The Mourner

by Susan Wilkins

  ‘Aaw, cheers, mate. Get some for all of us. And some mushy peas.’ He shot Mike a look. ‘Maybe you could show him where it is?’

  Mike wondered about the advisability of leaving brother and sister alone together. He could see that was what Joey was angling for. He tried to catch Kaz’s eye, but her face was as inscrutable as her brother’s. Having his desolate life invaded had been invigorating at the start, but now Mike was feeling weary. He wanted to help Kaz, but he hadn’t bargained for all this. Still he smiled. ‘I’ll get my jacket.’

  As Tolya and Mike left, Joey popped a couple of pills from the blister pack.

  ‘When I was at Frankland, I had this shrink called Dr Fishburn. Bit of a twat in some ways. But he got me thinking. Mainly about the old man.’

  Kaz settled in a chair. ‘Bet that was fun.’

  Joey tossed a pill into his mouth and downed it with a swallow of water. ‘Mike, he’s a funny old bugger, but I like him.’

  ‘So do I.’

  A giggle erupted from her brother. ‘Imagine if you put a gun in his hand – he could frighten the living daylights out of anyone! You should’ve set him on the Kemals.’

  Kaz had to smile. ‘Don’t hurt him, Joey. Whatever he looks like, he’s not a villain. He’s not tough.’

  ‘I ain’t planning to hurt him.’ A wistful look crept into his eye. ‘You ever wonder how we’d’ve turned out if we’d had different parents?’

  ‘Yeah, it’s crossed my mind.’

  Joey had always been surprising, but the tone of regret and doubt in his voice was not something she’d encountered before. It pained Kaz to hear it.

  Rubbing the scratchy beard he continued to ponder. ‘What would it’ve been like to have a dad like Mike? A normal dad, who made you go to school and all that stuff?’

  ‘Says he don’t get on with his own son.’

  ‘You and me, babes, we drew the short fucking straw and no mistake.’ He swallowed the second pill, drained his glass and set it down with a snap.

  She could sense the insidious feeling rising within her. It seemed her brother’s anguish still had the power to upset her. Though she resisted, she could feel her gut tightening. Shifting abruptly, she tried to shake off the tension. It made her sound tetchy. ‘What you gonna do, Joey?’

  ‘Stay out of jail.’ He flopped back against the cushions of the sofa. ‘Y’know I really do wish I’d listened to you before. Being banged up, I never realized how bad it would be. You done the time, you knew what you was talking about.’

  The blue eyes appealed to her, as unnerving and unpredictable as they’d always been. She got up, the pressure inside was turning to annoyance. He was drawing her in, she could feel it.

  ‘I got a bit stashed away, but what I need is serious money. Once I sort out some decent product, I can sell it on the Net. Then get back to building a property portfolio. Don’t much fancy living abroad, but needs must.’

  ‘You gonna use Sean’s identity?’

  He patted the sleepy dog beside him. ‘It’s been useful while I was inside. But, nah, I think maybe we should give Sean and the dog back to Glynis.’

  She met his gaze. Had he said ‘we’ deliberately?

  It was another hook, but she wasn’t biting. She moved into the kitchen area. ‘Fancy a cup of tea?’

  He gave her a wry smile. ‘Okay, let me ask you a question. What the fuck’s going on? What really happened to Helen?’

  Kettle in hand, she turned to look at him.

  ‘Suicide?’ He shrugged. ‘Really?’

  Filling the kettle, she couldn’t help smiling to herself. This was Joey, sharp as a hypodermic.

  ‘Well, something’s up, babes. You turf up here at Mike’s. Why? You practically got steam coming out your ears.’

  Kaz felt a rush of gratitude. Here was someone who would understand proper anger, her fury at what had been done to Helen. Not an ex-cop going through the motions, not someone as uptight as Julia or as moral and decent as Mike. The desire to confide in him was overwhelming.

  Slotting the kettle on its base and flicking the switch, she sighed. ‘Okay, yeah. I’m here ’cause I think Helen was murdered.’

  ‘You know who done it?’

  ‘Not exactly, though I got a line on why.’

  There was a gleam in Joey’s eye, although he sounded casual enough. ‘You want help?’

  A cascade of emotions tumbled through her mind. Course she wanted help. But ‘help’ from her brother was a double-edged sword; she’d be a fool to trust him.

  ‘Yeah. If you know where I can find Neville Moore.’

  ‘Neville? He’s mixed up in this? How come?’

  ‘I think he might’ve been trying to help her.’

  76

  As Nicci let herself into her flat she couldn’t help noticing the police crime-scene tape still sealing the door to number five, where Ethel Huxtable had lived. She retreated rapidly into her own bolthole and in that moment the weariness that she’d been holding at bay for hours engulfed her.

  Flopping on the sofa, she let the last warming shafts of evening sun ripple over her. The next thing she was aware of was opening her eyes to darkness and a ringing doorbell. She clicked her phone on to check the time and found two missed calls from Jack Delgado, the Hackney DS.

  Muzzy-headed with sleep, she struggled to her feet and meandered down the hall to the intercom. She pressed the button and a blurred image of forehead and heavy eyebrows filled the tiny screen. It took her several seconds to realize it was Rory McLaren.

  She hesitated. What the hell did he want? Too tired to figure it out, she hit the open button, unlatched the door and leaving it ajar wandered back to the main room. As she turned on the standard lamp in the corner and closed the blinds, she heard footsteps, the front door shut and a moment later he appeared, unhooking a backpack from his shoulders.

  ‘Evening.’

  She gave him a nod and waited. What do you say to a stranger you’ve had sex with but who’d studiously avoided you ever since? The ball was in his court, she decided.

  His smile was formal and a little chilly. ‘Simon thought you might want to know what we found at the house.’

  She frowned. It couldn’t wait until the morning?

  Unzipping the backpack he pulled out a bottle of red wine. ‘And I thought you might fancy a drink?’

  ‘I’d prefer a cup of tea.’ She wandered over to the kitchen area. A drink, not to mention another disengaged sexual encounter, was the last thing she wanted.

  He shrugged. ‘Well, whatever. Tea’s fine with me.’

  Going from the hysterical rage of her ex-husband to the awkward froideur of a casual lover struck Nicci as too taxing for her present mood. She concentrated on making a pot of tea and ignored him.

  Rory hovered in the doorway for a moment. When no invitation to sit was forthcoming, he moved over to the sofa, perched on the edge and started to unload items from his backpack onto the coffee table.

  Nicci turned to find an array of plugs, a smoke alarm and several more deconstructed electronic gizmos spread out on the table.

  Surprise overcame languor. ‘You got all this out of Julia’s house?’

  ‘This is just a selection. Every room was wired for sound and vision – motion-activated, remote monitoring – a serious surveillance operation. What puzzles me is why the police didn’t find it.’

  His tone carried a hint of a challenge. Maybe he expected her to defend her former colleagues.

  She merely shrugged. ‘I suppose they could’ve put it there themselves.’

  ‘Very unlikely. This is high-spec kit. Way beyond any police budget. Well concealed, too.’

  ‘What about the Security Service?’

  He was sorting through the items on the table. ‘That’s what Simon said and it’s possible. I’ve seen some of these devices before.’ Holding up what looked like a simple domestic wall socket in his hand, he offered it to her. ‘This little chap is something the CIA developed to eavesdrop on our lot
.’

  Nicci took the socket – a common-or-garden item available in any DIY chainstore. ‘The CIA?’

  ‘Well, I say the CIA. But it mainly gets farmed out to private contractors.’ He took the socket from her. ‘The clever thing about this is you’d never suspect it. Even an electrician. You can buy plenty of stuff on the Net and it’s obvious you’ve got a listening device shoved in a socket. But this – this is high-end kit, the real deal.’

  An astounded Nicci plonked down on the sofa beside him. ‘You think the CIA bugged Helen Warner’s house?’

  ‘No, probably not. The contractors who make stuff for the CIA also sell it. But we’re talking about the defence industry here. They don’t sell to just anyone. And it’s expensive.’

  Nicci’s fatigue had evaporated. ‘If they were as professional as you say, then presumably no prints?’

  Rory shook his head. ‘Simon’s SOCO had a look at a few bits. Clean as a whistle.’

  Nicci stared at the items on the table. ‘So everything Warner did, with her camera, whatever other preparations she made to trap Hollister, they would’ve known about it. Why didn’t they just stop her?’

  ‘You’re the detective, you tell me.’ Nicci met his eye; Eddie Lunt had baited her in exactly the same way. But she saw the hint of a teasing smile.

  She smiled back. ‘Oh, fuck off, Rory. Who the hell is behind this? Helen Warner gets incriminating evidence, then she gets killed.’ Her brows furrowed with concentration. ‘So what if someone was just using her? Maybe it’s not really about her at all?’

  77

  The grey Ford Focus cruised sedately through the contra-flow at the roadworks on the A23. The moon sat high and bright in a dark, cloudless sky. Joey dozed in the passenger seat, Tolya drove in backless leather gloves, window down an inch to admit the fresh summer breeze. Kaz was curled, legs up, on the back seat. The journey had given her time for reflection. Her conclusion? She was probably making a massive mistake.

  Joey had sent a text and ten minutes later he’d received a phone call with instructions. Trusting him was at best a gamble. She still found herself wondering if she was about to end up in some remote downland field with a gun to her head.

  The anonymous grey car slid into Brighton shortly before ten o’clock and headed for the front. The summer evening was full of revellers, fires dotted the steep pebble beach and gaggles of drunks sashayed along the promenade. Tolya found a parking space near the skeletal hulk of the ruined West Pier and they walked back a few hundred metres to the hotel.

  The only concession Joey made to the possibility of being recognized was to pull his baseball cap firmly down over his eyes. He swept through the revolving doors, up the several steps and into the opulent foyer of the Grand with an air of confidence and entitlement. Ignoring the concierge desk, he turned immediately left into the bar. Tolya and Kaz followed in his wake.

  In the furthermost corner of the grand high-ceilinged salon, with a good view of all comers, Neville Moore had installed himself in a large wing armchair. Kaz had only ever seen him puffed up in his expensive business suits, so the nondescript bloke in faded jeans, T-shirt and hoodie seemed like an impostor. Only closer inspection of the foxy features confirmed it was indeed him.

  At the sight of Kaz, he scowled, his eyes zeroing in on Joey. ‘What the hell’s going on?’

  Joey sat down on the sofa opposite. ‘Chill, Nev. You remember my sister. Now, what’s everyone having to drink?’

  Joining her brother on the sofa Kaz shook her head. ‘Nothing for me.’ She met the lawyer’s tense gaze and smiled. ‘All right, Nev.’

  Joey ordered a beer from a hovering waiter. Tolya positioned himself on an adjacent bar stool and began to graze thoughtfully on the bar snacks.

  ‘I thought we had an agreement.’ Neville glowered at Joey.

  ‘Yeah, and I thought you’d be tucked up at home in Godalming. Or, as your PA told Kaz, on holiday down under. What’s going on, Nev?’

  The lawyer fixed his client with a glacial stare. ‘I shouldn’t even be meeting you. You need to be on your way. I thought it was all arranged.’

  ‘You seen my mugshot in the paper?’ Joey adjusted the brim of his cap. ‘I look like I’m about twelve. Only me mum’d recognize me.’ He grinned. ‘Anyway, Kaz wanted a word.’

  Neville Moore’s lizard-eyed stare glided over to Kaz. Behind the tough carapace she could detect a definite whiff of fear.

  ‘Your PA insists you’re in Australia.’

  ‘I had some matters to tie up for a client. My wife went ahead with the children. I’m joining them next week.’

  ‘I thought maybe you’d stayed for the inquest?’

  The lawyer dipped his head and frowned. ‘It was . . . a consideration. Tragic business. I would’ve liked to have seen it resolved.’

  ‘Resolved? I’ll tell you what I think, Nev. I think she was murdered and I wanna know why.’ Kaz noticed a hint of unease in his composed features. ‘Yesterday, when we bumped into each other, what was it you said about Helen? You enjoyed her confidence on a number of matters?’

  ‘It was simply a turn of phrase.’

  ‘You must’ve meant something.’

  He gave her a rueful look. ‘I suppose I was just boasting. I wanted you to think – oh, I don’t know.’ He flicked his hand dismissively.

  ‘That she trusted you? I think maybe she did. Before she died, did she give you something to look after? Something like a memory stick?’

  Neville Moore’s eyes flew to her face with a look of alarm. It was a reflex action, which he immediately suppressed.

  ‘It was an idle boast. Helen no longer worked for me. We both had busy lives. I hadn’t seen her for . . . oh, several months.’

  ‘She made a film of Hollister raping her. Did you know that?’

  The lawyer blinked at her several times. On the table in front of him was a tumbler of whisky and ice. He picked it up and drained it, the melting ice clinked in the bottom.

  Joey took the empty glass from him and held it up for the waiter. ‘Oi, mate. Over here. Large Scotch.’

  Moore leant forward and put his face in his hands. He was a man who’d spent his whole career walking a tightrope, but the events surrounding his former employee’s death had led him to the edge of a much scarier precipice.

  Finally he raised his head; the light had drained from his eyes. ‘Look at me – in a hotel because I daren’t go home. My wife and kids are on the other side of the world. Doesn’t that tell you something?’

  Kaz met his eye. ‘She did tell you about Hollister and what she was trying to do then?’

  He shook his head wearily. ‘Helen made herself a hostage to fortune. I told her to leave well alone. In fact I begged her.’

  Kaz frowned. ‘Why?’

  The waiter placed a paper coaster on the table in front of Neville Moore, followed by his Scotch. Joey took a slug of beer, he was watching the lawyer with curiosity.

  Once the waiter had withdrawn from earshot, Moore glanced across at his client. ‘You think of yourself as a villain, Joey. But you’re not. You’re a criminal. Criminals break the law, the police chase them, the courts process them. That’s where I come in.’

  Joey grinned. ‘And some wriggle through the net.’

  A ghostly smile crossed the lawyer’s face. ‘Indeed they do.’ He took a sip of his drink. ‘But a true villain, a serious villain, that’s something else. True villains make the law to suit their own purposes. They control the levers of power. The police are rarely involved, no courts. Morality, any notion of right and wrong, is simply by-passed.’

  ‘What’s this got to do with Helen?’ An impatience had edged into Kaz’s voice.

  Moore hesitated. Now that events had spiralled out of control, all he wanted was to get out.

  ‘Helen was killed by villains. Her colleague at the Labour Party, he had copies of the footage she made of Hollister. He wanted to get it admitted in evidence at the inquest, make a big splash in the papers. Two
days before, he went under a tube train. They knew every move before he made it.’

  Joey scratched his cheek, a glint had crept into his eye. ‘These villains got names?’

  The lawyer shook his head. ‘Don’t even think about it, Joey. These people are out of your league. You both need to do what I’m going to do – make yourselves scarce.’ He took another swallow of whisky. ‘I don’t want them to get the wrong impression and think I’m involved. So I’m taking my family on an extended holiday. And I’m letting sleeping dogs lie. You should do the same.’

  Kaz smiled. ‘I’m sure that’s good advice, Nev.’

  ‘It is. You’re not going to take it though, are you?’

  Joey turned the innocent baby-blue eyes on his brief. ‘Don’t worry about us, Nev. We ain’t too bad at taking care of ourselves. So I’m gonna ask you again – these villains got a name?’

  Neville Moore met his gaze. Joey Phelps was a cocky young man, violent but smart. He was also an escaped convict. The lawyer had taken every precaution in setting up this meeting, but he could still end up severely compromised. He’d warned them, that was all he could do. Whatever happened now was out of his hands.

  He held out his palms. ‘Okay, you win. Viktor Pudovkin. You’ve probably never heard of him.’

  Joey shrugged. ‘Can’t say I have.’

  Tolya’s hand froze between the crisp dish and his mouth as he shot a glance in Moore’s direction.

  The lawyer returned the look with a thin smile. ‘But he has.’

  78

  Kaz awoke with a start. What time was it? After midnight certainly. The car was cruising steadily north along a dark tract of the M23 motorway. Traffic was light and a waxing gibbous moon cast an eerie glow over the woodland fringing the carriageway.

  She yawned. Joey was fast asleep in the back seat. She envied his capacity to switch off no matter what. Stress didn’t appear to affect him that much.

  They’d left Brighton, and Neville Moore, with more questions than answers. Joey had reflected that he’d never seen the lawyer so rattled.

  On the subject of Pudovkin, Tolya was obtuse, taking cover behind his language difficulties. ‘Me, don’t know nothing. Ask Yevgeny.’