Nicci Armstrong had called him Saturday teatime; keeping tabs on Paige Hollister had become top of the agenda. She wanted full details of the GPS phone tracking, she also wanted boots-on-the-ground surveillance. What she was looking for was a window of opportunity – the chance to doorstep Paige and catch her off guard.
Eddie had decided to take David with him in his motorized wheelchair. It was a fine day, David loved to get out and about and Eddie knew that the world tended to look away when it saw a buggy containing a thirty-year-old bloke with cerebral palsy and learning difficulties. The carer of such a person also became invisible, so on an open-air surveillance David was the perfect cover.
The Hollisters’ London base was a three-storey, yellow-brick Victorian terrace in Victoria Park Road. The house was expensive and substantial. Still Robert Hollister had managed to play this down with a tale, repeated in a number of interviews, of how he’d bought the house because he’d looked out of the front window overlooking the park and imagined the Chartists rallying in 1848 in that same spot, demanding radical reform. Living there reminded him of what mattered, he said.
What had mattered to Paige was ripping out half the rear wall and replacing it with plate glass to bring light into the totally remodelled open-plan kitchen and downstairs living area.
Eddie and David positioned themselves across the road from the Hollisters’ house, the other side of the park railings. They strolled up and down a bit, they took their ease under the shady canopy of London planes, they chatted to passing dogs and their walkers. All the comings and goings at the house were completely visible and Eddie had a bit of extra kit – a directional rifle mike – stashed under the wheelchair, which helped him monitor any conversations on the doorstep.
They’d been in place most of the morning by the time Nicci turned up. She had her arm in a sling and Karen Phelps in tow. Eddie introduced his brother and they all peered as inconspicuously as they could across the road at the Hollisters’ glossy black front door.
‘I seen a couple of paps I know cruise by, so I don’t know if any of the news desks have got wind of the divorce yet.’ Eddie pointed in the direction of the pub on the corner. ‘They’re in there, probably waiting for instructions. Means we should probably get a move on.’
Nicci nodded. ‘So is she on her own?’
‘I think so. He arrived at half ten, picked up the kids. Looks like he’s definitely moved out. She came to the door with a glass in her hand. Bit early, some might say. I picked up a few snippets of their conversation with the rifle mike. All a bit let’s be nice in front of the kids. She sounded half-cut, or on something, or both.’
Turning to her companion, Nicci raised her eyebrows. ‘Want to give it a go?’
Phelps interested Eddie; ex-con, tall and quite a looker, but with a slightly don’t-fuck-with-me dykey air about her. He couldn’t figure out why Nicci had brought her along though. To unnerve the cool Mrs Hollister, tip her over the edge? It amused him that his oh-so-straight boss wasn’t shy of playing a few tricks of her own. Or maybe working on the outside was teaching her to improvise.
He watched the women follow the park railings along to the gate and cross the road towards the house. He pulled a thermos from the backpack slung on the back of the wheelchair.
Smiling at his brother, he unscrewed the top. ‘Fancy a bevy, mate?’
David gave him a grin. ‘Cheers.’ His speech was slow and breathy, but easy enough to decipher. ‘All the stuff you done for her, why don’t she say thanks?’
Eddie poured the tea. ‘Very good question, David. But that’s bosses for you. Heads up their arses most the time. I do the job as best I can and I don’t let it get to me. You fancy a Jaffa Cake?’
95
As she walked across the road to the Hollisters’ house with Kaz, Nicci felt vaguely disgruntled. Eddie Lunt seemed to have a talent for wrong-footing her. Was this some kind of elaborate ploy on his part to win her over? Living with his elderly mother was bad enough, now he’d conjured up a disabled brother.
Kaz glanced at her and smiled. ‘Smart bloke. He’s certainly got his finger on the pulse.’
Nicci gave her a baleful look. ‘He’s been in prison for phone hacking.’
‘No kidding?’ The chuckle was provocative. ‘Perhaps I should get to know him better.’
They paused on the Hollisters’ doorstep, Nicci raised her eyebrows, Kaz replied with a reassuring nod. Nicci pressed the bell.
It took several minutes for a figure to appear behind the tall rectangle of frosted glass. The door opened a crack. Nicci could smell the booze.
She had her business card ready and she held it up in much the same way she used to hold her warrant card. ‘Mrs Hollister? I’m Nicci Armstrong from Simon Blake Associates. We’re private investigators retained by Julia Hadley to inquire into the death of Helen Warner. We’d like to talk to you.’
The eyes visible through the crack were glassy pinpricks, the voice throaty with nicotine. ‘I really don’t think I’m able to help you.’
Nicci stepped forward and blocked the door with her good shoulder. ‘We have CCTV footage of you arguing with Helen Warner in a Glasgow hotel a month before she died. I’m sure you’d prefer to explain that in private rather than in public.’
There was a moment of hesitation then the door swung open.
Paige Hollister stood in the hall, small and sinewy in lycra running tights and a tank top, with a smouldering cigarette between her fingers. ‘You’d better come in.’
Nicci stepped over the threshold with Kaz in her wake. ‘This is Karen Phelps. She was a friend of Helen’s.’
Paige blinked up at Kaz and a sour look of realization spread over her features. ‘My God! You’re her little jailbird, aren’t you? She was completely obsessed with you.’
Without waiting for a response she turned on her bare heel and padded down the hall to the kitchen at the back of the house. Nicci gave Kaz a shrug and followed.
The kitchen was ultra modern, the folding doors onto the garden partly open. A pink plastic kiddie car with fat rubber wheels sat half in and half out of the doorway.
Paige tossed the half-smoked cigarette in the sink, where it landed with a hiss. She opened the fridge, drew out a bottle of white wine and refilled the glass on the counter.
She held the bottle up. ‘Drink?’
Nicci shook her head. ‘We’re fine, thank you.’
Paige gave a sardonic smile. ‘Well, lucky old you.’ Then she took a large swallow of wine. ‘I’ve got a very good doctor who prescribes me Xanax. Of course he says I shouldn’t drink. But then they all say that, don’t they? Personally, I find it’s a good combination.’
Placing her notebook down on the wide granite counter, Nicci perched on one of the high stools. ‘So tell us what you and Helen were doing in Glasgow then?’
Paige tipped back her head and laughed. ‘Glasgow? Fucking Glasgow? I saved his bacon. Do you realize that? And now he thinks he can just dump me flat. Well, he’s going to find that I’ve got friends who’ll have something to say about that.’
Nicci gave her an amiable smile. ‘Friends like Viktor?’
Paige seemed to drift off as she leant against the counter. ‘I have many friends. Numerous friends.’
‘Including Viktor Pudovkin?’
Turning towards her, Paige wagged a finger. ‘Robert is very lucky.’
‘Why’s he lucky, Paige?’ Nicci gave her a patient smile.
‘That bitch was planning to bring him down. I mean, seriously?’
‘Helen Warner? Is that who you’re talking about?’
Paige took a slug of wine. ‘Fifteen years I’ve been married to him. Three fucking kids. He expects me to step aside so he can trade up to a newer model with a tighter arse and a PhD.’
Kaz wandered round the counter and folded her arms. ‘Well, they’re all bastards in the end, aren’t they?’
Paige narrowed her eyes and peered at Kaz with disdain. ‘Hard to fathom what she saw i
n you. She said you were creative, good at art.’
‘I try my best.’
‘Were you a good fuck? Tried your best at that too?’
Kaz met her gaze with a piercing stare. ‘Helen never complained.’
Nicci watched the stand-off. Kaz seemed to be doing an excellent job of getting under Paige Hollister’s skin.
But Paige just laughed. ‘All men are bastards? Is that your line too? So if we girlies just stick together we’ll beat them in the end?’ She chuckled and took another mouthful of wine. ‘Do you have any idea how to succeed in politics?’
‘I’m sure you’re gonna tell me.’
‘Identify the winning team and join it.’ Paige picked up the bottle of wine. ‘Women are not the winning team. In case you haven’t noticed.’ She topped up her glass. ‘Sure you don’t fancy a tipple?’ Her lip curled. ‘Hang on, though, weren’t you some kind of alchy and drug addict? Took the pledge for love of Helen. She really got off on that particular ego trip, I can tell you. Brings new meaning to the whole concept of a bit of rough.’
Kaz was standing stock-still like a panther coiled and ready to spring. Nicci could feel how dangerous she was even if Paige was too zoned out to notice.
Sliding off her stool, Nicci stepped between them. ‘Let me get this clear – Helen wanted you to join with her and help bring your husband down?’
Paige giggled. ‘Can you believe it? Stupid woman.’
‘Must’ve been really tough though, when she showed you the footage she’d shot of her and Robert?’
Paige’s lips compressed and then twisted. ‘Porn is porn. If he’d seen it, he’d have probably enjoyed it.’
Nicci glanced at Kaz, caught her eye. Kaz inhaled, took a step back.
‘What did you do?’ Nicci kept her tone neutral. ‘Once you discovered what Helen was up to you wanted to protect your husband. When you came back to London, what did you do?’
‘I may be drunk, but I’m not naive. I’m not prepared to discuss this any further. You’ll have to take the matter up with my lawyers.’
Kaz shot a look at her. ‘That wouldn’t be Neville Moore by any chance? Helen’s old boss.’
Panic rippled momentarily across Paige’s features. ‘Who?’
Nicci joined in. ‘You went to see him. Thursday afternoon. I’m guessing Viktor Pudovkin sent you? You suspected Moore had the memory stick. Wasn’t it your job to get it or warn him off?’
Paige picked up a packet of cigarettes from the counter and fumbled to light one. She had to spark the lighter several times.
Nicci pressed on, confident that now they were getting to the heart of it. ‘What did Robert say when he found out you’d asked Viktor for his help? He went apeshit, didn’t he?’
As she drew on the cigarette her hand shook. ‘I think you should leave now.’
Nicci merely smiled. ‘And I think you should tell us the truth, Paige. Your husband’s cutting you loose because you’ve served him up on a silver platter to Viktor Pudovkin and the FSB. And Robert’s mad as hell, isn’t he? You thought Viktor was just a “concerned friend” with the power to help, didn’t you? You thought it’d be business as usual – you carry on ignoring Robert’s little peccadilloes, even facilitate them, you’ll wake up in Downing Street one day. Trouble is, you underestimated Viktor.’
Grasping her right wrist with her left hand, Paige struggled to steady her shaking arm. ‘I’ve no idea what you’re talking about. Viktor is simply a social acquaintance. He’s a businessman and a philanthropist.’
Nicci shook her head sorrowfully, like a wise teacher chiding a wayward child. ‘Now you are being naive. You really think that? You made a monumental error asking for his help. You must’ve realized that. And you know why Robert’s cutting you out of the loop? Because if he needs a fall guy, you’re it. Divorce is not the worst thing that could happen here. You think that Robert’s not going to try and save his own skin? You could go to jail as an accessory to Helen Warner’s murder.’
Fighting back the tears, Paige ground out the cigarette savagely in a plate on the kitchen counter. Kaz refused to pity her. This woman had betrayed Helen’s youthful trust in the most fundamental way, and she’d carried on doing it for years.
Arms wrapped tightly around herself, Paige’s voice came out almost as a sob. ‘Okay, I had no idea they would kill her! No idea. I swear. It was just a matter of breaking into her house and getting this wretched film.’
Nicci stepped forward and gently placed her hand on the weeping woman’s shoulder. ‘Listen to me, Paige, I used to be a police officer. The people who murdered Helen are professional killers. Totally ruthless. They will tidy up the loose ends. And that’s what you’ve become.’
Shoving Nicci away, Paige straightened up. ‘No, I’ve been given assurances. Robert won’t divorce me, you know. He’s just huffing and puffing. He’ll come back, he’ll have to.’
‘You believe that?’ Nicci glanced at Kaz, who stood watching with folded arms.
Paige picked up the wine bottle and topped up her glass. ‘I’m not saying any more. I admit nothing. Now go.’
96
It was Monday morning, warm, overcast and smoggy. Blake sat behind his desk, shirt sleeves rolled up, listening to the recording on Nicci’s phone. Paige Hollister’s posh, strangulated, faintly Scottish voice was clearly audible: I’m not saying any more. I admit nothing. Now go.
Nicci clicked the recording off and picked the phone up. ‘I’ll download it and get it transcribed.’
Blake beamed at her. ‘Nice piece of work, Nic. She certainly incriminates herself, so Slattery’ll have to take her in and interview her.’ The smile collapsed into a frown. ‘Problem is, what have we actually got? Hollister’s estranged wife, jealous of his affair with the younger, more attractive Helen Warner? He could still walk away.’
‘He’s setting his wife up to take the fall, isn’t he?’
Blake chuckled and nodded. ‘Not what you’d call the most loving husband.’
‘Did you talk to Slattery?’ Nicci adjusted her sling. ‘What does he say?’
‘Met him in a pub in Barnes yesterday lunchtime. He’s trying to keep it all under wraps and chummy. He reckons Hollister and Warner had a long-term affair. Hollister dumped her, she was distraught, topped herself. That’s the Met’s story and they’re sticking to it.’
‘And the video we’ve got does nothing to contradict that.’ Nicci sighed. ‘I’ve got the researchers and Eddie digging around for any other politicians who might’ve got into bother recently and accepted a helping hand from Pudovkin.’
He leant back in his chair. ‘That’s only ever going to be circumstantial until we crack Hollister. He’s battening down the hatches. What we need is to find a weak spot and prod it. But it’s not going to be easy.’
‘I know that.’ She gave him a belligerent look.
He replied with a wave of his hand. ‘Sorry. I know you know. I suppose I’m missing the power. I’d like to just march in and nick both the Hollisters and sit them in an interview room until somebody blinks.’
‘So would I. But we’re on the outside now. We have to find new strategies.’
He gave her an appraising look. ‘You’ve changed your tune.’ It occurred to him she was looking almost jaunty, the colour had returned to her cheeks. The haunted look behind the eyes seemed to have faded.
‘Adapt or die, boss.’ There was an arch glint in her eye. ‘So, if we can find a way to put the screws on Hollister, you’ll go along with it?’
He gave her a sardonic look. ‘Depends what you’ve got in mind?’
‘Not sure yet. But I’ll get back to you.’
She sailed out and across the office. Blake watched her go. Mourning the death of her daughter had been a long and gruelling process. Blake knew it wasn’t over. By no means. But it had moved into the background, she was functioning, she was living from day to day and doing the job.
He became aware of Alan Turnbull hovering outside his door. He groa
ned inwardly. It had turned into a daily battle, trying to keep Turnbull at arm’s length while he tried to come up with a plausible plan to turf the cuckoo out of the nest.
Turnbull opened the door. ‘Have you got a minute?’
‘Of course. Come in, Alan.’
‘I think you should come out here and take a look for yourself.’ Turnbull continued to hold the glass door open.
Reluctantly Blake got up from behind his desk and joined Turnbull in the doorway.
Turnbull pointed across the office. ‘We appear to have acquired a new staff member.’
Blake’s gaze travelled across the room to the Investigations Section. Pascale and Liam were in place. Nicci had scooted the chair away from her desk and was chatting animatedly to Karen Phelps. He wasn’t thrilled. This was possibly taking new strategies too far. Still that was between him and Nicci.
‘You realize who she is?’ Turnbull smirked.
Blake returned to his desk. ‘I believe she’s a friend of Helen Warner. I think possibly Nicci may be getting a witness statement from her.’
‘She’s been here all morning. According to Liam, she’s helping Nicci. Did you authorize this?’
Blake was annoyed and uncomfortable in equal parts, but that didn’t mean he’d tolerate Turnbull’s tone.
He fixed him with a gimlet eye. ‘Alan, Nicci knows what she’s doing and she has my full confidence.’
Turnbull slipped his hands in his trouser pockets; the suit was, as ever, immaculate. ‘Her name’s Karen Phelps. She’s an armed robber, released on licence. A week ago her brother murdered a prison officer and escaped from jail.’
Blake settled back in his chair. ‘And your point is?’
‘You forget, Nicci Armstrong used to work for me. She was never the most careful or compliant officer.’
Blake steepled his fingers. ‘That’s good, because I’m not looking for compliant.’
The Mourner Page 38