done otherwise?’
‘I know you don’t like to keep secrets, Poppy, but you have been very helpful with Ryan Baird. So here’s something I don’t think I’ve ever told anyone before. Not my family, none of my husbands, not even Joyce. I always fancied being a marine biologist.’
Poppy nods.
‘Marine biologist?’ says Joyce. ‘What is that? Dolphins and so on?’
Elizabeth nods.
Joyce reaches over and places her hand on her friend’s arm. ‘I think you would have made a wonderful marine biologist.’
Elizabeth nods again. ‘Thank you, Joyce, I might have, mightn’t I?’
15
Douglas Middlemiss is in bed, reading a book about Nazis, largely anti, when he hears the noise. It is the door to the flat opening, very slowly and very quietly. It isn’t Poppy; she came back an hour or so ago. Where had she been? Collared by Elizabeth, perhaps? That would be Elizabeth’s style, killing the new girl with kindness.
Speaking of killing, the door being opened quite so softly is bad news for Douglas. Only he and Poppy have keys, and the only other way to open a door that quietly is to be a professional. So what was this? A burglar or an assassin?
He would find out soon enough.
Douglas wishes he had a gun. In the old days he would have done. Once, in Jakarta, he accidentally shot a cultural attaché from the Japanese embassy through the arm during a bout of vigorous love-making. She was terrifically good about it. The Nati
onal Gallery was persuaded to lend a Rembrandt to a Tokyo museum and nothing more was said about it. But from that day on he would tape his gun under the bed rather than leave it under the pillow.
He thought all this as he took off his reading glasses, did up the button fly on his pyjama bottoms and slipped out of bed. Poppy had a gun. She didn’t seem the type to ever use it, but she must have had the training, surely? Had she heard the front door open? Perhaps not. Douglas had grown alert to danger over the years, but Poppy would not have. Perhaps never would. He’d met Poppy’s type many times before, and she would be out of the Service and having babies before you knew it. Not that you’re allowed to say that these days. World gone mad etc.
As Douglas starts to straighten the bedclothes he hears the rattle of the padlock on his bedroom door. So, an assassin rather than a burglar? Douglas had suspected as much. Sent by Martin Lomax, perhaps? The Americans? The Colombians? It seemed ridiculous, really, but Douglas would prefer to be shot by someone British. English ideally, but beggars can’t be choosers.
Bolt cutters would get through the padlock within a minute. But not without making a noise. Not without waking Poppy. He just needs Poppy to reach the intruder before the intruder reaches him.
The bed is straightened, and it now looks untouched, as if no one has slept there, as if the occupant is still out enjoying the night air. Douglas walks quietly over to the wardrobe, opens the doors and steps in. This will probably buy him only ten or fifteen seconds, but that might be enough. He closes the wardrobe doors behind him and stands in the dark.
You always wonder, in this job, where it might end for you. Douglas might have died, variously, on a glacier in Norway, in a car boot on the Iran–Iraq border, or in a missile attack on an American base in Kinshasa. But perhaps it was all going to end in a tatty wardrobe, in his pyjamas, in an old people’s home? Douglas was interested to find out. Scared too, certainly, but still interested. Of all the things that were to happen to you in life, death was one of the very biggest. Douglas hears the padlock give way. Surely Poppy heard that?
Through the thin crack between the wardrobe doors, Douglas can make out a man walking into the room, gun raised and pointed at the bed. A pale light from a street lamp shines a single thin column through the curtains.
The Man Who Died Twice (The Thursday Murder Club) Page 6