by Caz Frear
“Serena Bailey’s bank records,” Emily tells me. “He’s been guarding them like Gollum from Lord of the Rings.”
“Has he now?”
I have them off Swaines in seconds, scanning the pages with supersonic eyes. The relevant dates are lined through with green highlighter.
23 February 2012 > POS TESCO express, EDGWARE £11.85
23 February 2012 > POS THE POST OFFICE, MILL HILL £4.55
23 February 2012 > C/L NOTEMACHINE £30.00
I look up. “No purchases made in Clapham the day she saw Holly.”
It’s a myth, or at least a misconception, that to be a good detective you need to possess the laser focus of an Olympic athlete and the doggedness of an old hack. If anything, you need the attention span of a toddler. An ability to shift obsessions at whim.
So, bye-bye, Simon Fellows. Welcome back, Serena Bailey.
Swaines is looking at Steele, who’s wheeling her chair out of her office. “Doesn’t look like it. Happy now?”
“Happy” wouldn’t be the word I’d use. Possibly suspicious, certainly piqued.
“What was Dyer doing here?” I say, changing the subject.
“Fuck knows, but she’s still here,” says Flowers. “She’s gone out to get a coffee. Nescafé isn’t good enough for her, obviously. It must be all decaf soy lattes over in Counter-Terrorism.”
Right on cue, Dyer walks in, carrying something swampy in a clear cup that suggests Flowers isn’t too wide of the mark. “Hey, Cat,” she says, smiling broadly. “You need to get Steele to stump up for a new chair. Yours is terrible. You’ll have back problems by the time you’re thirty. Leave it with me, I’ll have a word.”
“Cheers, ma’am!”
Swaines and Flowers glower at me. I obviously haven’t read the memo that “We Don’t Like Tess Dyer,” although what was I supposed to do, ignore her? And I do like her. I see myself in her, for better or for worse. It was Cairns’ “guts and glory” comment that sealed it.
And anyway, I don’t go in for all that siege mentality bullshit—the idea that anyone from outside our team is automatically the enemy or stuck up their own arse.
“Right, m’dears . . .” Steele’s voice draws all eyes to the front. “Any updates before we get on to the main business—Head-scratcher of the Day?”
Which one? Day four of this investigation and it’s a wonder we’ve got any scalp left.
“What about you, Kinsella? How’d it go with the foster mum? Do you like Holly Kemp now? Can we put that one to bed?”
“I understand her more, definitely. A frightened kid trapped in a woman’s body, it sounds like.”
“Oh, and that excuses ripping people off, does it?” Flowers, who else?
“It explains some things. She was out for what she could get because no one ever gave her anything, not after the age of ten anyway.”
Parnell protests. “Ah, come on, the Denbys tried to help her.”
“Yeah, but the damage was done by then. First, her parents die, then she’s plunged into the care system, then she’s subjected to daily violence . . . I think Linda could be right about PTSD.”
Flowers opens his mouth but mercifully, Swaines cuts in. “I’ve got a couple of updates,” he says, walking back to his desk. “Spencer Shaw had parrot fish for his lunch—a Tenerife delicacy, apparently. No one’s mentioned Holly in the comments, but thinking about it, you probably wouldn’t, would you? In all likelihood, you’d private message him. I’ll keep my eye on it, though.” He sits down. “Second update—I spoke to the scrapyard who got rid of Peters’ car. It seems to check out. They sent him a Certificate of Destruction and let the DVLA know that he no longer owned the car, so all aboveboard. That’s it, though. They don’t have any records of whether it was a write-off or not, so we’ve only got Peters’ word.”
“The brother-in-law confirms his story,” Renée pipes up from the back. “I know he’s family so he probably would, but there didn’t seem to be a lot of love lost. Said he’s never understood what his sister sees in him.”
“Makes you wonder what Holly saw in him,” says Seth.
Flowers balks. “What? A gullible fool loaded with money. Yeah, mate, what was the attraction?”
“She wouldn’t have known that just from looking at him,” I argue. “There must have been something there.”
“Girls like her have a nose for men like him.”
“Girls like her?” Steele’s pounces with a warning. “That’s our victim you’re talking about, Pete. Watch your mouth.”
A sulky shrug. “I’m just saying it probably isn’t the first time she pulled a stunt like that. Her friends said she always had money.”
“Where are we on the escort thing?” asks Parnell.
“Nowhere,” says a slumped and beleaguered-looking Cooke. “I’ve been through all the main London agencies, the more established ones that were around back in 2012, and no one recognized her. It’s a needle in a haystack. She could have been running her own ads online, working for a much smaller outfit based out of London. She could have been doing webcam stuff.”
“Linda implied some risky sexual behavior, so it could fit,” I say. “Her laptop was never found, right?”
Steele looks to Dyer, who’s leaning against the incident board, drinking her anti-Nescafé through a straw. “No, the assumption was she must have had it with her and it was dumped with her phone and bag.”
“OK, we park the escorting for now, unless we get stronger intelligence,” says Steele. “Her friends were obviously suspicious of the fact she had money, but we know now that she had more creative ways of making rent.”
“There is one angle we haven’t thought of.” I know what Parnell’s going to say. We talked about it on the way back from Little Venice, after we’d called Steele with the highlights. “Escort agencies and money laundering often go hand in hand. Maybe Holly met Fellows that way? He takes a shine to her. She’s effectively forced to become his girlfriend. It explains why he’d try to distance himself from her—he won’t want us looking too closely at that aspect of his investment portfolio.”
Renée’s voice from the back again. “Well, I reinterviewed Holly’s friends and they’d never heard of him. Didn’t recognize his photo either. One of them—Emma—said Holly would have been bragging to high heaven if she’d been seeing a big-shot gangster, but the other one, Shona, said she could be secretive, so who knows?”
“Those friends knew nothing about Dale Peters either, so I wouldn’t pay much attention to them,” Flowers says, and it’s a fair point. “They obviously weren’t the bosom buddies they like to make out.”
I go to speak at the same time as Dyer. Steele makes a split-second decision, choosing me. “Hang on a minute, Tess.”
“It’s just . . . Fellows was definitely up to something. He either sent us on a whistle-stop tour of London just to amuse himself, or he was giving himself time to get his story straight. I mean, he knew exactly where he was the day Holly disappeared, just like that.” I click my fingers. “And he did this weird finger thing too, when he was talking about her. Like he was pretending to pull a trigger.”
“Or it could have been, ‘Holly was crazy.’” Parnell twirls his fingers by his temple.
“It could,” I concede. “To be honest, it happened so quickly, I’m not sure what to think now. But . . .”
Steele smiles. “I’d have bet the farm on there being a but coming.”
“But four years is a long relationship, even if they were on the down-low. Fellows must know we’ll find out. Sure, he’s got plenty of people on the payroll who’ll be ordered to keep quiet, but eventually we’ll find someone who puts him and Holly together, and he must realize that. Unless he knows we won’t find someone because there’s no one to find.” I pause for a sharp breath. “Because there was no relationship.”
Steele offers up a hand. “And now we go over to my learned friend, Tess Dyer, for Head-scratcher of the Day.”
Dyer puts her drink d
own on Flowers’ desk. He eyes it suspiciously.
“OK, so I think you all know, but in case anyone doesn’t—before I went to Lyon, I worked for SCD7.” Serious and Organized Crime Command. It still exists to do exactly the same job, although it’s called something new now—the top brass love tinkering with a title. “I never really had direct dealings with Simon Fellows myself, I was more project focused, but I checked in with a couple of old colleagues and what I have found out is that Fellows is gay.”
This lights a fire under every one of us. I let out a one-word shriek—“What!” Even Craig Cooke sits up.
“Yeah, he’s been in a relationship with a man called Erik Vestergaard for over fifteen years. Vestergaard is well into his sixties . . .”
“Which makes a relationship with a young woman pretty unfathomable.” I’m almost breathless as I draw the obvious conclusion.
“You said he’s got a granddaughter?” Flowers points at Parnell. “Must mean he’s enjoyed the pleasures of the female form at least once.”
I interrupt. “Hold on. Vestergaard . . . that sounds Scandinavian.”
“Danish,” says Dyer. “He’s a corporate finance lawyer. He got caught up in a big money-laundering scandal a few years back, so he was on Interpol’s radar. I probably know more about him than I do about Fellows.”
I look at Parnell. “My money’s on the granddaughter being Vestergaard’s. There wasn’t a trace of Fellows in her. Totally different coloring.”
Parnell’s eyes are on Dyer. “Why didn’t he tell us then? All he did was deny knowing Holly, he certainly didn’t say anything about being gay. And, I mean, you’d think he would—it doesn’t exactly put him in the clear but it throws her claim into huge question.”
“Still in the closet?” Flowers suggests.
“Mmmm, not a hundred percent,” counters Dyer. “According to my old colleagues, it isn’t widely known at all, but it’s not exactly top-with-a-capital-T-secret either. He’s private, but it’s not like he’s living a lie—you saw him today, he’s entirely comfortable with who he is, happy showing off his granddaughter. He just chooses to keep his private life private, and that seems to be respected.”
“But your colleagues knew,” I say.
“Only a select few, and they’ve been working that world for the best part of thirty years—what they don’t know isn’t worth knowing.” She picks up her drink again, swirls the remnants around with the straw. “The point is, for whatever reason, it’s almost certain Holly Kemp lied about their relationship.”
“Maybe about a romantic relationship,” insists Parnell. “But there’s got to be some link between them. She used Fellows’ name for a reason.”
I’ve got an idea, although it’s not going to make me popular. I think back to Steele’s excitement this morning, her joy at something finally making sense.
Sod it, popularity’s overrated.
“There might not be a link.” Steele turns her chair to face me full-on, her expression curious but with a smidge of “Why always you?” “Holly could have plucked Simon Fellows’ name off the internet to con Dale Peters into believing there was a real sense of urgency. Think about it. Is he really going to hand over £10,000 to protect her from some faceless, nameless bogeyman? But if you gave the bogeyman a name, a criminal reputation . . . can you imagine the rush he’d have got from that? Protecting sweet, fragile, ickle-wickle Megan from the big bad gangster man. I reckon she could have asked for three times the money and he’d still have handed it over.”
A few nods in my peripheral vision: Dyer, Seth, Cooke, Parnell. Steele tips her head back, thinking about it.
“But why Fellows?” says Emily. “He might be a big cheese in certain circles, but it’s not like he’s a well-known name. I’d never heard of him.”
Renée taps quickly on her laptop. “OK, so I’ve just put his name into Google and he gets a few references here and there, but he’s hardly Reggie Kray.”
“Well, that would be the point, wouldn’t it?” Dyer’s voice is snappy and I feel a surge of protectiveness toward Renée who, to be fair, is perfectly capable of fighting her own battles. “She’d need to make it believable. A high-profile name would be stretching things too far. And anyway . . .” She drags a hand through her hair, her perfectly symmetrical bob losing all shape momentarily. “All this talk about Fellows, this Dale Peters guy, aren’t we forgetting the main man here? Masters. Haven’t you guys found anything yet to link him to the dump site or a firearm? It’s got to be there. We had—we have—an ID, for heaven’s sake.”
To her credit, and to my great, great surprise, Steele stays calm, even smiley, as another DCI tells her team how to do their job. But I know that smile. I’ve been on the receiving end of it enough times. And I know we won’t be seeing DCI Tess Dyer in another briefing this side of the apocalypse.
Parnell’s first to puncture the tension. “The dump site doesn’t bother me as much as the gun.”
“Yeah, well, I had a chat with Dolores, Dr. Allen . . .” Dyer gives Steele a look that says she might as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb. “She says it’s possible Masters got bored of strangulation after the first three and needed a bigger thrill for the fourth.”
“A shrink will say anything’s possible,” grunts Flowers.
“Boss,” I say, jumping back to Dyer’s precious ID before we go too far down the path of Flowers’ views on criminal profiling. “Serena Bailey’s bank records are back. No purchases in Clapham on Thursday 23rd February.”
“You pulled Serena Bailey’s bank records?” Dyer’s voice is incredulous.
Steele ignores her, staying entirely focused on me. “OK, well, a purchase would have been helpful to settle your nerves, but a lack of one isn’t proof she wasn’t there.”
“Hold on.” I search for my interview report. It takes me a few seconds to find it and I swear I can feel Dyer’s eyes perforating my skull. “Serena said, You know that sudden feeling you’ve forgotten something? I thought I’d left my bank card in The Northcote. I’d been distracted on my phone when I was paying, see, and it wouldn’t be the first time I’d done it. I checked her original statement and she said words to that effect then.”
Steele instructs Swaines, “Benny-boy, pull all the CCTV on file from 23rd February.”
Dyer sighs. “Kate, we went through it. It was next to useless.”
She doesn’t bother turning around. “It was next to useless for tracing Holly’s movements beyond the station. But now we’re looking for a sighting of Serena Bailey. And while you’re doing that, Ben, look for a sighting of Simon Fellows. Or anyone acting suspicious, because if Simon Fellows is involved, I doubt he did his own dirty work.”
Dyer catches me in the ladies’, appraising myself under the harsh lights and wondering if I should sell a kidney to buy some Parsley Seed Antioxidant Serum. It’s clearly done Steele no harm. Steele’s got over twenty-five years on me, and has had more late nights than Dracula, yet I swear her skin looks fresher than mine.
She joins me at the mirror, facing the other way. “That’s bad for you, you know? Pulling your skin downward like that. Trust me, you’ll thank me for that advice in ten years’ time.”
I smile and wait for her to go into a cubicle. When she doesn’t, I recommence pulling. It feels like a tiny, moronic victory after her hissy fit over Masters. You can tell me how to do my job but not what to do with my skin.
She reads the subtext, a small grin tugging at the corner of her mouth. Then, “Look, Cat, I know you met with Suze.”
For two seconds, I haven’t the faintest idea what she’s talking about.
“She called me last night, said you’d been asking about Serena Bailey’s statement.” Ah, DI Susie Grainger. I wouldn’t have had her down as a “Suze.” “Seriously, Cat, you could have warned me.”
“I’m . . . I’m sorry.” I stutter an apology, before deciding fuck that, this is our case. “But I had legitimate questions, ma’am . . .”
“Drop th
e ma’am, it’s Tess, or T. And I’m not saying you didn’t. But you didn’t get Steele’s permission, did you?”
The grin is still there, broader even, and her tone is warm, conspiratorial. I can’t work out if I’m being chastised or congratulated. I turn to face her, chin high, confidence shaky.
“Fine, I should have checked with the boss when I realized Grainger was a DI, but I was there and she was happy to talk. And I didn’t mention it afterward because I didn’t want what I’d found out from Serena’s head teacher to get lost under a bollocking for not following protocol.”
“Steele’s a stickler for that, I hear.”
I’m not comfortable with this Steele-bashing, but then I’m not comfortable with being caught out either. Sitting firmly on the fence, I say, “Sometimes, but that’s not a bad thing.”
“No, no, of course not.” She pushes herself off the sink, gives me a friendly poke on the shoulder. “Well, listen, anyway—you owe me a drink, Cat Kinsella. Several drinks. ’Cos I only narrowly avoided dropping you in it.”
“What do you mean?”
“Like I said, you should have warned me. I happened to mention to Steele that you’d met with Suze, but then I could tell from her face that she hadn’t got a clue what I was talking about. Lucky for you, I thought on my feet, said you’d been introduced in the Harp & Fiddle the other night.”
Shit. “Oh right. Thanks. I mean it.” And I do. I’m still not convinced that Steele’s altogether fine about Aiden. She hasn’t mentioned it since and I’d been expecting the Spanish Inquisition, or at least a bit of ribbing. So if she’s feeling weird about that, I could do without this. There’s no doubt about it, Dyer saved my bacon. “And look, I’m sorry if it seemed like I was going behind your back.” I risk a grin. “You’re not too annoyed, are you?”
“I’m annoyed Suze was upset. She might play the tough cookie, but she was shaken up. We all are. Just remember, it’s easy to make judgments with the benefit of hindsight. Suze did nothing wrong, and even if she did, she was following my lead. If anything got missed, it’s on me, not her, OK?” I nod, knowing Steele would say the same. She turns to face me in the mirror. “But I like your initiative. I think we’re cut from the same cloth, Cat, you and me. And that was good work on Serena and the bank card too. I mean, I’m one hundred percent certain we got the right man and Bailey’s sound, but it’s still good work. I like that you question everything.”