Dark Mirror

by Dark Mirror (epub)

  She looked across at Pip and said, ‘Why wouldn’t you tell your mother where you live?’

  Pip laughed. ‘Lots of reasons. You don’t know my mum.’

  Kathy shook her head, trying to clear the cotton wool that seemed to have accumulated there during her mind-numbing day. ‘But you’d still tell her, unless . . .’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Unless she’d tell someone else who’s giving you grief.’

  ‘Her husband? What’s he like, the stepfather?’

  ‘Looked a bit of a thug. Why don’t you see what you can find out about him?’ She checked her notebook. ‘His name’s Keith Rafferty. He looked younger than Marion’s mother, maybe late thirties. Address in Ealing: Flat 3, 37 Bradshaw Street. Works as a driver for an outfit called Brentford Pyrotechnics. They sell fireworks.’

  Ten minutes later Pip came over to her desk with a printout from her computer. ‘Assault, actual bodily harm, three years ago. He got four months. The previous year he was charged under the Sexual Offences Act, section 30, living off the earnings, and section 32, soliciting. That case didn’t get to court.’

  ‘Aha . . .’ Kathy looked up at Pip’s expression. There was more. ‘Go on.’

  ‘And Brentford Pyrotechnics don’t just sell fireworks, they also manufacture them.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘You know that brilliant blue light they have in star shells? Apparently it’s almost impossible to get it without using arsenic.’

  ‘Seriously? How did you find that out?’

  ‘Google.’ Pip shrugged, as if to say, What else?

  Kathy checked the time. ‘Got their number?’

  •

  The manager at Brentford Pyrotechnics seemed unsurprised by her request to pay him a visit; apparently it had happened before. ‘Just last month,’ he said. ‘It’s the terrorist thing, I know, but really, you’ve got no need to worry about us. You’ll see.’ They were working late that night on an order, and he’d be available whenever they called.

  The industrial estate lay within a curve of the Grand Union Canal, beyond which the elevated M4 emitted a low traffic roar into the night. Kathy pulled the car into a parking bay in front of the doors of the offices and showrooms, whose windows were lit from within. Pip looked down the darkened flank of the big sheds to their left and gave a pout of disappointment.

  ‘Aw, I thought they’d have a few sparklers going, at least.’

  Mr Pigeon bustled out in answer to their ding on the counter bell. He looked as if they’d caught him in the middle of a crisis, and he spoke quickly, the glow of perspiration on his bald head. He barely glanced at their ID. ‘We’ve got a lot on this month, and several big productions next weekend.’

  ‘Really? I thought it’d be a quiet time for you—away from November the fifth, I mean.’

  ‘Oh no!’ Mr Pigeon chuckled at her ignorance. ‘It’s not just Guy Fawkes night for us, you know. We’re doing functions all the year round—weddings, public events, garden parties, funerals, celebrations of all kinds.’ He handed Kathy several brochures from the desk.

  ‘Funerals?’

  ‘Oh indeed. What better way to go than in a blaze of glory in the night sky above your assembled friends.’

  ‘You mean you pack their ashes into . . .?’

  ‘Rockets, Roman candles, giant catherine-wheels. Some want lots of whizzes and bangs, and others prefer a quieter, more contemplative presentation.’

  ‘I didn’t know that. And you manufacture these special fireworks to order?’

  ‘That’s right. Our run-of-the-mill stuff all comes from China now. Well, that’s the way of things these days, isn’t it? The great days of British fireworks are past, I’m afraid—Brock’s, Phoenix, Britannia. You have to specialise now.’

  ‘Did you say Brock’s? My boss’s name is Brock.’

  ‘Really? Well, maybe he’s related to the fireworks family. Theirs was the oldest fireworks company in Britain. They dazzled Queen Victoria at the Crystal Palace.’

  ‘But now you specialise?’

  ‘Quite. We have our own design studio, our own laboratory for devising precisely the right mixtures, and our own specialty fabrication workshop. It’s all top quality, and highly secure, believe me. We’ve had Special Branch, MI5, you name it—and Workplace Health and Safety, of course, all the time. They’ve picked this place apart. Well, it’s only to be expected nowadays. When I was a boy I could pop down to my local chemist and buy concentrated acids, fuse wire, any kind of chemical compound I wanted. Why, when I was a lad, the sight of a schoolboy marching down the street carrying a .303 wouldn’t raise a murmur, unless he had long hair—then, outrage! But now, the slightest hint of anything that goes bang . . .’

  ‘Yes. Actually we’re taking a different line. It’s not the things that go bang we’re interested in, Mr Pigeon. It’s more the things that make you sick—poisons. Do you carry any of them?’

  ‘Poisons? Oh, well.’ He thought for a moment. ‘Yes, of course we do. Acids, phosphorus compounds, copper salts . . .’

  ‘Arsenic?’

  ‘Yes, we have that too. But all those chemicals are subject to the same security procedures as the explosives. I mean, short of a full-blown assault on the place, there’s no way anyone could get at our stocks of either raw materials or finished product. I told you, your people have been over the place with a fine-tooth comb. If you like I can show you the protocols, the security cameras, the locks and alarms, the inventory audits . . .’

  He took them into his office and offered them the reports prepared by security consultants, compliance certificates from the local authority, fire brigade and health and safety inspectors. ‘Your counter-terrorism officers didn’t give me any documentation as such, but I can tell you who was here and when. You can easily check with them for yourself.’

  ‘Where do your chemicals come from?’

  ‘All over. Mostly locally, in the south of England, some from up north, some from overseas. But all carefully tracked and accounted for.’

  ‘Thanks,’ Kathy said. ‘It sounds as if we’re wasting your time.’

  Mr Pigeon relaxed a little, wiping his pink brow. ‘Oh, I know you have to be careful about these things. It’s the kind of business we do, and the times we live in.’

  ‘What about your staff? Do they get any security clearance?’

  ‘Eh? Well, most of the senior people have been with us for years. Otherwise we get extensive references. We took on a new research chemist recently, most impressive CV, all checked out.’

  ‘What about support staff—cleaners, drivers and so on?’

  ‘Well, it depends. Some are supplied by contractors. Our own people I interview personally.’

  ‘Do you do a criminal record check?’

  ‘Well, no, probably not. Is that a problem?’

  ‘It’s just a thought. Anyway, we won’t take up any more of your time, Mr Pigeon. Thanks very much. We’re concerned about a batch of arsenic trioxide that’s come to our attention. Perhaps you might check to make sure it couldn’t possibly have come from here?’

  ‘Gladly, gladly, but I can tell you now it isn’t ours.’

  When they got back into the car, Kathy asked, ‘What do you think?’

  Pip said, ‘Okay, you’re a driver and you pick up a consignment of chemicals from some factory somewhere, and you’ve been told you have to be careful with it. Maybe you don’t know it’s arsenic, maybe you’ve just heard that it can knock you out, and you’re thinking you could spike a girl’s drink with it. So on the way back you stop the van, open a carton, and take a bit from a container and replace it with something else—flour or caster sugar or something, to make up the weight.’

  ‘Wouldn’t that be noticed?’

  ‘Maybe not. I mean, if you doctored explosives, the fireworks wouldn’t work and you’d be in trouble, but this is to make coloured light. Maybe it just wouldn’t be so bright.’

  ‘Nice theory.’ Kathy started the car. ‘Or maybe he did
know it was arsenic. Maybe he didn’t just want to knock her out. I think we should talk to Keith Rafferty about how well he really knew Marion. You got time to go there now, or did you want to knock off?’

  ‘No, I’m fine, boss.’

  ‘I just wondered.’ She glanced at Pip’s short skirt, high heels. ‘Thought you might have a date or something.’

  ‘Not tonight. I’m all yours.’

  •

  They drew up outside the block in Bradshaw Street, and were unbuckling their seatbelts when Kathy paused. ‘Hang on,’ she murmured. The front door of flat number three had just opened, and she saw the figure of Keith Rafferty silhouetted against the light. He turned and yelled something back into the flat. Kathy wound her window down and heard a woman’s voice, Sheena’s, scream an obscenity.

  ‘And fuck you, bitch,’ Keith roared. He turned and marched off along the deck. They watched as he sprinted down the stairs at the end and headed towards the street, shrugging the collar of his leather jacket up as a cold gust of wind caught him. He pulled a mobile phone out of his pocket and made a call as he strode off. Kathy started the car again.

  They followed him out onto the main street, which was almost deserted, past shop windows to a pub on the next corner, the Three Bells. He reached the door and yanked it open. A burst of loud music blasted out.

  ‘That’s nice, isn’t it?’ Pip said. ‘Your wife’s just lost her daughter and you piss off down the pub with your mates.’

  ‘It’d be interesting to hear what they talk about, wouldn’t it?’

  ‘What, fancy a drink do you, boss?’

  ‘Unfortunately Keith knows my face.’

  ‘He doesn’t know mine.’ She flicked the sunshield down and examined herself in the mirror, fluffing her hair and pouting her lips. She put on more lipstick.

  ‘You can’t go in there on your own.’

  ‘Why not? It’s only a pub. I’ll just keep my ears open, all right? I’ll be waiting for a friend.’

  Kathy hesitated. ‘You’ve got my number in your phone? Give me a ring, let me know what’s happening. Just be careful.’

  ‘Sure.’

  Pip got out of the car and hitched her skirt a little higher, tossed back her head and made for the pub door. Kathy watched her go with a sense of foreboding.

  Ten minutes passed, the car cooling. Kathy gave a shiver and reached for her phone just as it began to buzz. ‘Hello?’

  ‘Hi! Where are you?’

  Kathy could barely hear for the music, a raucous rhythmic thumping.

  ‘You okay?’

  ‘Of course! Well, don’t take too long, will you? I’m having fun.’

  ‘Do you want me to come in?’

  Pip giggled. ‘You sound like my mother.’ She rang off.

  Another ten minutes went by, then another, and Kathy tapped her hand on the steering wheel, feeling cold and uneasy. She tried Pip’s number but didn’t get a reply. She waited another five minutes, then jumped out of the car and headed for the door.

  The music was too loud, the lights too bright, and the smell of beer rancid. The place was packed, and she had to force her way through the crowd, mostly men, who smelled of sweat and beer and jostled her as she pushed through. She saw a glossy black head of female hair at the bar, but when she got there found it wasn’t Pip. She could see no sign of Keith Rafferty either. She saw the door to the ladies’ toilets at the back of the room and struggled through to it. Pip wasn’t there. Panicking now, Kathy made her way out again, through the throng, ears battered by the noise, and saw another door at the back marked FIRE EXIT. A male voice called, ‘Oi, darlin’!’ She pushed through into a narrow corridor with another door at the far end with the same fire exit sign. Beyond was a small courtyard with boxes, crates and beer barrels. Kathy stumbled over a pile of boxes, through an opening in a brick wall and into a puddled laneway. A white van was parked up ahead, its rear door open, figures huddled. They looked up as she charged towards them. She saw Keith Rafferty’s face, eyes ablaze, and then a woman’s legs, hanging half out of the back of the van. Another man turned towards her, swearing, hand raised up. She grabbed his fingers and he screamed as she twisted his arm behind his back.

  ‘Police! Stay where you are.’

  Rafferty was looking around, over her shoulder, as she struggled with the other man. Then he turned and hauled the woman out of the van and dumped her on the ground, slammed the door and turned to go.

  ‘Stay where you are, Keith!’ Kathy shouted. She had the phone in her hand now, pressing buttons. ‘Officer in trouble.’

  Keith Rafferty turned back towards her, fists up. For a moment they stared at each other, then he deflated, unclenched his hands and held them up. His friend stopped struggling. On the ground at his feet Pip gave a low moan.

  ‘This is all a mistake,’ Rafferty said. ‘We were just trying to help the lady. She was legless. We just offered her a lift home. Isn’t that right, Brendan?’

  •

  Accident and emergency at Ealing is one of the busiest hospital departments in West London, and it took Brock a little while to find his way to the bed where Pip lay, face ashen, eyes closed.

  ‘How’s she doing?’ Brock pulled a chair up beside Kathy’s. He saw the dark shadows around Kathy’s eyes, and when he took her hand he felt a tremor.

  ‘She’ll be all right. Rafferty tried to throw away some orange pills when the uniforms arrived. They think they’re Klonopin, similar effect to Rohypnol. They’ve stabilised her.’

  ‘Was she assaulted?’

  ‘A few bruises. The way they were handling her . . .’ Kathy stopped and took a deep breath. ‘She hasn’t said anything yet. Apparently she may remember nothing.’

  ‘Where’s Rafferty now?’

  ‘Down the road, at Ealing police station. His mate’s called Brendan Crouch, no record.’

  ‘Have they been charged?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Witnesses?’

  ‘They’re taking statements in the pub now.’

  ‘Okay, good. We don’t have to do anything till morning.’

  ‘I think we should speak to them now, while they’re still rattled.’

  Brock looked at her cautiously. ‘You’re sure?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well, I can take care of that.’

  ‘I need to be there, Brock. This is about Marion as well as Pip.’

  ‘You think Rafferty had something to do with Marion’s death?’

  ‘That’s why we were there, at the pub.’ She explained about their visit to the fireworks company and then going to question Rafferty. ‘I’ll bet he’s done this before, lacing women’s drinks. Maybe the arsenic was an experiment that went wrong, maybe it was more than that.’

  ‘Hm. Has the doctor had a look at you?’

  ‘I’m fine, really.’

  ‘Have you had anything to eat tonight?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘All right then. First we get you a meal and a good wash, and then we’ll go down the road.’

  At the Ealing police station they were met by the duty inspector, who advised them that the pub interviews weren’t promising. ‘No one saw anything, or at least admits to it. No one even remembers Rafferty and Crouch being there, or DC Gallagher. Sorry.’

  They decided to interview Brendan Crouch first, in the hope he would give them something. He had a strong Liverpool accent and an air of mystified innocence. ‘I don’t know what this is all about,’ he said, then looked accusingly at Kathy. ‘She nearly broke my fuckin’ finger.’

  ‘How did you meet the woman in the pub?’ Brock asked.

  ‘Which woman was that?’

  ‘The one I caught you loading into Rafferty’s van,’ Kathy snapped.

  He gave her a cool, considering look. ‘She approached us. We were having a quiet drink when this tart comes up to us, giving us the big eye. She chats for a while and offers to buy us a drink, but her speech is slurred, and she’s obviously had a skinful. We tel
l her she’s had enough, so she asks if we could take her home. Well . . .’ Crouch gave a little smile. ‘Why not? Keith’s van was parked in the lane out the back, but she keeled over as soon as the cold air hit her. We were just trying to help her into the van when this lady started screaming at us.’ He nodded at Kathy.

  Through this account, Brock was aware of Kathy at his side, chewing her bottom lip, her nails dug into the palms of her hands, trying to contain herself.

  ‘That’s a lie,’ she said, voice tight.

  He gazed at her. ‘Which bit?’

  ‘All of it.’

  Brock came in quickly. ‘That isn’t what your friend is saying, Brendan. His version has you making the running. The way he says it, you couldn’t keep your hands off her.’

  Crouch turned his eyes slowly to meet Brock’s, then he said, quite softly, ‘Now there you’re wrong, pal. Keith and I spent four years together in the army, and one thing I know about him for sure is that he’d never shop a mate.’

  It was an elementary mistake, Brock told himself furiously as they led Crouch away: showing your hand before you understand the game. I’ve been spending too much time in bloody meetings. He glanced at Kathy. She looked subdued, head bowed. ‘Why don’t we leave this till morning?’

  She just shook her head.

  Rafferty walked in with a swagger in his step. He yanked back the chair as if he was an old hand and sat down and folded his arms. He stared at Brock coldly as he listened to the caution.

  ‘Why don’t you tell us what happened in the Three Bells this evening, Mr Rafferty?’

  Rafferty’s eyes flicked across at Kathy, then back to Brock. Then he stiffened and looked at Kathy again, frowning. ‘Hang on, I know you, don’t I? I didn’t recognise you before. You were the one came to our flat, weren’t you? The one told Sheena about Marion, right?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Well, what the fuck were you doing at the pub? What’s going on here?’

  ‘I came back to ask you some questions about Marion, and we saw you going into the pub.’

  ‘She was with you, that woman?’

  Kathy nodded.

  ‘But she never said she was a copper. She never mentioned Marion. What the fuck’s going on?’