The Unquiet Dead

by Gay Longworth

  Relieved by the change of subject, she apologised. ‘I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have jumped to conclusions. Worse still, I shouldn’t have dangled the threat of revealing your beliefs like that. I promise you, I will never do that again.’

  Burrows sighed heavily. ‘You won’t have a chance to.’

  Jessie grabbed his arm. ‘You’re not thinking of leaving?’

  He turned to face her. ‘Would you ask me to stay?’

  ‘Burrows, I –’

  ‘I can’t deny it any longer.’

  ‘Please, don’t say anything that is going to make this any more difficult.’

  ‘It will be difficult, but that’s the point. I can’t go on pretending any more that I don’t love –’

  Jessie put her hands to her face. ‘No, Burrows –’

  ‘– the Lord Jesus.’

  Jessie stood ready to catch the words as they came tumbling out of Burrows’ mouth, hoping to bundle them up and throw them back so quickly it would be as if they’d never been said. You don’t love me, you just think you do because we spend so much bloody time together. It’s a common mistake made by co-workers everywhere … She hadn’t been expecting to hear the name Jesus. A relieved laugh escaped her lips.

  ‘Is it really that bad?’ asked Burrows. ‘Does the word freak you out so much?’

  ‘No. Sorry, it’s just weird hearing you say it like that, with such conviction,’ she said, recovering herself.

  ‘I’m as bad as Peter if I go on denying him. You have made me realise that. So I suppose I should thank you.’

  ‘Don’t thank me – you’re facing certain persecution.’

  ‘I’m ready. And if it gets really bad I will take the matter to the courts. An officer should not be treated differently because of the colour of his skin, nor for his beliefs. It’s true what I said: the Force would bend over backwards to accommodate me if I was a Sikh, well it shouldn’t be any different being a Christian.’

  Jessie jumped gratefully on to the soapbox. ‘It shouldn’t be any different being a woman, but it is. You ask officers what they think is worse, racism or sexism, and they’ll give you the same answer every time: racism. Equality on all levels is what we should be aiming for, but the government has decreed that racism is the ugly word of the day, so now we have papers and memoranda and awaydays to defeat it. All the while sexism continues unchecked and filters through to all levels of police-work. Prostitutes had it coming and battered wives probably deserved it.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Burrows. ‘I thought we were talking about me.’

  Jessie relaxed and put her arm playfully on Burrows’ arm. ‘Sorry. What I meant to say was that, as your superior officer, I will give you my full support.’

  ‘But only as my superior officer,’ he said, looking at her.

  Jessie removed her hand. ‘And as your friend.’

  ‘Don’t look so nervous,’ he said. ‘I’m not in the converting business. I don’t go to that sort of church.’

  ‘You would have had your work cut out for you,’ said Jessie, hiding her confusion. Mark had placed a poisonous seed in her brain.

  ‘I know, you don’t believe in all that mumbo-jumbo crap.’

  ‘That’s right, I don’t.’

  ‘It’s interesting, though,’ said Burrows as two small espresso cups were placed on the table.

  ‘What is?’

  ‘That you could be so angry with someone you don’t believe in.’

  They drank their coffee in silence.

  Jonny Romano had indeed been a smart boy. According to school records, he and his friend Pete Boateng had been smart enough to gain scholarships to a nearby Catholic school that gave away sixth-form places to gifted children from poor backgrounds. A few months more and Jonny would have been on a completely different path, away from the estate kids and the downward spiral of drugs and petty crime. A few months more and Jonny would have benefited from a private education and probably university. Possibly Oxford, like Pete Boateng. It was Pete who had first ‘confessed’ to the police about the speed; it was Pete who had first described the dealer to the police artist, and it was Pete who had first named the man ‘Ian’.

  Jessie thought about the newspaper article as she crossed Lincoln’s Inn. The kids had been particularly rowdy that day. They had been described by onlookers as unruly, boisterous, disobedient and aggressive. Pete had been a bad boy saved by the Catholic Church. The other boys in the group of swimmers had not been so fortunate. One was inside for drug-related theft; it was his twelfth time in the nick. One had been shot dead by his girlfriend. Another had been paralysed in a joy-riding incident and died a few years later of kidney failure. Jessie would get on to the man in prison as soon as she’d had all her questions answered by – Jessie looked at the brass plaque – Peter Boateng, Barrister at Law.

  At thirty-two Peter Boateng had to be one of the youngest partners on record of any chambers within the revered Inner Temple. He was already earmarked for silk. All he had to do was complete twenty years service and remain as successful and pro-establishment as he had been thus far. His chambers – Edmonds, Travis, Sloane & Boateng – ranked among the best criminal barristers in the country. In a very short time, Peter Boateng had swum a long way from Marshall Street Baths.

  Jessie and Niaz were shown into an office, and a few seconds later the lawyer appeared through a side door, wiping his hands on a crisp white linen hand towel. It was monogrammed. Peter Boateng had grown from a scrawny youth with a large afro into a tall, slender, self-possessed man with closely cropped hair. The years ‘Ian’ had been buried beneath the baths, unmissed, unreported and unclaimed, had been good to the boy who had named him.

  Having introduced herself and Niaz, Jessie took her seat. Peter Boateng professed himself to be confused as to the purpose of their visit.

  ‘I’d like to talk to you about a case you were involved in.’

  ‘The clerk could probably have answered your questions. He knows the cases as well as I.’

  ‘This was before you were qualified.’

  He leant back in his chair. ‘Back to the terrifying days of running the gauntlet that is articles?’

  Jessie noticed his immaculate diction, his perfect pronunciation. His suit was Savile Row or smarter, his shoes were shined; the flash of sock Jessie saw as he crossed his leg was pulled up taut around his ankle. Peter Boateng had worked very hard to iron out all the creases.

  ‘Back even further than that I’m afraid,’ said Jessie. ‘Back to the terrifying days of Lisson Grove Estate.’

  Peter Boateng did not bristle. He was a pro. ‘My, my,’ he said, ‘that is a long time ago.’ He managed a small smile. Relaxation personified.

  ‘And I bet it seems a long way away, too,’ said Jessie, looking around the immaculate office.

  He shook his head slightly. ‘It is never that far away. The old adage of keeping one’s friends close and enemies closer applies just as well to places. I have kept Lisson Grove in my sights, if only to remind myself what it is I’ve been striving to get away from. What case can I help you with? As far as I can remember, I wasn’t involved in any criminal matters.’

  ‘No, sir,’ said Jessie amiably. ‘But you were a witness to a drowning – your friend Jonny Romano.’

  Peter Boateng lowered his head as if the mention of his dead schoolfriend still brought back painful memories. Jessie couldn’t help wondering if it was genuine.

  ‘He was a very clever boy,’ he said, looking up.

  ‘Not clever enough to leave drugs alone though?’

  ‘No. Not that clever.’

  ‘Were you that clever?’

  ‘Clever enough to get out.’

  ‘Impressively so. I salute you.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Mr Boateng, I know this may seem a strange question, but do you think that the man you said you saw supplying drugs to Jonny could possibly have had a limp?’

  He paused for a few seconds before answering. ‘I can
no longer picture the man I thought I saw give drugs to Jonny. When I think of it, all I can see is that police artist’s drawing.’

  Jessie looked from the barrister to the notes lying open on her lap, then back to the barrister. She had expected surprise at her question, a quick dismissal, perhaps derision; she hadn’t expected to be sidestepped. ‘I’m sorry, Mr Boateng, but according to my records you were pretty certain at the time that you had seen the drugs being passed to Jonny.’

  ‘Why are you asking me about this now?’ he asked lightly.

  ‘Why aren’t you answering my question?’

  ‘It was a long time ago.’

  ‘True, but all I’m asking for is what you must have repeated a hundred times when you were seventeen. A description of the man you saw giving drugs to Jonny Romano on the day he died.’

  ‘I can’t remember.’

  ‘Can you recall if he had a limp?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Can you recall if he didn’t have a limp?’

  ‘I told you, I cannot clearly remember the man I saw that day.’

  ‘Mr Boateng, would you accept that as an answer from a witness?’ Jessie stood up. ‘I don’t think so. Perhaps I should go and ask the other witnesses, they may have less to lose.’

  ‘They have nothing to lose. Tony, Michael and Vincent are all dead.’

  Jessie had assumed the barrister would know nothing about his old schoolmates. Clearly he’d kept a close eye. ‘I think you’ll find that Vincent is still alive,’ said Jessie.

  ‘No he isn’t. The drugs finally got him – bad batch. His heart stopped. They found him dead in his cell.’

  Jessie was genuinely taken aback. Peter Boateng saw it in her face.

  ‘What a surprise, a long-term convict dies of an overdose in the slammer and they sit on the story. A statement will trickle its way into his file in a few months’ time, that’s the usual practice when this sort of thing happens.’

  Jessie needed to recover some ground. ‘You seem to have taken a keen interest in your fellow witnesses’ lives.’

  ‘As I said, I have kept the estate in my sights.’

  ‘Mr Romano sends his regards,’ said Jessie, watching him closely.

  ‘Does he?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Have you found his wife yet?’

  Jessie wasn’t to be deflected. ‘I have a body in the morgue that I would like to identify, a body that fits your description of Ian Doyle perfectly. Would you be willing to do that for me?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because I am neither his GP nor his next of kin, nor was I his boyfriend, girlfriend or significant other.’

  ‘Off the record then, while we are tracking down any of the above?’

  ‘He would have aged. I wouldn’t recognise him as the man I saw in the baths,’ said the barrister.

  ‘Ah, but he didn’t age. Though he died the same day as Jonny, his body was so well preserved that he will look the same as he did the last time you saw him.’

  ‘That’s impossible,’ said Peter Boateng.

  ‘Freakish, I know, but not impossible. Unless of course by impossible you mean you didn’t see him?’

  ‘I meant about the preservation.’ Peter Boateng rubbed his chin. Now Jessie had the upper hand.

  ‘How did he die?’ he asked eventually.

  ‘Someone chained him up and drowned him.’

  ‘Murdered?’

  ‘Definitely. I gather you are going for silk,’ said Jessie, closing her file. ‘You have to have a spotless record for that, don’t you?’

  ‘My record is spotless,’ he said, refusing to appear threatened.

  Jessie ran her eyes over the room. ‘Are you sure about that, Mr Boateng?’

  The lawyer stood up.

  ‘Yes, I know,’ said Jessie. ‘You have an appointment. Don’t worry, we’re going.’ As Jessie placed her hand on the door handle she heard the lawyer return heavily to his seat. He’d relaxed just a fraction of a moment too soon. She turned. Peter Boateng straightened up.

  ‘You know what I think?’ she said, slowly turning the polished chrome handle. ‘I think that Jonny Romano wasn’t the only boy on speed that day. The lifeguard described you lot as out of control; all the papers backed up that claim with independent witnesses. There was no girl who sneaked to Mr Romano – he talked to you, Mr Boateng. He talked to you rather than accompany his dead son to hospital. That means he had something very important to say, or something very important to hear. And immediately after that conversation took place he started searching for a man called Ian. He asked every single person as they left the baths whether they’d seen him. In fact the only people he didn’t mention Ian to were the police. When you remember the details of that conversation, perhaps you would give me a call. Save me the trouble of returning to your chambers again, and again, and again.’

  Jessie and Niaz made their way out through the aged buildings of the Inner Temple to Fleet Street. She had assumed that a visit to Peter Boateng would be the quickest way to determine whether or not Doyle had a limp, but it seemed that nothing about the Romano case was straightforward. Like Mr Romano, Peter Boateng had reacted with genuine disbelief and confusion at the news of Doyle’s death. That should have laid to rest any suspicions about their involvement, but Jessie was still uneasy. There was something strange about Mr Romano that she couldn’t put her finger on, and not for a moment did she believe someone as meticulous as Peter Boateng would have forgotten the man responsible for his best friend’s death. She turned to Niaz.

  ‘If Peter Boateng knew about the deaths of his old peers, it’s fair to assume he’d have kept an eye on Mr Romano and his search for Jonny’s murderer, right?’

  ‘Right,’ said Niaz.

  ‘And yet, when the solution to the mystery of Doyle’s whereabouts is finally revealed, neither of them seemed …’

  ‘Enlightened?’ offered Niaz.

  ‘Exactly. At last they understand why Mr Romano’s years of searching got nowhere – because Doyle was dead all along – and yet it doesn’t seem to make any impression on them. Why?’

  ‘Perhaps they had their own explanation for why he couldn’t be found. For example, if he never existed …’

  ‘You’re saying Peter Boateng made Doyle up?’

  Niaz nodded.

  Jessie thought for a while. ‘I suppose that would explain why he doesn’t want to go over the details now. He has taken an oath to uphold the law. Lying as a seventeen-year-old schoolboy isn’t the same as lying as a qualified barrister, but damaging nonetheless. And Mr Romano, was he in on it?’

  ‘Why would Mr Romano spend his life searching for a man he knew never existed?’

  ‘Haven’t you ever told a lie so many times that you actually start to believe it?’

  Niaz looked horrified.

  ‘No, of course you haven’t.’

  ‘With respect, ma’am, isn’t it more likely that Mr Romano doesn’t know that Peter Boateng lied? It seems to me that Burrows was correct: searching for Doyle has given the man a reason to live,’ said Niaz.

  Jessie could see the strength in Niaz’s argument.

  ‘So it was Peter and his friends who claimed they saw Doyle sell Jonny the drugs, and in doing so exonerated themselves.’

  ‘Why would they want to exonerate themselves?’

  ‘Because they gave Jonny the drugs. They were kids, their friend had just died; they would have been terrified. Peter Boateng especially; he was about to go to public school on a scholarship and couldn’t risk the scandal ruining his chances of a better life. So he concocted an evil drug pusher and got his less intelligent friends to back him up. That would explain why Peter Boateng kept such a close eye on the others. Now they’re all dead, there’s no one to contest Boateng’s version of events. He can afford to be relaxed.’

  ‘Except, he wasn’t relaxed, was he?’

  ‘No. He had more to tell.’

  ‘So, ma’am, if Ian D
oyle the evil drug-pusher never existed, who is the man in the morgue, the man with the limp?’

  ‘I have no idea, and neither does Mr Romano or Peter Boateng.’

  Jessie closed her eyes in concentration. Peter Boateng was an intelligent man, trained to ask questions and give nothing away. A man who spoke and acted by design.

  ‘What was the most interesting thing Peter Boateng said in there?’ she asked.

  ‘That it was impossible Doyle’s remains had been preserved?’

  ‘No. When we were talking about Mr Romano he said, “Have you found his wife yet?” Found, Niaz. Why would we need to find her?’

  ‘I thought he was just changing the course of your questioning.’

  ‘So did I. But he could have said any number of things about Mrs Romano’s departure from Lisson Grove. Instead he asks, have you found her? He chooses his words very carefully, by “find” he meant to tell me that she was missing – and missing is very different to divorced and living elsewhere.’

  ‘What do you want me to do?’

  ‘Find Mrs Romano.’

  Jessie expected nudging and whispering, sniggering and pointing, but there was nothing. The usual greetings from the usual people: the staff on the front desk nodded hello, the beat officers stood smartly to attention as she walked past. Mostly she was ignored as her fellow officers waded through another hectic day. Mark Ward could not have returned from the Ritz, thought Jessie, pushing open the door to the canteen. But there he sat, surrounded by his usual cronies, eating gammon and pineapple. He waved a curt hello to her. Where were the P. J. Dean posters? The humiliating chants? The crippling comments? Jessie wandered nervously to the lunch queue and picked up a sandwich. Talk was of the spoilt little rich kid who’d run away to the Ritz. No one mentioned Jessie’s presence there. This was very strange. Had Mark kept his mouth shut? She took her sandwich and headed back to the door. Mark joined her on the staircase.

  ‘So Anna Maria was found safe and well,’ he said. ‘What a relief for her poor mother.’

  Jessie wasn’t sure where Mark was going with this one, so she remained silent.

  ‘Lucky for me, you’re unlikely to feel in a gloating mood, having been found in such a compromising position yourself.’