by Nick Louth
‘So, sir, can I ask you where you were last Friday night?’ The officer was among a group of six checking traffic at the bridge.
‘I was at my restaurant until one a.m.’
‘Your restaurant?’ There was just the hint of a smirk. Perhaps it was the fact that he was casually dressed in a short-sleeved white shirt, jeans and high-top trainers that fuelled her scepticism. He had always tried to make mental space to understand the narrow exposure that most cops had to people of his ethnicity. Too many white police officers never met black or Asian guys except on the wrong side of a charge sheet. Their idea of society was colour-coded: law-abiding whites, dodgy Asians and crooked black guys. He’d considered inviting all the local cops to his restaurant for a free buffet to meet all his friends, all young, all intelligent, mostly professional, with skin colours between ebony and latte. But he knew it would take weekly meals for several years to erode the ingrained stereotypes and he had neither the time nor the money to make it happen.
‘Yes, I am the proprietor of J’adore Ça.’ He produced a business card. She took it, then asked him to repeat the phone number printed on it. He did so, while wondering how many white guys would be tested over the authenticity of a business card.
‘Can I ask you, sir, about where you went after that?’ Her tone was now just marginally more courteous.
‘I drove with my girlfriend Leticia down to the river.’
She nodded. ‘Are you aware that a man was found dead in the Thames, not very far away?’
‘Really? I’m sorry, I work very long hours and the news passes me by.’
‘I’m afraid we’re going to have to ask you to come to the station for an interview,’ she said. ‘It shouldn’t take that long.’
He blew a sigh. ‘Come on, can’t I make an appointment to do it later?’
‘I’m sorry for the inconvenience.’ Now, she genuinely did seem apologetic.
Anton shrugged and smiled. It was the default setting for his face. He had smiled his way through a lot of adversity in his short life, and this shouldn’t be the worst. ‘Okay. I have to make a couple of calls first.’
* * *
Less than ten miles away, in the probation service office at Swan House in Staines, Leticia Mountjoy was in the ladies’ toilet when she took Anton’s call. He sounded unusually anxious ‘What is it?’
‘I’m on my way to Staines police station.’
‘Why? What happened?’
‘A dead body’s been found in the Thames. Somehow they seem to know where we were parked. I’m sure it’s just the usual shit. Makes me sick. It’s putting me behind on the refurb too.’
‘I’d offer to help, but we’ve got a really big case management meeting in a minute.’
‘Don’t worry, babe. I’m sure it’s just a formality. If we’ve been seen, I’ll mention that you were in the car. But please don’t say anything about Leroy being there.’
‘But Anton…’
‘Shh. You know what they’ll say if Leroy is ID’d. Look, I’ve got to go, see you.’ He cut the call.
Leticia shrugged, finished up in the cubicle and washed her hands. She looked in the mirror and freshened her make-up before heading off to the meeting. It was a big one. As well as six of her colleagues, Leticia recognised senior psychiatrist Dr Ronald Golob, who had a reputation for being slightly weird. Beyond him was social worker Margaret Chan and at the end, a shirt-sleeved policeman she had never met before, Detective Inspector Graham Morgan from Special Branch. The one unoccupied chair belonged to Verity Winter. As so often the senior resettlement officer was a few minutes late to the meeting. As was usual at Swan House, Leticia was the only black person in the room. That didn’t include those meetings where offenders were present; then she would often be one of two. She had got used to black offenders staring at her as if she was a turncoat.
Jill Allsop emerged from her office, finished a call on her mobile and called the meeting to order. At fifty-three, and just five foot three, Jill compactly wrapped a lifetime of probation experience in a humane and unflappable personality. She ran the local branch of the National Offender Management Service, which occupied the second floor and whose sixteen staff looked after the most serious offenders in the area. Kent, Surrey and Sussex Community Rehabilitation Company, on the first and ground floors, handled the vast majority of more minor offenders. The private firm’s plastic sign was the only one on the outside of the building, and Jill liked it that way. Confidentiality was vital to offender management.
Ten minutes late, Verity slid silently into the room, with only the slightest nod of contrition to her boss. Preternaturally pale, with hair the colour of weak tea, she was a Pre-Raphaelite ghost, with her pea-green eyes encircled by translucent lashes. The high cheekbones and graceful nose hinted at beauty, but were let down by a prim, permanently downturned mouth. Tina, a long-serving admin officer, had once memorably observed that Verity always looked as if someone had just crapped on her bathmat.
That image remained with Leticia as Jill summarised the issue.
‘As you all know, Neville Rollason is due for release on licence in two weeks.’ There was a general muttering around the room at this unwelcome turn of events. ‘He’s being resettled in our patch, even though his offences were largely committed in the north-east.’
‘Why exactly have we inherited him?’ asked Adrian Richards, Jill’s deputy.
‘Quite simply for his own safety. Graham, do you want to explain?’
Morgan steepled his fingers. ‘The Home Office in its wisdom agreed to create a new identity for Rollason on his release. There are credible threats to his safety from some of the vigilante organisations.’
‘Should we care?’ Richards asked. There were some uneasy looks around the table. The psychiatrist, Golob, shook his head in mute disagreement.
Morgan ignored Richards’ comment: ‘As you know, the nature of his crimes was quite extreme, but the quid pro quo for his co-operation in recovering some of the bodies is that he will be put in a place of safety. He was ghosted into a category D prison for the last month of his sentence, under a pseudonym, with a fictitious criminal record to match.’
‘What’s the new name?’ Jill asked, pen poised over her notes.
‘I’m afraid I can’t share that in an open meeting.’ His eyes flitted from face to face around the table.
‘Which prison is he in now?’
‘That’s confidential too. We can’t take any chances.’
‘All right, we’ll see who needs to know,’ Jill said. ‘Carry on.’
‘We have learned that it is often prison officers who tip off inmates about a particularly unpopular offender within their ranks. Having him living under the false record in the last few weeks of incarceration protects against that.’
‘Won’t he be recognised?’ Leticia asked. Rollason had been sentenced before she was born, but in the recent news coverage about his impending release there were numerous versions of the original scowling dark-eyed mugshots, with his thick quiff of greasy black hair and satanic eyebrows.
Morgan smiled. ‘We are hoping not. All the photographs in circulation are of him in his late twenties. He is now sixty-three, has lost most of his hair and what remains is white. At our suggestion he has trimmed and bleached his eyebrows. He now has as forgettable a face as you will ever see. Since an attack by his cellmate in 1994, he’s had false teeth too, and some further dental work recently. Given the amount of time he spent in segregation, we’re pretty confident no one in this neck of the woods will recognise him.’
‘He had a lot of tattoos,’ Verity said.
‘Well remembered,’ Morgan said, his eyes lingering appreciatively on her face. ‘He’s had them removed entirely, painfully, by laser. It was part of the deal.’
Richards shook his head, his thick grey moustache bristling. ‘Personally, I’m not entirely happy about the public purse funding this kind of thing.’ He was a bear of a man, a former prison officer in his fifties who had
brought with him some of the old-school thinking that was now decidedly out of fashion in the probation system.
Jill Allsop snorted. ‘Well, I’m sure most of us agree with you, but we have to maintain a professional detachment. The bottom line is that his false identity may work for him, but it makes it more difficult for us to do our job. Though we may think it beyond our ability to reintegrate someone like him into society in any meaningful way, we have to remind ourselves that our job is to rehabilitate. It is equally obvious that if he was identified and hounded, then any chance of reintegration would be lost, and the chance of reoffending increased.’ She looked around as if inviting disagreement. None was voiced, though a great many faces were staring sullenly at their paperwork. ‘Now. Inevitably, there will have to be a certain element of subterfuge, given that there will be weekly visits to his home.’
‘So where will he live?’ Verity asked.
‘The Home Office has rented a flat for him, which we need to inspect,’ Morgan said. ‘But this is important. Only two people here can see that address, or his new name, apart from me – the probation officer appointed to oversee him, and one supervisor. We have learned a lot since the Bulger case.’
Everyone remembered the shocking murder of two-year-old James Bulger in 1993 by two ten-year-olds. They were given new identities when they were released from prison as adults in 2001, but somehow these became known to the press. The publicity was disastrous to the cause of rehabilitation, compounded by news that one of the two had reoffended.
‘Who’s drawn the short straw, then?’ Morgan asked, looking around the table. All eyes were drawn towards Verity, the only one of them who had dealt with a serial killer before. A slight smile played across her pale lips as she turned to Leticia.
‘It’s you,’ she said.
‘Me?’ Leticia exclaimed.
‘Gill and I think you are ready for a challenge of this magnitude. You’ll do an excellent job.’ It was definitely a smile. Her teeth were visible. Maybe nobody had crapped on her bathmat today.
* * *
Leticia didn’t know whether to be excited or worried. Rollason would be by far the most high-profile offender she had ever managed. She really didn’t know what to expect. For the next hour she basked in the congratulations of her colleagues. However, at the end of the day, when she looked through the files, read the details of his crimes and saw the full depravity of the man, she started to get nervous again.
She went to the bathroom to splash some water on her face and banish some of the images that the court documents had thrown into her imagination. There were three cubicles, of which one was taken. Someone was being violently ill. Initially she was tempted to leave whoever it was to her privacy, but the sheer anguish of the retching made her a little worried. ‘Are you all right in there?’ Leticia asked. She had to repeat the question once more. There was a short gap in the wheezing and retching, and a ragged voice gasped: ‘I’ll be fine, just leave me alone.’
‘I’ll get you a glass of water, that always helps.’
‘I’ve got one in here with me. Just go.’ The woman was out of breath, but Leticia now recognised the voice, for all of its edge.
It was Verity.
She left her boss to her anguish, but on her return to her desk sent a private screen-top message to Tina.
Just seen Verity throwing up in the ladies’.
Tina looked across the top of the computer screen at her and raised one eyebrow. She began typing.
She has an eating disorder. Can’t keep stuff down. Feel sorry for her.
Leticia typed another message. Unusually charitable for you.
Tragic background, emotional baggage and a nasty divorce. I’ll tell you all about it one day, but she doesn’t like people knowing.
Leticia had had no idea that her workaholic boss was struggling with personal issues. In the eighteen months she had been working there she had gathered that Verity was divorced and childless, ‘married to the job’ as Adrian put it. From the acid comments she let slip about some of their male clients, Leticia assumed that her boss had not been treated well by men. None of that was surprising. The world is full of damaged people. Verity was one of those who seemed to keep aloof, which often indicated buried problems. She didn’t socialise with the team. Come to think of it, Leticia had never even seen her eat.
A few minutes later Verity re-emerged into the office, looking even paler than usual. Leticia caught her eye, and the slightest inflection of her eyebrow communicated a very clear message: don’t you dare say anything.
Leticia gave a small smile. It was meant to be reassurance, but it was freighted with guilt. She felt anyone could read it: Too late, Verity. Sorry.
* * *
Anton sat in Staines police station with his arms crossed opposite PCs Cottesloe and Wickens. To the chef they looked like the classic white British bullet-headed bobbies. Cottesloe looked at the statement in front of him.
‘So Mr St Jeanne, your version of events is that you and your girlfriend were sitting in your car on the bridge, listening to music, between roughly half past midnight and quarter to two on the night in question.’
‘That’s right.’
‘And you say that you didn’t hear anything during that time, because of your music.’
‘Yes.’
‘Did you see anybody else, wandering around on the shore of Tagg’s Island for example?’
‘I didn’t notice anybody, but then I might have been busy.’ He smiled.
‘Because of your girlfriend, do you mean?’ Wickens asked.
Anton shrugged, but left the grin in place.
‘Are you an exhibitionist?’ Cottesloe asked. ‘We have a witness who says that there were three people sitting in your car, not two.’
‘No that’s wrong. It was dark, after all.’
‘One of the doors of your BMW was open, the interior light was on,’ Cottesloe continued.
‘Sorry, what are you trying to say?’
‘I need you to be straight with us. Three people were seen in your car. Two black guys in the front, someone else behind.’
‘Says who?’
‘Witnesses, that’s all you need to know. So is your girlfriend actually a big black bloke?’ Cottesloe asked.
‘Obviously not. Your witness was mistaken.’
‘Witnesses plural, which means more than one.’
‘I know what it means,’ Anton said. ‘Don’t insult my intelligence.’
There was a pause and then Wickens leaned across the table, his chin jutting. ‘I understand you’re a chef. Bit of a dab hand with the frying pan,’ he said, looking across at Cottesloe. ‘I looked him up on the website.’ He turned a belligerent gaze back to Anton. ‘Perhaps I should bring the missus around for a meal.’
‘You’d be very welcome,’ Anton said, and tried to make it sound like he meant it, which he did not. ‘Do you enjoy Creole creative fusion?’
The two cops shared a derisive snort. ‘Bit posh for the likes of us,’ said Cottesloe. ‘Fish and chips. That’s what I like. Solid British grub.’ He locked eyes with Anton.
Anton laughed. ‘Fish in batter was brought to the UK in the sixteenth century by western Sephardic Jews who had been living in Holland, having gathered the pescado frito recipe from Portugal. With French fried potatoes, of course.’
‘Bollocks,’ said Wickens, folding his arms.
Anton shrugged. He had vouchers in his jacket for a free starter at J’adore Ça, but he was damned if he was going to give these two any.
‘Do you like Chinese food?’ Wickens asked.
Anton stared at the ceiling, wondering how much more of his time they were going to waste.
‘He asked you a question, sonny boy,’ Cottesloe said, folding his arms to match his colleague.
‘Is that relevant to the inquiry? Should I get a solicitor before I answer?’
‘Do you or did you ever by any chance employ a Chinese chef?’ Wickens asked.
Anton wai
ted a few seconds just in case there was a punchline, but then decided to take it as a straight question ‘No, I’m the chef. I have a female sous chef who is from Guyana. But I’m sure she could rustle you up some pork chow mein.’
Cottesloe took over the running. ‘See, the thing is, our dead body is Chinese or thereabouts. Maybe there was a Chinese man sitting in your car just before two a.m., before going out for a splash.’
‘An involuntary splash from which he never returned,’ Wickens added.
‘You cannot think, surely—’
‘We don’t think, we follow the evidence.’ Wickens grinned. ‘We’d like you to hand over your car keys, so we can see if there’s any trace of Chinese. And while we’re at it, we want to swab your gob too. Might get the DNA of some of your recipes, eh?’
Chapter Nine
Detective Chief Inspector Craig Gillard sat in the meeting room with PCs Wickens and Cottesloe to go over the witness evidence they had collected. ‘So you’ve found a surprising number of people about along the edge of the river in the small hours, but what in the end was it that they were witness to?’
‘Not sure what you’re driving at, sir,’ Wickens said.
‘Okay, a lot of people seem to be aware of a large splash. But there’s nothing here to say what that was. It surely is quite possible that it was nothing whatever to do with the body we have found, isn’t it?’
‘I suppose so,’ Cottesloe said, eyeing Wickens.
‘I mean it’s entirely conceivable,’ Gillard said, ‘that the body was slipped into the river more quietly at another place, a few hours earlier or later. The splash may simply be irrelevant, and a distraction that wastes time and resources.’
The two uniformed officers said nothing, but Gillard could see an insolent set to their jaws. They clearly didn’t appreciate having their assumptions unpicked.