The Mourner

by Susan Wilkins

  25

  Nicci got back to the office at lunchtime. She’d already spoken to Pascale en route. As she skirted round the workstations and headed for her desk, Pascale swivelled her chair, caught Nicci’s eye. ‘Nobody will talk. Mention the witness protection scheme and there’s an omertà.’

  ‘Okay, let’s see if we can by-pass them.’ Nicci dumped her bag down. ‘She’s at Glasgow School of Art, I think. When I went up to see her before her brother’s trial the name she said she was using was Clare O’Keeffe. Might be true.’

  Pascale turned back to her keyboard and started to tap away. Nicci was just logging on to her own computer when she sensed someone approaching. She glanced up to see Liam, looking sheepish, hands shovelled in the pockets of his chinos.

  ‘Want a coffee, boss?’

  ‘What’s up with you? Hasn’t she told you I’m not ratting you out?’

  ‘Just trying to be nice.’ He grinned.

  ‘And you are nice, Liam.’ Nicci gave him a mocking smile. ‘I’ll have an espresso, good and strong.’

  He clipped his forehead in mock salute. ‘Coming up.’

  She watched him head for the coffee station. She meant it; Liam was nice. He was also young and unscathed, a situation she envied. Happy-go-lucky seemed his natural state. She scanned the room – quiet, industrious. People were getting on with the job and Nicci realized that having puzzles to solve, inquiries to pursue, had made her feel more composed. Her synapses were nattering with questions and theories. What she’d told Blake hadn’t been a lie – she felt much better when she was busy.

  Her mind skipped back to Julia Hadley, a woman obsessed with solving the murder of a lover who was unfaithful. Maybe it wasn’t just Helen’s killer Julia wanted found; maybe what she really wanted to know was why her love hadn’t been enough.

  Nicci pulled the spiral-bound notebook out of her bag, got up and headed for Blake’s office. He was on the phone, but waved her in. She perched on the arm of his sofa and waited for him to end the call.

  He clicked the handset off and slotted it back in its cradle. ‘Well, you certainly rattled Fiona Calder’s cage. Tomorrow’s Mail is running a column on profit-hungry private investigators preying on grieving families. They’re not naming us specifically, ’cause they know I’d sue, but it’s all over the web that it’s the Warner case and we’re the outfit in the frame.’

  Nicci raised her eyebrows. ‘Interesting.’

  ‘It’s more than that.’ Blake got up from his chair. He was buzzing. ‘Means you can stop feeling bad about the sorry cow. She’s a serving police officer, Nic. She knows who’s behind the Warner murder and she’s playing games with it. I think she’s using us as a diversion, giving the media something to chew on.’

  Nicci frowned as she considered this. ‘That’s just supposition.’

  ‘Well, what is she up to then? The murder of a politician by persons unknown, who the Met have decided to protect? Goes to the heart of the democratic process. We don’t assassinate our leaders or throw them in jail, we just vote for the other lot. It’s what makes us civilized.’

  Turning the notebook over in her hand, Nicci ran her fingers along the wire binding. ‘Assassination? That’s a bit strong. Helen Warner was a backbench MP and a very junior member of the opposition. She had no power.’

  ‘Then why go to such lengths to cover up her death?’

  ‘It’s easier.’ She puffed out her cheeks.

  ‘This is not about easy.’ Blake ran his palm over his greying, neatly razored scalp. ‘I used to have a lot of time for Calder – she’s smart. Whatever she’s up to, it’s far more complicated than that.’

  Nicci crossed one knee over the other and pondered. ‘Okay, whose interests was Warner threatening?’

  ‘That’s what we need to find out.’

  ‘You’re not going along with Eddie’s theory?’ She gave him a sidelong look. ‘Some drug cartel? I mean, really?’

  ‘It’s a possibility. At this stage we can’t rule anything out.’

  ‘Come on, Simon, I love a good conspiracy theory too. But remember what you used to say to us back on the squad: violent crime, murder, is ninety-nine per cent cock-up. People reacting viciously to situations they can’t control.’

  ‘Yeah, that’s true enough. But what about the one per cent, eh? Professional hit with a political motive? That’s a totally different kettle of fish. We’re going to have an interesting time with this.’

  ‘Maybe a bit too interesting.’

  ‘I told you when I hired you that it wouldn’t be boring. I’m keeping my promise.’ He grinned at her mischievously.

  ‘Yeah, and why did you hire me? ’Cause I’ve got to say, it’s never made a lot of sense.’ It was a flip remark, tossed back at him in the spirit of banter.

  His gaze met hers, but only for an instant. He was a big bloke, tough, no prisoners, a rugby player in his college days. Yet the look in his eyes was momentarily tender, almost wistful. It was neither professional nor paternal and she only got a glimpse, still it sent a shockwave through her. Blake was a married man, happily married as far as she knew. He certainly wasn’t one of these middle-aged creeps whose eyes strayed to your tits every time they talked to you.

  He coughed and folded his arms. ‘You were a bloody good copper, Armstrong. And even with your brain in a sling you’re still more use to me than most of the retired clowns out there. So . . .’ He transferred his hands to his hips, he was back in boss mode. ‘Let’s show them who the real detectives are, shall we?’

  Nicci smiled. Whatever that look had meant – and she wasn’t even sure if it was desire or simply empathy at her loss – it was gone. Maybe she’d imagined it. Now they were back on an even keel. There was a job to do. And it was becoming clear that job had shifted from difficult to downright dangerous.

  26

  Kaz licked chocolate off her fingertips, she was on her third biscuit and watching Mike in amazement. He had a sheet of paper on the table in front of him and was mapping it all out in graphic form with squiggles and notes connected by arrows. In a circle at the top he’d written ‘Inquest?’ He’d used an iPad to track back through the BBC’s website and the most recent postings on the Warner case, then he’d pulled up a page for the Inner South London Coroner’s Court.

  Now he was on the phone pretending to be a plummy-sounding journalist as he put the Coroner’s officer straight. ‘Yah, obviously I know it was adjourned. But until when? This is information which should be in the public domain. Oh, really? You really want me to write that in my newspaper? Okay, so just tell me when?’ His spidery pen skipped across the paper and he smiled with satisfaction. ‘Yes, thank you for your help. Indeed, I will bear that in mind when I write the article.’

  Mike clicked the phone off and gave Kaz his lopsided grin. ‘Ten a.m. tomorrow, Southwark Coroner’s Court. Looks like there’ll be a lot of press interest, that’s why they’re being bloody awkward. And we’ll have to be there early to get in.’

  Kaz furrowed her brow. ‘So you mean anyone can just go and listen?’

  Mike nodded. ‘Oh yeah. They’re obliged to notify family, friends – anyone who has an interest. But it’s a public hearing. You just turn up and queue.’

  ‘How d’you know all this stuff?’

  ‘What can I tell you?’ Mike shrugged. ‘I’m an interesting old fart, who’s led a colourful life.’

  Kaz grinned. ‘Yeah and the rest.’

  Mike returned the smile then his expression turned serious. ‘The Coroner’ll hear all the evidence. That means the police will have to explain why they think it’s suicide. He’ll probably ask for evidence from family and friends about her state of mind. And there’ll be the results of the post-mortem. You sure you’re up for all that?’

  Kaz nodded, but the feeling in her gut was heavy and molten. ‘I just wanna know.’

  ‘What if the Coroner agrees with the police?’

  ‘You think he will?’

  Mike smoothed the st
ubble on his chin with index finger and thumb. ‘I honestly don’t know. But think about it, Karen. The death of an MP? They’re going to dot all the i’s and cross all the t’s, aren’t they?’

  ‘I suppose.’ Kaz stared at him. His craggy features and bloodshot eyes were curiously reassuring, they gave him the air of some ancient wizard. ‘It just don’t make any sense. Why would she do that?’

  ‘Did you love her a lot?’ Mike delivered the question in a delicate, detached tone, like a doctor asking about some embarrassing complaint.

  Kaz drew in a breath. This was all hurting far more than she expected. ‘Yeah. But it was messy. She didn’t want to be with me.’

  Mike reached over, patted her hand. ‘Okay, here’s the really difficult question. Did you actually know her? Being in love is not the best vehicle for insight into someone else’s heart. It reflects your state of mind not theirs.’

  ‘You saying she might’ve been really depressed and suicidal and I wouldn’t even have known it?’

  Mike tilted his head apologetically. It struck Kaz that he was probably right. She tensed her jaw to stop the tears. It didn’t work. Mike watched her cry for several moments, a thick crease between his heavy brows. Then he got up, went over to the kitchen counter and picked up a tea towel. He returned with it and dropped it in Kaz’s lap. ‘Here, use this. I don’t believe in paper tissues – save the planet and all that.’

  Kaz wiped her eyes with a corner of the red-and-white checked towel. She watched him collecting up the mugs, scooting biscuit crumbs off the table. She’d trusted him and he hadn’t judged her. He was on her side and he was prepared to help, just as he’d done before. To Kaz it didn’t make sense. Why would anyone behave like that? Perhaps Mike was simply a good person. Kaz hadn’t encountered too much kindness in her life. It felt strange and therefore suspect.

  She was mulling this over when a chirpy electronic jingle floated across the room from the vicinity of the front door. They both turned towards the unfamiliar sound. Kaz’s stomach lurched – it was coming from the stolen briefcase.

  Mike gave her an equable smile as he rinsed the mugs. ‘I think your phone’s ringing.’

  27

  Eddie Lunt was resting his eyes and his stomach after a very good lunch. The food was some kind of Thai-chinky-noodley whatever; the reason it was good was that Eddie hadn’t paid for it. Denzil, a contact of his at one of the UK’s largest mobile phone companies, had picked up the tab. Reason was Denzil had aspirations to move across into the security sector. He’d wanted Eddie’s advice. Eddie wanted Denzil to stay put, where he was far more useful. So Eddie had suggested a deal, involving a cash retainer; Denzil would in effect be in the security business, except no one else would know about it.

  Eddie was pondering the best way to sell this unorthodox arrangement to Simon. In his snug corner of the office he knew he was out of all the important sightlines, so he could just kick back in his chair and take his ease. He was feeling relatively happy with his efforts to date. Denzil could turn out to be a valuable asset. Plus he’d already unearthed a couple of useful leads in the Warner case and he knew Simon appreciated his contribution.

  The abrupt spinning of the chair took him completely by surprise. His feet twisted off the desk, he lost his centre of gravity and toppled sideways. He landed in a heap on the floor with the chair on top of him. It was only then that he saw Nicci Armstrong standing over him, arms folded.

  Nicci was an odd fish and no mistake. An ex-DS, Simon really rated her. But she had a bitch of a temper and for some inexplicable reason Eddie often found himself on the receiving end. As he scrabbled to his feet and struggled to right the chair, she simply stood there looking peevish. She made no apology. When he was finally upright again, she drew in a sharp, impatient breath.

  ‘Labour Party. This contact of yours, I want to talk to him myself, dig a bit deeper into Warner’s political background. ASAP. Think you can manage that?’

  ‘Yeah, no probs—’

  Eddie didn’t say more, there didn’t seem much point since she was already walking away. He rubbed his shoulder; he’d hit the deck with a hefty thump and would probably have a bruise. Yet he felt no malice. His whole life he’d been slapped about more than he would’ve liked. It came of being a small bloke with a mild disposition. People bullied him because they could. Ma always said he was too good-natured by half and she was probably right. Eddie opened his desk drawer and took out a supersize bar of Dairy Milk; he’d been saving it for teatime but he reckoned it might help. He’d read an article in the Metro as he travelled in on the tube – new American research had provided overwhelming confirmation of the healing properties of chocolate.

  Nicci Armstrong returned to her desk. She’d been having a reasonably okay day, but then as usual Eddie had sent her into one. He was a lazy sod, no two ways about it; why Simon kept him on the payroll was a mystery.

  She swivelled her chair and caught Pascale’s eye. ‘Any luck?’

  ‘Sounds like you were right about the name.’ Pascale glanced up from her screen. ‘They’ve got a Clare O’Keeffe just finished the second year on the Fine Art BA. They’ve promised to send me a mug shot. Problem is, it’s the holidays. I’m working on an address. But maybe a mobile number would be more useful?’

  ‘Yeah, that’d be great.’ Just talking to Pascale made Nicci feel better. She was smart, efficient – the opposite of Eddie in every way.

  Opening her notebook, Nicci discovered the pap shot of Helen flanked by Robert Hollister still tucked in the back. She considered it for a second: an old family friend who’d sponsored Warner’s move into politics. Okay, maybe he was a serial shagger, but that didn’t mean his relationship with Helen was anything but professional. She opened her file drawer and dumped the photo in an empty sleeve.

  Kaz Phelps and her involvement with Helen Warner, that was a far more promising lead. If Helen had gone to Glasgow in secret, presumably to see Kaz, then there was a chance Kaz was also privy to aspects of Helen Warner’s life that Julia knew nothing about. Lovers and secrets often went together. The problem was going to be tracking Phelps down. Nicci was pondering what Phelp’s reaction would have been to the news of Warner’s death when she noticed Eddie Lunt weaving across the room towards her.

  ‘What’s the problem now, Eddie?’ she sighed.

  Resting a hand on Nicci’s desk to steady himself, he skimmed a finger across his damp brow. His chubby cheeks were ashen beneath the neat sculpted beard. ‘It’s old Ray. At the Labour Party. My contact, y’know you wanted to talk to him. Seems he’s topped himself. Went under a tube train at Bond Street yesterday teatime. A wife and three little kiddies.’ Eddie shook his head in sorrow and disbelief. ‘I only spoke to him a few hours before. I can’t believe it. I’m gutted.’

  28

  Mike Dawson’s back garden was compact but lushly planted with a colourful array of flowers, shrubs and trees. At the end with the sunniest aspect a small bower had been created, shaded by a wooden trellis overhung with clematis. Kaz perched on a sun lounger and stared at the smartphone in her hand.

  Fortunately, by the time she’d recovered from the shock and crossed the room to the stolen briefcase, the phone had stopped ringing. She’d told Mike it wasn’t important, but he’d given her an indulgent smile and suggested she go into the garden, where she’d have privacy and a better signal.

  She turned the phone over in her hand. Presumably it was PIN-protected, so if any message had been left she’d be unable to access it. All the same, she wondered who was calling Baldy. If indeed the call had been for him. Stolen phones were a liability, a piece of piss to trace nowadays. She should’ve dumped it straight away. Hanging onto it had been a stupid mistake; clearly she’d lost the habit of thinking like a professional.

  The sliding doors onto the garden were wide open and Kaz could see Mike busily making sandwiches in the kitchen. He didn’t seem to eat much himself, but he was intent on being a good host. While she had no qualms about nickin
g from Baldy – he was fair game – she felt like she was abusing Mike’s generosity by bringing the stolen briefcase into his flat, and that did not sit well with her. Now she just wanted to get shot of it. The problem was how?

  She glanced around the garden at the high walls of crumbling brick held together by a dense web of creeping foliage. Chucking stolen goods over into a neighbour’s garden? Not really an option. Kaz was racking her brains for a way out when the phone pulsed in her hand. She’d turned the ringer off as soon as she’d retrieved it from the briefcase. Now the screen was flashing with an unknown caller.

  Kaz hesitated. Part of her knew it was stupid, but there was a perverse curiosity too; she clicked the button to answer. ‘Hello?’

  The voice on the other end was male, languid and posh. Baldy? She didn’t think so – he was more Essex. ‘Onslow Square, South Ken? Very salubrious. So I presume you’re doing this for kicks rather than money? Am I right?’

  Kaz’s stomach turned a somersault, what the fuck? She’d been tracked. The phone! Why the fuck hadn’t she dumped it? Any twelve-year-old dipper would’ve had more sense. She felt like a complete moron. She took a breath, told herself to get a grip.

  She raised her voice half an octave, nerves adding a girly quiver: ‘Yeah, I guess.’

  ‘Well, I don’t think Mummy and Daddy are going to be too happy when we come knocking at the door, are they?’

  Kaz waited for a moment, sniffed. The suggestion of a tear would certainly help. ‘Are you the police?’

  ‘The police?’ He chuckled. ‘Seriously? Okay, listen carefully, here’s the deal. Briefcase and its entire contents will be returned. No questions, no recriminations. Otherwise it’ll be knock-knock and Mr Plod will be involved. We can pinpoint your location to within twenty-five metres, so I’m looking at two, maybe three properties. Have you still got the briefcase?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Good girl. And do you want to sort this out sensibly?’