‘So you’re saying someone planted the hairs.’
‘More than that, I’m saying they cleaned the flat up so we’d only find the hairs. There’s nothing else there to contaminate the evidence. It’s like someone wants to guarantee that she gets the blame.’
‘Is there any way of proving it?’
‘That’s the problem, John, it’s just a feeling. Even in the cleanest flats you find alien matter and have to eliminate it piece by piece, but not this time. Two perfect long hairs, one placed where it couldn’t be missed, on the pillow, the other conveniently left in the laundry basket between shirts so I can easily date it. I could buy the evidence as it stands, but in my experience it just doesn’t feel right.’
‘So you think someone planted the evidence to discredit her?’
‘If there was someone in her husband’s circle who was determined to frame her, this would be a bloody good way to do it.’
‘With the motive of destabilizing Kasavian just as he’s trying to push through the UK side of the borders initiative.’
‘Exactly. The crazier the wife looks, the worse it reflects on his judgement. I’d start looking into his department, and see who’s got the most to gain by causing his downfall.’
‘Home Office Security is notoriously secretive. I very much doubt there’s any way of getting to their inner circle.’
‘Then I think you need to find a way before something else happens,’ Banbury warned.
18
LUCY
WHEN SHE TRIED Royal Oak Recruitment Services, Meera Mangeshkar struck it lucky.
The receptionist immediately singled out one employee. ‘Andrew Mansfield,’ she said. ‘A lovely man, but a real workaholic. He’s here nearly every weekend, never takes his holiday allowance. His ex-wife works nearby and they look after the children between them, two boys and a girl.’ She tapped the blurry photograph. ‘And that’s definitely little Lucy. She’s wearing her favourite yellow top. She’s – well, she’s quite a handful. Knows her own mind, that one does.’
‘Do you know if Mr Mansfield was working last Saturday morning?’
‘Oh, he’d have been here. We had a rush job on all last week. Lucy was probably with him.’
‘Could I see him?’
‘He won’t like being interrupted, but let me try.’ She rang Mansfield’s office and persuaded him to grant Meera an audience.
Meera called Colin and told him to come over. Together they headed for the fourth floor. The sight of so many tightly arranged cubicles made Meera feel claustrophobic. Fancy working in here every day, she thought. Give me the streets any time.
Mansfield could not have been older than forty, but looked as if he was about to drop dead. His grey suit matched his skin and hung about him like a flag. His shirt collar was a size too big, and his dark eyes were sunken and lifeless. He seemed to find it an effort to speak, and had already forgotten who his visitors were.
‘We’re from a central London crimes unit investigating two incidents that your daughter may have witnessed,’ Meera explained again. ‘It may be the case that she didn’t register seeing anything she considered to be out of the ordinary, so we need to talk to her in order to form a fuller picture of the events.’
‘Where did these “events” happen?’ asked Mansfield distractedly. His BlackBerry buzzed and he reached for it.
‘You can leave that for a minute,’ Meera warned. ‘One was on Saturday last around lunchtime, out in the square.’
‘She was here. She went downstairs to play with Tom Penry, one of my colleague’s boys. If you want to interview him, I can probably arrange that. You said there were two incidents.’
‘Yes, the other was in Coram’s Fields in Bloomsbury yesterday afternoon at around four p.m.’
Mansfield shook his head blearily, as if trying to clear it of clouds. ‘No, I don’t think I know—’
‘It’s a park just opposite the Brunswick Centre.’
‘Oh God, yes. She ran off to look at the animals. We’d stopped in the farmers’ market. I was dying for a cigarette and trying to take my mind off it, so I stopped at a bookstall. It was very busy there. Lucy was watching a man making pancakes. When I turned back I couldn’t find her.’
‘How long was she gone?’
‘I don’t know – five or ten minutes, something like that. She’s very independent, quite fearless, always going up to strangers and chatting. I try to stop her. She’s smart, though, a good judge of character.’
‘She’s still a little girl, Mr Mansfield.’
‘I searched the market, then remembered the park opposite. That joins on to Coram’s Fields, doesn’t it? There’s a petting zoo there.’
‘So you left the centre and headed there?’
‘There’s a crossing going all the way over from the Brunswick Centre to the edge of the park. I followed the railings down the side and then I saw her running towards me. She said something about seeing a friend. She makes stuff up all the time.’
‘Did you see the friend?’ asked Meera.
‘No, I was a bit angry that she’d run off again, but we were late for her optician’s appointment, so I let it go.’
‘Would it be possible to talk to her later today?’
‘I’m picking her up from school at four because she needs to go back to have her glasses adjusted. Could I leave you to take her and do the interview afterwards? I’ve got a lot of work on this afternoon.’
‘No, Mr Mansfield,’ said Meera firmly. ‘You have to pick up your own daughter. I don’t think she’d want to be met at the school by a complete stranger.’
‘All right,’ said Mansfield finally, ‘but it’s just adding to my problems today.’
Meera scowled back at the offices as they left. ‘When Mansfield keels over and dies on the job, leaving his children without a father, I wonder if his bosses will show their appreciation for all the hard work he put in,’ she said.
‘Divorced working parents competing over the kids.’ Colin gave a shrug. ‘I bet little Lucy gets a lot of terrific presents.’
Colin checked the name he had written in his notepad. The boy, Tom Penry, attended the same school as Lucy Mansfield, but was in a lower year.
‘Don’t take this the wrong way, Meera, but I don’t think you should interview the girl.’
‘What, you think I’m going to scare her or something?’
‘Sometimes you scare me. Get Janice to do it – she’s brilliant with kids.’
‘But I’m younger, I’m closer to the kid’s age than her. Plus I’m a lot shorter, which kids like.’
‘Yeah, but she’s … you know, more patient.’
Meera finally agreed to the idea, but Colin could tell he had hurt her feelings.
‘There was somebody out there in the garden, I swear to you,’ said Sabira Kasavian. ‘He was staring up at me, watching my room, but when I looked again he was gone. Believe me, I know exactly how that sounds but he was there. Go and look at the ground if you don’t believe me. It was wet; he must have left footprints.’
Longbright had looked in on Sabira because the Cedar Tree Clinic was just up the road from Lucy Mansfield’s school, where she had arranged to meet the girl with her father. She had been instructed to break the news about Jeff Waters before Sabira had a chance to find out accidentally. It was rare for someone to be killed in one of London’s public parks, and reports of the murder had started to hit the press, although details were vague.
Sabira was seated in one of the clinic’s empty afternoon lounges. Her mood had changed to one of tetchy anxiety. It was as if she was coming down from a night of drug-bingeing. Longbright sensed she would have to go easy with her.
‘Why would someone come here just to watch you?’ she asked gently.
‘They want me to know that I’m always being watched, that I’ll always be watched until …’
‘Until what?’
‘Until I kill myself.’
‘What makes you think these people
want you to kill yourself?’
‘They leave notes telling me to.’ There was something sinister about the way in which Sabira seemed resigned to her persecution.
‘Do you have any of these notes that I could look at?’
‘No, I threw them all away.’
‘Where? At home, in the kitchen bin?’
‘Oh, in the street somewhere.’
‘Do you ever have suicidal thoughts, Sabira?’
‘Suicide is for people who can’t see a way out of their situation. Even when we had terrible problems at home, I would always try to find a solution.’
‘And now?’
‘Now there really is no way out. I suppose I could run away, go back to Albania, but I would not even be safe there.’
Longbright rubbed her arms. The room had grown suddenly cold. ‘Sabira, I’m trying to think about this logically. What do you know that could make someone reach out and try to kill you in another country?’
‘It’s too big to talk about. As big as the world itself. A global conspiracy. They have people everywhere. They will track me down and kill me, then make it look as if I killed myself.’ The sudden clatter of teacups in the next room made them both start. ‘I had proof – I swear I did – but it disappeared without ever leaving my hands, just as if it never existed. They came and took it from me while I slept.’
This was textbook paranoid delusion, Longbright realized. Sabira didn’t think one particular person was out to kill her, she thought the world meant her harm. ‘If you don’t tell us why people want to hurt you, it’s very hard for us to help you,’ she pointed out.
‘There’s no one I can trust. And if I could trust them, I wouldn’t be able to protect them.’
‘You can trust me.’
Sabira shook her head violently. ‘No, you’re the last person I can confide in – surely you must see that?’
Longbright had serious doubts about introducing the subject of Waters’s death, but there were computers and televisions scattered throughout the clinic, and the last thing Sabira needed to see right now was a sensationalistic report on the murder of an acquaintance in broad daylight.
‘Sabira, we know you befriended the photographer assigned to cover your public appearances. We spoke to him.’
‘He has nothing to do with this.’
‘You know what? If I had a problem and needed someone to help me out, he’s the sort of man I would have picked to confide in. That’s why I wanted to talk to you, before you heard it from anyone else. Someone attacked him yesterday.’
‘Is he injured?’
‘I’m afraid he’s dead.’
Sabira said nothing. For a moment Longbright thought she had failed to understand. Finally she looked up at the detective sergeant and said, ‘His killer is outside the window right now.’ The casualness of her tone was chilling.
Longbright looked out, but the garden was veiled in rain.
‘It’s the same man who was there last night. Can’t you see him?’ Her voice began to rise. ‘He’s right there, you must be able to see.’ And then she was yelling in a thin, high voice, ‘He’s there! Right in front of you! He’s there!’
Longbright ran to the French windows and unbolted them, running out into the downpour, but there was no one in sight. The rain had beaded on the grass, giving it a silvered sheen that held no other footprints but her own. She searched inside the bushes and under the trees, but it was clear no one had been standing there. She headed back to the house, soaked.
Sabira had turned away from her, expecting failure. ‘I knew he’d vanish before you got there. You must go now,’ she said. ‘Go and never come back.’
‘Sabira, if there’s anything I can do—’
‘Just go. You can see how mad I am. Even I don’t know what I’m saying any more. Go fast. It is safer for you.’
There was no point in remaining any longer. Longbright slipped her business card into Sabira’s hand. ‘This has my home contact details on the back. Please use them at any time.’
She said goodbye and went to speak to Amelia Medway, the centre’s senior nurse.
‘It may be more than just mental exhaustion,’ Medway told her. ‘Sabira is free to come and go as she pleases, but she’s exhibiting quite serious symptoms, and may require more specialized health care. We’re not a psychiatric unit, Miss Longbright. We’re not secure, and don’t provide long-term pharmacological solutions.’
‘How long do you think she’ll be here?’
‘Certainly until Monday, when she’ll be assessed by a King’s College psychiatrist who’ll decide the next step. If he thinks there’s a genuine risk of self-endangerment, he’ll refer her to the private ward of the Bethlem Royal Hospital in Bromley. She’ll be well cared for there. If he thinks she’s out of danger he may allow her to return home, providing she remains under local supervision.’
‘There’s one last thing,’ Longbright said. ‘I know your concern is for Sabira’s mental wellbeing, but we need to make sure that she’s not physically at risk from anyone else.’
‘The doors of the centre are locked at night, but we’re not legally allowed to restrict her movements. If she wants to go out, we have no way of stopping her.’
‘Then perhaps you could keep me informed of her whereabouts.’ Longbright gave her a card with the unit’s number, and then took her leave.
Lucy Mansfield’s school was just off England’s Lane in Belsize Park. It was privately run and so smart that it looked like an upmarket restaurant from outside. It was popular with executive couples, who placed their children’s names on its waiting list years in advance.
Longbright caught up with Lucy’s father by the main gates. The girl who came running up was slightly built and small for her years, but clearly filled with confidence and energy. Lucy had reached the age when she had just discovered the power of her opinions, and was already used to being heard.
They went to the Caffè Nero on Haverstock Hill. Andrew Mansfield bought his daughter low-calorie chocolate cake and explained why Longbright was here.
‘I was playing with Tom,’ Lucy explained between greedy mouthfuls. ‘I didn’t do anything wrong. It’s a real game, with a rulebook and everything. It’s called Witch Hunter and you have to ride across the countryside and find witches to kill.’
‘She used to play the game with her brothers,’ Andrew explained. ‘It’s an RPG. We vetted it, of course. My wife doesn’t approve, but I don’t see the harm in it. It’s historically accurate, rather like those books, the Horrible Histories, so the kids learn about the English Civil War. I didn’t know you still played it, darling.’
‘I don’t, but Tom had the cards on him, and we were waiting for you and Tom’s dad so we played.’
‘How do you play the game?’ asked Longbright.
‘You pick if you’re going to be a witch or a hunter. Hunters ride to a town in a place called Suffork and listen to accusations from the villagers, and then they find the person who’s a witch. It doesn’t have to be Suffork. It can be wherever you like.’
‘How do players know who’s a witch?’
‘There are lots of questions you have to ask, but you can tell ’cause of the way they look. We couldn’t ask a lot of the player questions because we didn’t have a witch, because Tom wanted to be a witch hunter as well as me.’
‘So you found someone you thought was a witch? Why did you pick her?’
‘Because she was pretty and witches can change their skin, and she was reading a book about eating babies.’
Longbright remembered that a bookmarked paperback of Ira Levin’s Rosemary’s Baby had been found in Amy O’Connor’s handbag. ‘Then what did you do?’ she asked.
‘We pretended to be playing ball so we could get up very close, and I had a good look at her, but I still couldn’t tell if she was a witch. And then we killed her. Can I go now?’
Longbright frowned. Lucy had deliberately skipped the part she needed to hear. ‘Why would you kill her if you
couldn’t tell whether she was a witch?’
‘I talked to Tom and he thought she was.’
‘How did you kill her?’
‘We put a curse on her.’
‘How do you do that? Did you talk to her?’
Lucy shook her head. ‘No. We did this.’ She rubbed her fingers together. ‘And we said the thing on the card called an incant … an incant—’
‘An incantation.’
‘Yes, but I can’t remember what it was. Tom has the cards.’
‘I think you did talk to her, Lucy,’ said Longbright.
‘No – she just told us off. That’s not talking, is it? Ask Tom, he’ll tell you about her.’
‘Then what happened?’
‘She got up from the seat, put her sandwich box in the bin and went into the church. And then me and Tom went back into the office.’
‘All right, what about yesterday, when you went to Coram’s Fields? Why were you in the park?’
‘I was bored of waiting. Dad was being a grump and wanted to look at the books on the stall, so I walked away.’
Longbright addressed Lucy’s father. ‘Had you taken your daughter to Coram’s Fields before?’
‘No. I knew there was a garden square opposite but I only had a vague idea there was a children’s park there.’
‘Lucy, how did you find the park?’
‘I crossed the road and there it was.’
‘Have you seen it before?’
‘I can see it when we drive to Waitrose. We never have time to stop.’
‘There’s a camera by the road that photographed you with a man. Who was he? How did you come to meet him?’
Lucy thought for a moment, but there was something too pantomimic about her performance. A finger on the chin, a roll of the eye. ‘Oh, I remember now. He asked me where the farmers’ market was so I told him.’
‘Are you sure? How did he get into the park?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Because the camera shows the two of you entering through the gates at the same time.’
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