by Caz Frear
“So, you obviously like it here?” I say. “Clapham, I mean, not Nero’s.” She smiles but I don’t sense a whole lot of warmth. “Had you been here long before the Masters case?”
I mask it as a pleasantry but—pathetic, I know—I’m trying to work out her age. Or more to the point, I’m trying to work out how far I’m lagging behind.
“No, it was only my second case,” she says, which isn’t conclusive, really. She could have been an early bird, or a late starter. She could have had a different career before joining up—Blake spent a whole ten years in banking before his proficiency in sums and spouting leadership shite became his fast-track ticket to superintendent. “I’ve only just come back to Lavender Hill, though. I followed Tess to Shepherd’s Bush for a couple of years, then Southwark, Stoke Newington, I headed up a project in Cyber Crime. I’ve been all over.”
“You’re making me dizzy,” I say, not sure whether to use her title. It feels odd to call someone “ma’am” when there can’t be more than a couple of years between you. When you could have effectively shared a paddling pool, or a birthday party, or a first cigarette.
She twists the cap off her Coke. “Yeah, well, I’m a product of the Tess Dyer School. Never let the grass grow. Don’t ever get too comfortable.”
I used to think that when I joined the Met, I’d be a go-getter like Grainger and Dyer. The plucky little change junkie, never settling in one place long enough to become complacent, always looking for the bigger thing, the better thing, the chance to prove myself all over again.
You’d think with all the therapy I’ve had, I’d know myself better.
“So come on then, Serena Bailey?” Her manner’s frank and unsparing, designed to make you feel like you’re keeping her from something incredibly important. “You said on the phone you wanted to ask me about her.”
I did. But I was hoping for a peer-to-peer dialogue with someone slightly less starchy. The fact she’s two ranks higher has thrown a rusty spanner in the works.
“Oh, I just wanted to get your take, you know?” I know it sounds lame, but I’m not about to accuse a DI of doing a slapdash job. I do have some career aspirations. “You took her statement. You probably knew her best.”
“My take?” She snaps her brownie in two, somehow making it a barbed gesture. “Well, it’s hard to have a ‘take’ on someone you met over six years ago, but as I remember, she was helpful, forthcoming, articulate, a model citizen. My ‘take,’ as you put it, was probably that you don’t get handed a dream witness like that too often, so make the most of it.”
“And yet she wasn’t a dream witness, was she?”
“Meaning?”
“Well, the CPS didn’t think so.”
I settle back for the rant. Utter the phrase “CPS” and it’s like Pavlov’s dogs for disgruntled officers.
Grainger shrugs, the very opposite of disgruntled. “The CPS applied the Full Code Test and decided that with no body and no DNA, the evidential standard wasn’t met.” She takes a sip from the bottle, staring at me, glassy-eyed. “That doesn’t make Serena Bailey a bad witness.”
That doesn’t mean I took a half-arsed statement.
“No, of course not.”
She glances at her watch, definitely a power move. “Look, Cat—it is Cat, isn’t it?” Pretending to forget my name—there’s another. “Much as I’m grateful for the sugar hit, I’m an extremely busy woman right now. Why don’t you just come out and say what’s on your mind?”
I shouldn’t really. I should check in with Steele first, or at the very least with Parnell. But then, my life’s rarely been governed by what I should and shouldn’t do. And that’s precisely why Susie Grainger’s sat there with her inspector’s badge, and I’m still measuring success by whether I’ve managed to get through the day without a bollocking from Steele.
But fuck it.
“OK, did you ever find anything off about her, Serena Bailey?”
“Off?” She thinks about this for a second, then leans right in, freckled forearms on the table. “You know, Cat, there are three things Tess Dyer taught me about getting ahead in this job.” She holds up a finger. “I mentioned one of them—don’t let the grass grow. Be committed, but always have your eye on the next job.” Another finger. “Second—shout about your achievements, because you better be damn sure the men are going to be shouting about theirs. And three”—her wedding finger this time; a diamond the size of a Walnut Whip—“and this is what you need to pay attention to—say what you mean and in the shortest way possible. Don’t dance around it. Don’t say, ‘Did you ever find anything off about her?’ when what you actually mean is, ‘Do you think she lied about anything?’”
“Well, do you?”
“No, definitely not.” She sits back, offering another pro forma smile. “See, we got that cleared up nice and quick once you stopped pussyfooting around.”
I could credit her with being perceptive, or I could take the more obvious view that Dyer’s been in touch. Nothing cynical in that, of course. If one of your cases is being reinvestigated, it’s only natural you’d want to get the band back together. To remind yourself that you worked with the best and the decisions you took were sound. I’ve absolutely no doubt that’s what Dyer and Oliver Cairns were doing after we left the pub last night, and it stands to reason that Grainger needs the same assurances.
Thing is, I’m not questioning DI Susie Grainger’s competence. I’m questioning wet-behind-the-ears DC Susie Ferris’s experience. Her second case, working for a DCI who was under considerable personal and professional pressure, with barely time to brief her team properly, I bet, never mind babysit rookies—that’s where balls get dropped. That’s where less obvious leads don’t get followed up and statements aren’t taken as thoroughly as they could be.
It’s nobody’s fault. It just is. Give us the manpower and the budget and we’ll be the superheroes we’re supposed to be.
So again, fuck it.
“I went to see Serena Bailey’s old employer earlier. Their absence records put her at work in North London on the afternoon of the 23rd. Way up North—Edgware.” Before she can say it, I add, “They’re not always one hundred percent accurate, of course, nothing ever is.”
I tell her what Mrs. Gopal said, near verbatim. She listens, poised as ever, cocking her head this way and that. Interestingly, she doesn’t interrupt once, and if I wasn’t a lot wiser, I’d say she looks almost grateful for the heads-up.
“Wow, that’s thorough work, Cat.” I’m not sure if I feel patronized or galvanized by her approval. It doesn’t last long, though. Her tone changes in a flash. “But it doesn’t change the fact her statement was—is—foolproof. It fits with the evidence. The time she saw Holly on Valentine Street, a twenty-minute walk from the Tube station, chimes exactly with the time Holly was captured leaving the Tube. Her description fits. She described exactly what Holly was wearing.” I nod. “And most importantly, what reason would she have to lie?”
I’ve got no answer for this. Her logic trumps my instinct every time.
“It doesn’t change the fact her statement wasn’t checked thoroughly, or held up to any real scrutiny,” I say. “If Holly’s case had got to court, that could have been problematic.”
“But it didn’t, so what’s the issue?” For perhaps the first time ever, I feel like the jobsworth. The pen pusher. The whiny pipsqueak prefect. “And anyway, what do you mean by ‘checked?’ I ran her through the PNC, made sure she didn’t have a record or any form for nuisance calling, wasting police time, the usuals. She was clean—like I say, a model citizen. What else should I have done? Give me one good reason why I should have questioned her account, or why we should question it now.”
I have several but I’m taking them back to the office. Grainger stands up, clearly keen to get back to hers.
“Seriously . . .” Her voice is softer now. “It was worth following up—well done, go to the top of the class. But you heard your Mrs. Gopal. Human error. Some
one forgot to mark her absent, that’s all. Now if you don’t mind, I’ve got get back and so should you. Do your career a favor, Cat—go and solve some cases that actually need solving.”
11
“That was a long pint. I’m surprised you can stand.”
I could twirl through this office wearing nothing but a pair of angel wings and Pete Flowers wouldn’t notice. Give him the chance to clock that I’m missing, though, and suddenly he’s Hawkeye. The guy doesn’t miss a trick.
“Ah well, you know the Irish, Sarge. Takes more than a four-hour sesh to floor us.” I turn to Parnell. “Obviously, I haven’t been drinking. Hey, did you track down Church Guy? I double-checked and her friends definitely don’t recognize him. Odd, right? Holly obviously meant something to him and yet her closest mates haven’t a clue who he is? Seems fishy.”
“As an old sardine,” agrees Parnell. “I’ve only just got the CCTV, but it’s a matter of time, trust me. Mags is missing her book club so I can stay late and trawl through the footage.”
If it’s a hint, it’s wasted on me. Tonight is Aiden and the Americans. Not just a great band name, but a date I’ve promised to keep.
I sit down and scan through my emails. Nothing from Masters’ bank yet but it’s only been a day. Patience really isn’t my forte.
“Cookey filled us in,” says Parnell. I freeze. Filled them in on what? The highlights from Holly’s friends? Mrs. Gopal? The fact I was after the name and current station of the officer who took Serena Bailey’s statement? I thought I’d hinted strongly enough to keep that bit on the QT. Parnell sits back, swiveling in his chair. “So Holly could have been escorting, huh? And interesting about Bailey’s school . . . don’t know what to make of that.”
Nothing about Grainger. Good old Cookey, discreet to the last.
“Me neither,” I say vaguely. “Is Her Majesty in?” I try to catch a glimpse of Steele through her blinds.
“She is. And she hears you’ve been busy.” As if in a puff of smoke, Steele’s suddenly behind me. “Listen, pull your chairs around, folks. Quick catch-up while we’re all here.”
At least she’s smiling, which must mean Susie Grainger hasn’t been on the phone moaning about me. I’d have put money on her pulling rank, bleating about professional courtesy and the indignity of having your judgment questioned by an officer two ranks lower. Clearly, her self-preservation instinct is stronger than her ego—she knows she missed a flaw in Bailey’s statement and she’s happy to let it pass quietly.
As am I. Happy to let it pass that I met with her without Steele’s say-so.
“So, team, what news from the trenches?” Steele perches against an empty desk, daintier than ever in green sparkly flip-flops. “Blake is all over this like a fat kid on a cake—and before anyone takes offense, I was a fat kid, I’m allowed to say it—so please don’t make me walk into his office with nothing but my natural charm to fall back on.”
“Seth’s new woman has dumped him,” volunteers Renée from the next desk. “Does that count as news?”
Seth nods, looking resigned. “Second time this year. I’m ‘emotionally stunted,’ apparently.” He scratches his head. “Or was it ‘emotionally frigid?’ That could have been Becca, actually. Or maybe Camille?”
“It was Camille,” confirms Emily, completely deadpan. “Like dating a cardboard box. Becca’s was the ‘beautifully fragrant robot.’ I’ve been keeping track.”
For a rich, blandly handsome, Oxford-educated man in his early thirties, who Renée and I once worked out was 257th in line to the throne, DS Seth Wakeman is woefully unlucky in love. He blames the demands of the job. The rest of us blame him for doing the job when he could be running an art gallery in Chelsea and living off his trust fund.
“We’ve found Holly’s boyfriend,” says Parnell, applying the brakes to the eternal Seth conundrum. “Well, Ben has.”
“We got lucky with the airports?” I ask.
“Sod airports,” scoffs Swaines. “Who needs airports when you’ve got social media. I’ve been Facebook stalking, trawling through a million and one Spencer Shaws. Found him just now. He’s currently splashing in a pool in Tenerife with his wife and two kids. Due back Sunday, I think. Well, it’s Thursday now and today’s post says, Only three more days—sad face. By current standards, I make that thirty more piña coladas!—happy face.”
“You’re sure it’s the right guy?” A note of caution in Steele’s voice.
“Definitely.” That earns him a twinkle. There’s nothing Steele loves more than a “definitely.” “Apart from the fact the idiot has his date of birth on his profile, he hasn’t changed much, physically, and we’ve got his mug shot from the burglary conviction and a tabloid photo from 2012—a ‘devastated partner’ shot. It’s him. I’d put my signed Ronaldo shirt on it.”
“OK, so from his cheery piña colada comment, we deduce that he either doesn’t know about Holly or he doesn’t care.” Steele hops up on the desk, her legs dangling. “Of course, it’s feasible he hasn’t seen the news over there, although you’d think someone would have called him.”
“They don’t want to spoil his holiday?” Parnell suggests. “Because I’m struggling to buy that he knows but doesn’t care. Even if he hated Holly, even if he killed her, he’d be shocked if nothing else, surely? Not posting on Facebook about his binge-drinking.”
“He’s overcompensating,” says Renée. “Trying to act normal.”
“Has he posted a lot while they’ve been away?” Steele asks Swaines. “Because I can’t believe people would comment and play along, and not one person mention that his ex-girlfriend’s been found.”
Swaines shakes his head. “No, that’s his first update in three weeks. He’s not prolific.”
“OK, well, don’t take your eyes off that post, Benny-boy. The minute you see as much as a Call me, mate in the comments section, you tell me.”
“Of course. Nothing yet—just a handful of likes.”
“So what are we going to do?” asks Flowers. “Let him drink himself blind for the next three days—lucky sod—or get the next flight over there?”
“Blake’s not going to sign that off, Pete. We’ve got no grounds for arrest.”
“But we’re going to make contact?” Parnell says, brow furrowed.
She hesitates. “Look, I know it’s frustrating, folks, but the last thing we want to do is spook him. If he knows he’s going to get hauled in the minute he sets foot back in Blighty, it gives him time to prepare. It could even make him run, if he is guilty. And then we’ve got a European goose chase on our hands and I’ve got a very grumpy Blake to contend with.” She nods to herself, decision made. “No, we let him keep splashing in the pool with his kids for now, we keep tabs on his social media, and then we pounce as soon as he’s home.”
“Can’t believe he’s got two kids,” I say. “They don’t hang around, this lot. One of Holly’s friends has a school-age kid and another one’s pregnant. I can’t look after my Oyster card, never mind another human.”
“Oh yeah, about Holly’s friends, what they said about the escorting . . .” Steele’s looking at me. “It’s an angle, for sure—I mean, if he didn’t know about it, it definitely gives Shaw a motive—but I’m reluctant to go public with something that’s essentially just a friend’s hunch. We’ll get crucified if it’s wrong, and anyway, is it really going to bring anyone out of the woodwork? Ex-clients, punters, whatever you want to call them, they’re more likely to run for the hills.”
“Church Guy?” Parnell proposes.
“Maybe,” I say. “One of Holly’s friends thought she was afraid of something—someone—in the months before she disappeared. Could have been a lovesick client, someone with a problem understanding boundaries. I kind of brushed it off, but stranger things have happened.”
Steele’s quick. “Why’d you brush it off?”
“The friend—he was a bit lovesick himself, apparently. I got the impression he likes thinking she was scared of something
and that he was her knight in shining armor. Whether or not it was the case, who knows? The other friends didn’t notice anything.”
Steele nods. “OK, well, Cookey’s out working through the main London agencies—not literally, I hope—but I’m not holding my breath. It’s a needle in a haystack.”
Parnell stands up, heads straight for the incident board. “You know, we can come up with alternative suspects all the livelong day—aggressive ex-boyfriends, obsessed punters—but it all comes back to one major problem.” He points at the photo of Holly’s skull, his finger over the bullet hole. “She was shot in the head. Executed. That isn’t a domestic gone bad, or a stalker client. That’s . . . that’s different. Guns are different. I’m assuming nothing’s come up on the farmer?”
“No, but how about this for a theory?” says Renée, folding her arms. Seth’s nodding by her side, signaling his input. “Spencer Shaw had a record for burglary—well, conspiracy to commit burglary, right? What if he and Holly tried to burgle the farmer’s house? Something goes wrong. Holly gets shot. Spencer can’t admit what happened, because he’s going away for a long time if he does. He agrees to bury Holly’s body in return for the farmer’s silence.”
My reaction’s instant. “But there must be thousands of farms between London and Cambridgeshire. Why that one? And in any case, if that’s what happened, he’d bury her miles away, surely? Not right there at the scene of the crime. It doesn’t make sense.”
I sound more scathing than I mean to. It’s not a bad theory, really, just freckled with flaws. Renée doesn’t take offense, though. Twenty-plus years of sitting in brainstorms like this gives you a hide thicker than a truck tire.
“Masters could have made a gun,” says Flowers, tentatively, as if it’s just occurred to him. “Between Google and his hardware store, he’d have the instructions and the ingredients.”
“So we’re back at Masters again.” I say it quietly, but not quiet enough.
Steele gives me an arch stare. “Any reason we shouldn’t be? This is all fun and games, but you know Masters killing Holly is still our most likely outcome.”