In Her Blood

by Annie Hauxwell

  Dempster stared at the plate of food as if it were a deadly weapon. ‘She’s important to my investigation,’ he said.

  ‘Yes. I understand you’re in a difficult position. No resources, no snouts and no influence with the local team. They tell me you’re on a frolic of your own, that the doctor’s death was gang-related, if the weapon is any indication, and that they were after his drugs.’

  ‘Look, Thompson, I was keeping an eye on Berlin, that’s all. I followed the car you sent to the Limehouse Basin and saw her talking to the pair of you. When she ran, I saw an opportunity to win her confidence. Plus, she’s not a suspect, is she, so why pursue her?’

  ‘She hasn’t got an alibi for either her informant or her boss. See the connection there, do you?’ said Thompson.

  ‘You can hardly think she’s a prospect for the murder of the Doyle woman. And I thought Nestor was a suicide.’

  ‘Most likely,’ Thompson agreed grudgingly. ‘We’re still waiting on the post-mortem. These bloody cuts.’ Thompson smiled at his joke, but again Dempster remained deadpan. ‘Look, the last phone call Nestor made was to Berlin and that’s what we were after – her voicemail. It was deleted, by her and then by the bloody telco. It could be something or nothing, but she’s the only one who can tell us what he said.’

  ‘Have you thought of asking her nicely?’ said Dempster.

  ‘Mate,’ snapped Thompson, ‘I don’t need you to tell me how to do my job. Like I said, she doesn’t have alibis for either of them so I’m entitled to treat her as a bloody suspect, not my best friend. She says she was home alone.’

  Dempster sipped his builder’s tea and grimaced. ‘We both know she’s not a contender. You’re just looking for some leverage. I’ll be straight with you, Thompson, I don’t want her in the system.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘It wouldn’t be good for her health, and that wouldn’t be good for my investigation.’

  Thompson munched on a chip and stared at Dempster, putting two and two together. ‘Dr Lazenby.’

  Dempster didn’t respond.

  ‘She was one of his patients,’ Thompson said.

  Dempster remained tight-lipped, which told Thompson everything he needed to know. He burped quietly. ‘So now she’s implicated in three deaths, not just two. Her informant, her boss and her doctor.’

  Dempster poked at the food on his plate.

  ‘You haven’t touched your lunch,’ observed Thompson.

  ‘I’ve just remembered I’m a vegetarian.’

  This was the final straw. Thompson wiped his mouth with a paper napkin, stood up, got a banknote out of his wallet and dropped it on the table.

  ‘I don’t know what your game is, Dempster, but stay out of mine. And make sure that the Doyle family file is on my desk first thing tomorrow morning.’

  47

  THIRTY MINUTES LATER Dempster was waiting in the car outside Berlin’s flat. He got out as she approached and followed her up the stairs. He’s got an unhealthy interest in me, she thought, as she let them into the flat.

  ‘Well?’ he said, impatient.

  ‘You’re a bloody stalker, Dempster,’ she said, and went to the bathroom.

  When she came out the kettle was on, which she thought was a bit of a cheek – him acting as if he owned the place.

  She handed him the mini recorder and he switched it on and replayed her exchange with Bonnington.

  Dempster grimaced. This obviously wasn’t the result he was after.

  ‘I keep telling you he didn’t kill Lazenby,’ she said. ‘But there is an issue around Merle Okonedo’s death. Otherwise he would have said “I didn’t kill anyone,” or “I haven’t murdered anybody,” or even “I haven’t done anything wrong.” Something like that, not “I didn’t kill her.” His response was like a “tell” in poker.’

  He knew she was right, but she could see he didn’t like it.

  ‘I knew it would incense him if a low-life like me threatened him. He recovered fast, but not fast enough. I’m telling you, there’s something dodgy about Okonedo’s death,’ said Berlin.

  ‘But that case isn’t going anywhere, with all those eye witnesses saying it was an accident. It’s a waste of time pursuing it,’ he said, irate.

  She regarded him with disgust. ‘You’re a piece of work, Dempster.’

  He gave her a look that warned she was going too far. She tried to rein in her temper by telling herself that he had the upper hand. It didn’t work. He was just another bloody copper who was only interested in a result.

  ‘We’re done! I’m not playing any more of your games!’ She realised she was shouting and struggled to bring her voice back to a normal level. That didn’t work either. ‘I’m not going to be manipulated by you because of some stupid competition you think you’re in with the local team!’

  Dempster shouted back. ‘But they’re not working it! They’re just waiting for the smack to surface and then they’ll follow the bodies. You should know better than anyone what will happen when pharmaceutical-grade hits the streets: junkies who have been using the adulterated crap will be dropping like flies. Or don’t you give a shit about the likes of them? Think you’re a cut above the average addict?’

  The kettle spluttered and boiled, the room filling with steam. Dempster moved to turn it off.

  ‘Leave it!’ she shouted. ‘Just fuck off, Dempster! Fuck off out of my life!’

  He walked out, leaving the door open.

  She strode over and kicked it shut behind him.

  Berlin dispatched a Scotch and fumed. Dempster had used her and then dumped her. Or had she dumped him? Now the bastard was on his own with the Lazenby inquiry and she could concentrate on Gina Doyle. ‘Concentrate’ in its loosest sense, given her current state of mind. Take it easy, she chided herself, you’ve got two hits left before things go pear-shaped.

  She fired up the computer to work on her logs and charts. She must maintain some discipline and keep generating lines of inquiry if she was going to get anywhere.

  But the row with Dempster bounced around in her brain. Her hope of a solution to the dope problem went out the door when he did. There was little prospect of Bonnington responding to the blackmail ploy either. It was conversation management, a gambit. He was no fool and she couldn’t see him caving in to some vague threat from a junkie.

  At least Dempster had been good for something. He had retrieved the old Doyle family file for her. She reached for it where she had left it, right beside the computer. It wasn’t there.

  She knew straightaway Dempster had taken it with him. He must have grabbed it while she was in the bathroom. His exit had been planned from the minute he walked in. So he had dumped her. She felt a flicker of disappointment, but then dismissed it and tried to focus on assessing what Dempster’s underhanded behaviour implied in her current situation. He wouldn’t dare move on the forged prescriptions after what she’d done for him; it could get too messy. That was a result of sorts.

  From the point of view of her investigation, the old Doyle file had yielded Retired Senior Constable Harvey Marks and brought her closer to understanding Gina’s motivation. But what was the connection between her death and Nestor’s? Del had told her that Nestor had shut himself in his office after Coulthard showed him the post-mortem photo and presumably told him she was Doyle’s daughter. That night Nestor went off the deep end, literally. It remained to be seen if he had been murdered.

  Coulthard owed Doyle, who suspected Coulthard had killed his daughter or knew who had. Coulthard had obstructed further surveillance, at Doyle’s behest, but Nestor had NFA’d the file.

  That had obviously puzzled Doyle too. He had said that his partner had told him Nestor was the boss at the Agency. So if the investigation was a problem for Nestor, he had dealt with it. He didn’t need to kill the informant.

  She was going around in circles. There had to be something in the intelligence that she hadn’t managed to identify, but she was buggered if she could see it. She pou
red herself another Scotch and went back to her notes of the exchange between Doyle and Coulthard on this point. She had written:

  Doyle (aggressive): So what about this bloke Nestor, then, the real boss. Do you know why he shut down the job?

  Coulthard (hysterical): He didn’t say. And now he’s dead so there’s no way to find out.

  Maybe there was a way. Doyle had said his partner told him Nestor was the boss. So who was the partner?

  If Doyle, Coulthard and Nestor were out of the frame for Gina’s murder, then the partner moved in.

  She clicked on Nestor’s voicemail and played it again. She had slowed it down, speeded it up, cleaned it up as much as she could. It didn’t matter; she didn’t recognise the voice, couldn’t hear what was being said and didn’t have the expertise to enhance the audio. But a harsh, mocking laugh and the sound of someone sobbing was unmistakable.

  48

  BERLIN BELIEVED IN keeping your friends close and your enemies closer. Her friends were few and far between, so the room was never crowded. To accommodate her enemies, she’d have to book the Albert Hall.

  She picked up her mobile and called Coulthard. Her caller ID was permanently blocked, so she knew there was a good chance he would answer.

  ‘Acting General Manager Coulthard speaking.’

  ‘So you’re back at work then?’ she said.

  There was a pause. Now that the balance of power between them had shifted, Coulthard had to work out how to respond to her.

  ‘I’ve been meaning to call you,’ he said, adopting his reasonable voice.

  ‘I beat you to it. I need to see you.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Here. My flat.’

  ‘I don’t think that’s a good idea. I can’t afford to be seen at your place.’

  ‘Who’s going to see you? No one’s watching.’

  This time the pause was meaningful. Okay, thought Berlin, maybe someone is watching. But were they watching him or her? She looked out the window.

  ‘The BL. Thirty minutes.’

  Berlin watched from the mezzanine as security went through Coulthard’s bag. Coulthard had once proudly informed her that the tactical expandable baton, known as the Asp, had a high psychological deterrence factor on the street and low potential for tissue damage. A great combination.

  It was illegal for civilians to carry them, and he’d obviously taken it with him when he’d left the force, but Coulthard had never quite gotten over the fact he wasn’t a sworn officer any more.

  The security guard waved Coulthard through. He’d remembered to leave his Asp in the boot of the car then. He scanned the lobby, saw her watching him and limped over to the escalator. The lights picked out his bruises.

  ‘Facelift went well,’ she said, as he approached.

  ‘Yeah. Did we have the same surgeon?’

  Her own bruises had faded, but the cut from the hoodies’ attack at Weaver’s Fields had left a scar running through her eyebrow.

  She wanted coffee and a fig roll. Coulthard dutifully went off to get them. The BL had the best fig rolls in London. Fly cemeteries, they used to call them as kids. A shiver ran through her. Where was all this stuff about her childhood coming from? She had a sudden image of a blank, whitewashed wall. She couldn’t see over it and it extended into infinity in all directions. A web of tiny, hairline fissures on its surface were becoming cracks.

  Coulthard moved the coffee and cakes from the tray to the table and sat down.

  ‘Are you okay?’ he inquired, almost solicitous.

  ‘Yeah, fine.’

  ‘You’ve gone a bit pale.’

  She reached for the fig roll and took a bite. ‘Low blood sugar,’ she said, and opened her laptop. ‘I want you to listen to something.’

  Suddenly distant voices, one of them Nestor’s, shouted at airy nothing.

  She could see the cogs creaking as Coulthard tried to decide what he was listening to and what he could gain from this situation. But he wasn’t a quick thinker.

  ‘Do you recognise the other voice?’ she said.

  ‘Er, can you play it again?’

  He didn’t recognise it. If he had he would have been cockier, believing he now knew something she didn’t. But she went along with it, just in case he was hedging his bets. She played the file again.

  ‘You know the senior management team,’ she said. ‘You’ve been to meetings with Nestor. Is it one of them?’

  He raised his hands. ‘Honestly, I’m not sure. Perhaps if I knew the context it would help.’

  Typical, she thought. A pathetic and transparent attempt to fish for more information. Knowledge is power.

  ‘Look, Coulthard, if you’ve got even the slightest idea who it might be, give it up. I’m not frigging about here. I’m already in the shit. I’d love to drop you into an even bigger pile and I’ll do it the minute you aren’t useful to me any more.’

  She spoke with quiet menace. The studious young man sitting across from them reading a book with the title Why Everyone Owes Everyone and No One Can Pay picked up his bag and moved to another table.

  Coulthard protested. ‘Berlin, mate, I don’t know.’

  She went to close the laptop, but Coulthard reached over and stopped her.

  ‘Look, if I find out for you, can we call it quits?’

  ‘In your dreams,’ she said, and snapped the lid down.

  ‘Email me the file,’ Coulthard wheedled.

  Berlin’s expression gave nothing away.

  ‘One of the blokes working on the Doyle and Nestor investigation is a mate of mine,’ said Coulthard.

  ‘Flint,’ she said.

  If he was surprised she knew, he kept it well hidden.

  ‘Yeah. His team has interviewed dozens of people. Maybe one of them will recognise the voice.’

  She finished up her fig roll as she thought it through. Coulthard’s eyes were bright with expectation. He wants this too much, she decided.

  ‘No,’ she said.

  Coulthard stood up. ‘Fair enough. Anything else?’

  ‘No, fuck off,’ she said.

  He pushed his fig roll towards her. ‘Here, have mine. I can’t eat it anyway. My jaw’s too sore.’

  He limped away. She watched him travel down the escalator. The moment he got to the bottom he took out his mobile. Calling Flint, no doubt.

  She already had her own mobile in her hand.

  ‘Limehouse Police Station,’ a bored voice answered.

  ‘Detective Inspector Thompson, please,’ she said.

  ‘Who should I say is calling?’

  When she didn’t reply, there was a deep sigh on the other end.

  ‘Putting you through.’

  Flint’s mobile chirped at the same moment as the landline on Thompson’s desk rang.

  ‘DCI Thompson here, how may I help?’

  The person on the other end didn’t introduce herself, but Thompson recognised her voice. She cut to the chase. ‘Do you know The Approach? Can you come alone?’

  ‘Yes and yes.’

  ‘In an hour?’

  Thompson glanced over at Flint, but he was intent on his own call, speaking in a low voice.

  ‘Suits me, sir,’ Thompson said and hung up.

  Flint paused as Thompson stood and put his coat on. ‘I’ll call you back,’ he said and hung up. He stood up and reached for his coat.

  ‘Stay here and check those witness statements again, will you, Flint?’

  ‘What? What for?’

  ‘We might have overlooked something. Police work is all about patience.’

  ‘So where the bloody hell are you off to again?’ retorted Flint.

  Thompson gave him a look that served as a reminder of the chain of command.

  ‘Sir, look, sir,’ blustered Flint. ‘What I meant, sir, was – well I feel my skills aren’t being properly used in these inquiries. As second in command I feel I should be kept informed.’

  Thompson’s tone was mild. ‘Quite right, Detective Serge
ant Flint. I should inform you that I have just received an email with the post-mortem report on Nestor attached,’ he said. ‘It records that the body showed no signs of defensive wounds, no bruising or other signs of assault, and his blood alcohol was off the chart. Cause of death: cardiac failure due to hypothermia.’

  He paused to give Flint time to build up a nice head of trepidation. ‘I should further inform you that now we’ve definitely only got one body – because Mr Nestor either fell while bladdered or took his own life – we’ll be regarded as over-resourced. Once I report this to my senior officers, I dare say there will be reassignments.’

  The minute the door closed behind Thompson, Flint was back on his phone.

  49

  FIFTEEN MINUTES LATER Flint put a pint of Guinness on the table for Coulthard, and settled down with his Stella. Coulthard picked up his glass and drank half of it in a single gulp. Flint took in his swollen nose and the livid purple bruises around his eyes. ‘So who was it, mate? Your bookie or your dealer?’ asked Flint.

  ‘Very funny,’ snapped Coulthard.

  ‘Your missus then?’ said Flint, without a twitch of humour.

  Coulthard was clearly unimpressed. He drank the rest of his pint in silence.

  Flint had never seen him like this. He was always smiling, ready with a quick joke and commiserations if things weren’t going your way. Whatever had happened to him, the bloke was shaken, no doubt about it.

  Flint was under no illusions. Coulthard was a crafty bastard who would put a knife in your ribs with one hand while slapping your back with the other. His charm had obviously worn a bit thin with someone.

  ‘I’m in a bit of bother, mate,’ Coulthard said eventually. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

  ‘Come on then,’ said Flint. ‘Don’t keep me in suspenders.’

  ‘It was Doyle.’

  ‘Don’t tell me you didn’t pay up?’ said Flint in disbelief.

  ‘You put me on to the prick,’ hissed Coulthard.

  ‘And I warned you! I told you he’s well known around the manor as a source of funds, but he takes no prisoners. Don’t fucking put this on me!’