She steepled her fingers and pondered. ‘So, if this Neville Moore was actually holding the evidence Helen Warner gathered against Hollister, it’s no wonder he wants people to think he’s in Australia. Suggests he’s scared.’
‘What if he gets it from Ray, jumps on a plane to Oz, takes it with him?’
‘Then why did Paige Hollister spend half an hour at his house?’ She shook her head. ‘No, you’re right, he must’ve been there. Question is, did he give it to her?’
‘And how did she know he had it?’
They exchanged looks.
She smiled. ‘Know where she is now?’
‘Last update, she was at a hairdressers in Covent Garden.’
‘Probably getting ready for tonight. Some big charity bash.’ She twisted her chair. ‘What is it she’s up to, Pascale?’
The researcher turned from her screen to face them. ‘She’s like a . . . what is it, helper of this charity?’
‘You mean a patron?’
‘Yeah, a patron. They dig wells. All over Africa. Some celebrity photographer has been taking pictures of them.’ Her voice dripped sarcasm. ‘Y’know the style – happy little black people with buckets on their heads. There’s an exhibition and a big launch. Get all the rich people pissed so they open their wallets. She’s been tweeting about it. It’s tonight.’
Nicci twizzled in her chair. ‘I’ve got a mind to gatecrash. Might manage to ask Paige Hollister some questions before they throw me out. Her old man too, if he’s there.’
Eddie scratched his beard. ‘Maybe I can help. Old contact of mine is a big gossip columnist on one of the tabloids. She owes me a favour or two. I’ll see if I can scare you up a proper invite.’
‘You’re incorrigible, Eddie, you know that.’ Nicci gave him a rueful smile.
‘Just doing the job, boss.’ He grimaced. ‘Sorry.’
82
It wasn’t the dress that bothered Kaz so much as the shoes. They were in Irina’s room rifling through her large closet. Stripping down to her bra and pants had caused Kaz some awkwardness to start with. But she decided she was just being adolescent. If she hadn’t fancied the Russian, it wouldn’t have been a problem.
Prison life and communal showers had cured her of any pretensions to modesty. It was more that she felt at a disadvantage – she was exposed, Irina was not. And although the Russian had been flirtatious enough with Joey, shut up alone in a bedroom together, Kaz could feel a definite sexual frisson. She knew she wasn’t imagining it.
Irina’s dress collection was sizeable, mostly new and full of designer labels. But she was blonde whereas Kaz was dark, so quite a few colour combinations were considered and discarded. Finally they hit upon a silver sheath dress. Kaz put it on. The neckline was square, revealing only a hint of cleavage, it grazed the knee – elegant but in no way vulgar.
Kaz stared at herself in the full-length mirror. Standing slightly behind her, Irina brought the tip of her index finger to rest on Kaz’s bare arm. It sent a shiver straight through her.
The Russian tilted her head coyly. ‘Prada. You like?’
Kaz turned to face her. Irina’s eyes were grey – just like Helen’s. She liked their seductive look way more than the dress. Her perfume was light enough not to mask the smell of her skin. The temptation to move in, to touch, maybe even to taste, was almost overwhelming. And Kaz could sense that the Russian wouldn’t say no. But she hesitated. She wanted this; the tension in her lower belly was telling her to go for it. Still the voice in her head counselled caution. It would be all too easy to get teased and used.
She grinned and stepped back. ‘Shoes? I hate wearing heels. You can’t bloody walk. You certainly can’t run.’
Irina giggled and turned to the cupboard. Reaching down to the neat stack of shoe boxes, she opened one and lifted out a four-inch black patent stiletto.
Kaz pulled a face. ‘You want me to break my fucking neck?’
After some experimenting they settled for a strappy pair of sandals, also silver, with a more manageable heel and Kaz set off on the perilous journey down the stairs.
The boys were lounging in front of the sixty-inch plasma screen watching American football on catch-up. But Kaz’s entrance produced a stunned silence. Yevgeny clicked off the TV, Tolya gave a low whistle and Joey gawped.
Yevgeny stood up, his brother followed suit. They seemed to do it without thinking.
Joey put his head to one side. ‘Blimey, if Mum saw you in that, I think maybe even she’d be impressed.’
‘I doubt it.’ Kaz was concentrating on keeping her balance in the heels.
A dark, mischievous look crept into her brother’s eye. ‘Not exactly the kind of gear Clare O’Keeffe’d be caught dead in, is it?’
Kaz’s heart missed a beat. ‘What?’
He leant one arm along the sofa back and beamed. ‘Glasgow, too. How d’you find it? Bit chilly, I reckon, especially in winter.’
Her chin jutted. ‘Who told you this? Mike?’
‘Mike?’ He laughed. ‘Poor old Mike. Nah, it weren’t him.’
Fear suddenly gripped her. Was this it? Was this Joey’s endgame? String her along, dress her up like a fucking doll, then strike. She glanced at Yevgeny, Tolya and the smiling Irina. Was she in on the act too?
Reaching down, she wrenched off the shoes, she wasn’t going down without a fight.
Joey laced his fingers. ‘Don’t look so worried, babes. I known since before the trial. Soon as you went on witness protection.’
‘What d’you mean?’
‘Wonderful thing, computers. All that data stashed away. And you know the Old Bill, they have to keep a record of everything.’
‘You hacked the police computer?’
‘Not me personally. I was worried about you. Wanted to know you was okay.’
Kaz stared at him in disbelief. ‘Then why didn’t you . . .’ She sighed, none of it made sense.
‘Send someone after you? Stop you testifying? I thought about it. Then Yev come to see me in the nick, while I was on remand.’
She shot a glance at the Russian, he’d adopted his habitual stance – tattooed forearms folded, an inscrutable look on his face.
Joey smiled wistfully. ‘He told me what an arrogant little prick I was. You’d offered me the chance to stop being a petty villain and move up. But I didn’t trust you, I tried to control you. Told me a bunch of other stuff too, didn’t you, Yev?’
Yevgeny’s eyes were flint hard, he didn’t smile. ‘You got the bloodlust, Joey. I seen it on the battlefield. You like too much to kill. She knew that. She try to save you from yourself.’
Joey rubbed the back of his fist across his nose. ‘I realized he was right. You was the one person in my whole sorry fucking life who really loved me and tried to help me.’ He sniffed and she saw the baby-blue eyes were brimming with tears. ‘So I had to just let it all play out until I could find a way back. This is my way back. Don’t give up on me, big sister. Give me another chance. I’ll make things right. I promise.’
83
She’d had enough experience of her brother’s mercurial temper and manipulative nature not to take any emotional outburst at face value. Joey lied much as he breathed – it wasn’t something he ever had to think about. But his apparent change of heart and desire to win her trust presented Kaz with an opportunity she wasn’t about to pass up.
With Tolya as her driver and escort she headed back into town and to Onslow Square. It seemed peaceful and normal in the afternoon sunshine. The builders were still renovating the house down the street. A traffic warden was ticketing cars that didn’t have a resident’s permit. If the police had got Mike’s place staked out, it wasn’t in any way obvious. Nevertheless Tolya was cautious, he cruised round the square, parked up at a safe distance and they waited.
A UPS van delivered a massive parcel to the house next door; two nannies pushing buggies wandered by chattering away in Spanish. Tolya had headphones on, listening to Kylie, which struck Kaz as a
n odd choice for a Russian gangster. But his eyes monitored every movement on the street.
‘Can’t I just go and knock at the door?’
Tolya pulled one of his earphones out and Kaz had to repeat her question. He shook his head.
Shortly after three a stooped figure appeared, climbing slowly up the basement steps. His ratted locks were pulled back in a ponytail, he wore his old hoodie, it was definitely Mike. Kaz’s heart soared, she was about to jump out of the car when Tolya put a restraining hand on her arm.
‘Not yet.’
They watched him meander down the street with his hessian shopping bag. He stopped to stroke a cat in a neighbour’s doorway. Once he’d turned the corner, Tolya started the engine and they stalked him discreetly to a parade of shops on Fulham Road.
Tolya glanced up and down the busy thoroughfare, gave Kaz the nod.
She got out of the four-by-four and followed Mike into a small mini-market. The aisles were narrow and stacked from floor to ceiling. He was leaning into a chiller cabinet to extract a plastic bottle of milk when she came up behind him.
‘Hello, Mike.’
He turned to stare at her and his chin quivered. ‘Never thought I’d see you again.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘You’re sorry? I only wanted to help you. That’s why I called them.’
‘I know that. But if they’d caught me with Joey they’d have revoked my licence and sent me back to prison.’
He gave her an apologetic look. ‘I thought that was preferable to being killed.’
‘You’re probably right.’
‘You’re okay then?’ He gazed at her for a moment, his eyes as sharp and penetrating as ever.
‘Yeah, me and Joey have come to an arrangement.’
‘You trust him?’
‘No. But I know him.’
Mike leant on the side of the vast freezer, piled high with frozen vegetables and oven chips. He shook his head wearily. ‘You stick with him, he’ll bring you down.’
‘Don’t worry, it’s a very temporary arrangement.’
Scratching his brow, he gave her a tentative smile. ‘Let’s go outside, hail a cab and put you on the next train to Glasgow. That’s where your life is now. Just walk away, Karen. You did it before, do it again.’
She met his eye. ‘I think I know who killed Helen.’
‘Leave it to the police, to that private detective. Nicci whatever-her-name-is?’
‘I can’t.’
Tilting his head, he sighed. ‘They said if you came back, I should call them.’
‘Will you?’
‘Course not. Will you leave me a number where I can contact you?’
He was gazing at her earnestly, his dark eyes feverish and over-bright. It probably wouldn’t be long now before he checked into the hospice. Stretching out his bony claw he grasped her arm; the grip was surprisingly firm.
‘Karen, you’ve got a wonderful talent. Don’t waste it.’
‘I have to do this first, Mike. And I can’t give you my number. It’s not that I don’t trust you—’
‘But you don’t trust me.’ His vulpine features twisted into a grin. ‘And you’d be right. If going back to prison is the only thing that’s going to save your life – and there’s a good chance it is – I’d make that call.’
‘I can take care of myself. You need to do the same. I just wanted to say goodbye.’
Wrapping her arms round his skeletal shoulders, his angel wings, she pulled him into a hug. He didn’t resist. He had a musky old man’s smell mixed with oil paint. Patting her shoulder gently, he waited for her to release him.
She turned sharply on her heel and headed for the door; she didn’t want him to see the tears in her eyes.
84
The hotel was in Park Lane. Nicci Armstrong arrived in a taxi and, armed with the invitation Eddie Lunt had procured for her, was directed to the ballroom on the first floor.
The evening sun flooded in over Hyde Park burnishing the cherry-wood panelled walls and the gold fittings. A concertina of a dozen photo display boards bisected the room, tables were dotted round the edge, each with a white damask cloth, a floral centrepiece and several chairs.
Nicci presented her invitation, received a flute of champagne from a white-gloved waiter and wandered over to inspect the photographic exhibits. Large glossy prints, in warm sumptuous colours, were tastefully displayed two to a board. Nicci let her gaze meander over them. Pascale had got it about right – lots of cute black kids and smiling women with buckets on their heads or splashing each other with water and looking generally happy and grateful.
The photographer was standing by one of the boards with an attentive group around him. He was tall, rakishly thin with a mane of iron-grey hair swept back from his forehead. He wore khaki combats and a somewhat crumpled linen jacket. This made Nicci feel better, since everyone else was dressed up to the nines – several men in dinner jackets, the women in a colourful and competitive array of cocktail dresses.
And at the photographer’s side, with a pleased and proprietorial look on her face, was Paige Hollister. Nicci had been staring at her image from grainy CCTV to slick PR shots for a couple of days. She’d glimpsed her only once in the flesh, at the inquest, when Hollister had looked zoned out. But this evening she was all sparkle. She was a slight figure, her outfit less gaudy than the women around her. Her dress was taupe, her jewellery elegant and understated.
Nicci sipped her champagne and watched from the sidelines. She had to admit that Paige Hollister was a class act. Her easy manner was polished but egalitarian enough to play anywhere. Nicci speculated she wouldn’t be that different drinking tea in a day centre of OAPs.
Hollister’s voice carried the faintest hint of a Scottish dialect. ‘When Gavin agreed to do it, well, we couldn’t believe our luck.’ She placed her hand on the photographer’s forearm and chuckled. He looked at her as Nicci imagined many middle-aged men did: with the secret lustful hope that she might favour him with more than her public charm.
The room was filling up. Quite a few of the guests seemed to know each other. Nicci scanned them: a chat-show host, a couple of actors, what she took to be a gaggle of politicians. But there was no sign of Robert Hollister.
There was also a smattering of different languages, particularly among the contingent in dinner jackets. These were the real targets of the bash. High-net-worth individuals, who’d made London their home and liked to mix social networking with philanthropy.
Nicci noticed a jovial, barrel-chested man at the centre of one such group. He had a booming laugh and the crowd clustered round him seemed to appreciate his humour. Paige went over to join them, he put his arm round her shoulder and switching to English repeated the joke. Nicci edged closer to eavesdrop.
The noise in the room had increased several decibels and it took a moment before a slight altercation at the door drew Nicci’s attention. It caught Paige Hollister’s eye an instant later. Both women turned to see the dishevelled figure of Julia Hadley arguing with the security man.
Paige swooped immediately. ‘Julia!’ She dismissed the security man’s concern over the lack of an invitation with a flick of her head.
Homing in on Julia, she hooked her by the arm. ‘This is so lovely. I never dreamt you’d feel up to coming or I’d’ve—’
She didn’t get a chance to finish.
Julia wrenched her arm free and glared. ‘I wanna talk to you. And Robert.’ The slur in her speech suggested a considerable amount of alcohol. Paige’s expression went from feigned delight to genuine panic. Nicci was near enough to hear.
The possibility of a drunken Julia blowing it with a premature public accusation, not to mention potentially placing herself in danger, gave Nicci no option but to intervene.
Julia was swaying slightly. Her expression suggested she’d like to deck Paige.
Nicci moved in and caught her by the arm. ‘Oh, Julia, you know what the doctor said.’ She glanced at a confused Paige.
‘Nicci Armstrong – I’m a friend.’ She shook her head wearily. ‘My God, it’s been such a terrible time . . .’
Paige gave her a tepid smile.
‘. . . the stress of the inquest being adjourned – well, you can imagine. The medication they put her on is terribly strong. And it really shouldn’t be mixed with alcohol.’
Regaining her composure, Paige painted on a look of concern. ‘I was there myself, I’m sure we all found it frustrating.’
Julia blinked several times as she tried to focus on the person who had hold of her. ‘Nicci? Whad’you doing—’
‘I’m here to take care of you.’ She grasped Julia firmly.
The fact they knew each other seemed to absolve Paige of further responsibility.
Flapping her hand airily, she frowned. ‘You’re clearly far better equipped . . . but if there’s anything I can do? Anything at all.’
‘Oh, absolutely. Don’t worry, I’ll make sure she’s okay.’
‘Thank you so much.’ With a gracious smile, Paige turned and escaped into the crowd.
Nicci started to guide her charge out into the foyer. The smell of alcohol coming off Julia was overpowering. It was amazing she’d even managed to get herself there.
Julia’s head was lolling and she was mumbling: ‘Fuckers! Hypocrites and fuckers, all of them!’
Nicci shepherded her towards the Ladies. ‘I know. But this is not the way to deal with it.’
As they rounded the corner to enter the toilets, Julia staggered and lurched against Nicci, who had to grab her round the waist to keep her upright. They both nearly toppled over. Suddenly a helping hand reached out to steady Nicci from a woman, who’d just emerged from the cloakroom.
Turning to thank her, Nicci did a double-take. She was tall and stunning in a silver sheath dress, her lustrous crimson lips parted in a smile. Nicci really did have to look twice to confirm it was Karen Phelps.
85
They sat Julia down on the lavatory seat in one of the cubicles. She slammed her fist against the flimsy partition and howled.
The Mourner Page 34