TWENTY-FOUR
Elaine sat in a nook by the front window of Nelson’s Glory, inhaling the comfortable yeasty fug and looking at the people around her. Two tables away, a young woman pecked at a laptop computer. Occasionally she would frown at its screen and take a sip from a pint of cider. From the pattern of her keystrokes, Elaine could tell she was backspacing as much as she was composing. She would clickety-clickety-clickety with both hands for a few seconds. Then she would scowl and clack-clack-clack using only her right hand. After alternating clicks and clacks for a minute or two, the woman sat back in her chair and crossed her arms, frowning.
As Elaine watched, a change came over the woman’s face. She smiled, bent forward, and began a furious clickety with both hands, her attention riveted on the words flowing through her fingers. Elaine didn’t know if the woman was writing a great British novel or a Dear John letter to her boyfriend; it didn’t matter. A small triumph had occurred.
Most people want the big win, she reflected. They always try to hit it for six. Elaine knew that small victories add up and that it feels good to take one sure step in the right direction, even if it’s a small one, and follow it up with another and another.
She scanned the pub again. A table over from the writer, nearer the door, a fashionably dressed couple sat with glasses of white wine in front of them. Style and the money to buy it, Elaine thought. Despite the wine, the couple seemed awkward. Fashionable Woman didn’t face Fashionable Man directly. It appeared to Elaine that he was earnestly imploring the woman, but she wasn’t buying it. She studied her wine, took a sip, and looked away.
Elaine looked closer and noticed the man wore a wedding band. Fashionable Woman did not. Aha. Was this a minor spat between lovers? No, Elaine decided, it’s a break-up. The way the woman was scanning the men in the pub, she was considering an alternative. And judging from the interest sparking on her face, she had spotted an attractive option.
Elaine followed Fashionable Woman’s gaze to the door, where Peter had just entered and was removing his coat. He waved at Elaine and started toward the nook. As he approached, Elaine watched Fashionable Woman assess Peter all the way across the pub, head to toe at first, then appraisingly at his back as he walked toward the nook. His pressed jeans fit well—not too tight but tight enough to give the impression of athletic thighs and a nice bum. His long hair was tousled and damp from the weather. He moved like an athlete, balanced and economical, very male. My goodness, he looked good. The high-class tart thought so as well and was clearly interested. Elaine felt a twinge of jealousy.
Wait a minute, Lainie, you . . . but Peter stopped in front of her before she could finish the warning. She filed her caveat away and greeted him.
“Hello, Doctor. Excuse me, I mean Peter.”
“Good evening, Detective Inspector Hope. I can only assume another interrogation is in order. Does this place have a dungeon? It looks old enough for one.”
Elaine went with it. “Oh, indeed, it does. There are stocks and a strappado in the cellar. You don’t want to miss them. They haven’t been used in two hundred years, but put a little oil on the hinges and they’ll work fine.”
“Doesn’t the condemned get a last drink?” Peter indicated the empty table top. “It appears not. I’d hate to be strung up by my wrists and pretzeled with the thirst I have right now.”
“I picked this pub because they have some very nice cask ales. The real stuff, not fizzy piss. I thought I’d let you have your choice. You know, in the spirit of the condemned man’s last meal and such.”
He laughed. “Why am I not surprised? Okay, then. What’s good here? Gibbet Ale? Scaffold Stout? Flogger Lager? Didn’t the condemned have to pay the executioner? You suggest, I’ll pay.”
“Such a treat. And it’s Elaine, Peter.” She suggested Navigation Stout and watched as he walked to the bar to order. Fashionable Woman’s eyes followed Peter then switched back to Elaine, who smiled slightly. Not tonight, strumpet.
The detective in Elaine continued to characterize Peter. Differently than before, not as a suspect. He seems in a good mood, she thought, so he must be getting back on his feet. No permanent damage, then. She turned her face to the window and considered his candidacy. Smart, witty, musical. A bit better than decent looking, and there’s that nice bum. All were clear positives.
He’s a doctor. He knows all about long hours and professional imperatives, so either he’s likely to be understanding about someone else having the same constraints or he wants a little Harriet Homemaker. No, he doesn’t want a Harriet. Harriet would bore him.
He has deep emotions, judging from his responses to questions about his family. And that’s what was bothering her. Peter carried baggage. Lots of it. She’d seen him lug it through the interviews. He’s clearly still in love with his dead wife—Diana, that was her name. But then, he would always love her, wouldn’t he? That’s not a bad sign, unless he starts making comparisons. So perhaps it’s a yellow flag, not a red one. And what about PTSD? What about his nightmare the custody sergeant had noted in the log book? She rolled her eyes at her reflection in the window. Speculations and analysis. Don’t speculate ahead of the evidence, girl. Sort it out as it comes. If he gets too heavy or weird, there’s always the kiss-off and the door.
She looked up when she heard him set the glasses on the table. They lifted their pints with a mutual “Cheers.”
The ale did not disappoint. After a second taste, she set her glass down. “I can’t talk to you about the case, you know. I have to be clear on that. Are you back to work yet?”
He didn’t miss a beat. “You can’t talk about your cases; I can’t talk about mine. I start back next week. A&E shifts at first. After I’ve served my penance for helping the police with their enquiries, I may be able to go back to a normal case load and teaching, but no foundation kids. The director didn’t want any rumors about me to upset the money cart.”
Elaine studied her pint. “That’s a shame. It has to be hard to take.”
“Let’s not talk about that. How did you ever find this pub? It hasn’t been remodeled in what, fifty years?”
Elaine laughed. “Probably more like a hundred and fifty. It was a favorite of my father’s. He’d drink here after he got back from Malaysia, back in the late fifties, I guess. Before we moved back to Glasgow. One of his army mates lived in the neighborhood and they would meet here for a pint.”
“So your father was in the army, like mine? Wouldn’t it be a coincidence if he married an English woman, like mine did?”
“He did! Imagine! And that’s not all. He was a surgeon.” She continued in response to his surprised look. “He fixed sick shoes. Took them apart, repaired what was wrong, sewed them up, and gave them back, good as new.”
Peter grinned and leaned across the table. “I feel like Humphrey Bogart in Paris.”
“How so? It was Sam who played the piano.”
“And better than I do. I meant at that café, La Belle Aurore, or maybe it was in his apartment, when he asks Ingrid Bergman ‘Who are you really? And what were you before?’” He shifted to face her directly. “I know what he was thinking. Tell me about yourself. Where did you grow up?”
“Can’t you tell? I grew up above my father’s shop in Drumchapel.”
“He started it after the army?”
“It was his father’s, and before that, his grandfather’s. The family business. There wasn’t much to do in Glasgow in the fifties. I think Dad joined the army to see what else there was out there for him, but I don’t suppose he found anything. He was a craftsman at heart. Made bespoke shoes for people.”
“It turned into his life’s work, then.”
“He had a steady clientele. Mum taught piano lessons and raised us girls. Between the shoes and the lessons, we got by. Not wealthy by a long shot, but we never wanted for what counted.”
“There’s a saying back in Texas: ‘We was poor but didn’t know it.’ How many sisters do you have?”
“My
oldest sister, Ailsa, emigrated to Australia when I was very young. Christine lives on a ranch in Alberta. They’re both much older. Then there was Moira, but she died. I was the youngest by fifteen years. The Oops baby.”
“Daddy’s little girl, eh?”
Elaine studied the dark brown of the stout. “What about you?”
Peter appeared somewhat taken aback. “I would have bet you knew everything about me, what with the investigation.”
Elaine’s fingers turned her glass on the table. “Only on paper. And what you told us in the interviews.”
They talked for another hour. About childhood and school, careers and bosses, travels. Shortly before closing time, Elaine placed both hands in her lap and looked down at the table. “This has been a nice evening, but I’m afraid I need to call it a night. I have an early start in the morning.”
“Tell your boss you’re taking the day off.”
She laughed as they walked outside to the pavement. “Right. If you’re good at dodging hurled objects, I’ll let you tell him for me. If I’m extremely lucky, I’m off on Sunday, but it’s really impossible to get away in the middle of an investigation. I want to take my mother to Brighton. She loves to watch the ocean and go to the Pavilion to have lunch and walk through the gardens for a while. She feeds the birds. Then we drive back. We usually stop in some village or other for tea. It’s a full day.”
“Did she come to London with you?”
“Dad passed away a couple of months after I joined the Met. She lived with me for a while, but one day she broke her hip. She got more and more frail, and it seemed like the dementia set in right afterward. It was too dangerous to leave her alone all day, so I had to find somewhere for her. It’s a nice place in Surrey. I try to visit her every week or so, and we have an outing every couple of months. Usually we stay in London or go to Brighton. Sometimes we visit cousins in Exeter. It’s been a while since we were able to get away, though.”
“I hope you have a splendid time, then.”
The conversation was starting to drag out. “We’ll try.”
“I’ve really enjoyed talking with you. Speaking of relatives, my sister, Kate, will be back from New York in a few weeks. I’d like you to meet her, if you want to. Maybe we’ll have some dinner. It’ll be me, Kate, and Nora, her partner.” Peter’s deep-set blue eyes looked down into hers.
Elaine hesitated. She wasn’t ready for this, but he said it was a few weeks away. Who knew what would happen? “Perhaps. She sounds interesting. Whether I can be there depends on . . . you know. Work.”
Now was the awkward moment. She certainly didn’t want a kiss just yet and hoped he was perceptive and gentleman enough to know that. He didn’t disappoint her.
He replied, “Then if it’s all right, when the time comes, I’ll ring you with the details and you can decide. How about that?” He took her hand in his. “Maybe we can get together for dinner again? Until then, take care.”
She smiled and nodded. “Maybe. You too.” She gave him a finger waggle, turned, and walked to her car, reflecting on the previous two hours. It hadn’t been bad, not bad at all. He had let her choose the place, he was at ease and made good conversation, and he never once leered or made suggestive remarks. He’d listened to her and considered what she said before he replied. All in all, it was two adults making decent attempts at getting to know each other. The kiss-off could wait.
Elaine sat behind the wheel of her BMW, retrieved her mobile, and pressed Bull’s speed-dial number. He answered on the fourth ring.
“Hi, Chief. What’s up?” Bull’s voice was partially distorted by the whoosh of wind and the rumble of the car. He was on the move.
“Where are you?”
“Headed west on Downham Road in De Beauvoir Town. He’s been a right traveler tonight.”
“That’s a bit off his patch, isn’t it?”
“It looks like errand night mixed with a bit of fun. He went to those knocking shops he visited last week. Came out with a blonde woman. They stopped at a couple of high-street shops and an off-license, then spent a half hour in a Tesco. Maybe they have a dinner party planned, but . . . shit!” Clattering burst from Elaine’s mobile, followed by a thud. The whooshing rumble stopped.
“Bull? Bull! What happened? Are you there?” Silence. “Bull! Say something, make a noise!”
More clattering, followed by Bull’s voice. “Sorry, Chief, I dropped my mobile. A lorry turned directly in front of me and I had to swerve. Ran partway on the pavement.” Elaine heard a car door slamming. “Shit. No sight of Greene and his poppet.”
“Any idea where they were going?” She wasn’t hopeful.
“No. He’s never been to this area since I’ve been watching him. It’s not anywhere near his flat. He might have gone straight, but there are a lot of side streets along here. I suppose I could drive around and see if I spot his car.”
Elaine considered. Had Greene spotted Bull’s tail? Bull was relatively new to surveillance. There was no way to find out and no point bringing it up without sounding unfairly critical. She wished one of the older detectives had been with him. Maybe next time, if she could spare someone. This time she’d let him off lightly. “It’s rotten luck. If you think there’s a chance of finding him, give it a try. Otherwise, go home. I may have something else for you tomorrow.”
“Right. I’ll hunt for a while.”
“One more thing. Invest in an earpiece for your mobile.”
TWENTY-FIVE
Elaine listened to the noise building in the incident room. It was a few minutes until the status meeting scheduled for six thirty AM, and the team was engaging in the usual morning banter about football games, talking about who had gotten lucky the previous night or perhaps who had been luckless yet again. Technically, some of the humor crossed the line into what in these oh-so-correct times could be considered sexual harassment, but no one on her team had ever complained, and none of it was racial or hateful, so she ignored it. It had been different when Jenkins was on the team, but he was gone now.
A sudden lowering of the noise level caught her attention, so she leaned over and looked out the door. Paula, who was the team liaison with forensics, was rushing up the aisle between the desks toward her door. She didn’t bother to knock or speak. She simply handed Elaine some papers across the desk.
Elaine scanned the forensic report, reading the first paragraph, then skipping down to the conclusions section. She felt her body tensing, and it was all she could do to keep her hands from shaking. “Halle-bloody-lujah! We needed this. Come with me.” She stormed out into the suddenly silent squad room, Paula in tow. Faces turned as they passed, and a low susurrus of voices built in their wake as the two women took their place by the incident board.
“Right then, listen up! Everyone quiet!” The whispers faded away. “For those of you who may not recall, we got some DNA from the stray hairs SOCO found in Geri Harding’s flat.”
Elaine waved the new forensic report over her head. “Now we have this. Three days ago, Liz spoke with a man named Danilo Srecko in the car park outside the offices of IRG. She was able to get his mobile number as well as a photo.”
Elaine allowed herself a slight smile as hoots and laughter erupted in the room. Progress was energizing. “Calm down everyone. I can vouch that everything Liz did was in the line of duty. But I think you had some fun with it, right, Liz?” Liz lifted her arms over her head and gave a happy dance, prompting more hoots.
Elaine let it run for a few seconds, then raised her hands for quiet. “We were also able to retrieve an empty sport drink bottle he discarded. This report states that the DNA retrieved from that drink bottle matches the DNA we found in Geri’s flat.”
Elaine scanned the now silent room, making eye contact with several of the detectives. Every face was grim and expectant, awaiting her next words. She pointed to the photograph of Nilo on the situation board. A sensitive technician had blurred Liz’s face, leaving only Nilo mugging at the camera. “Him.” She
moved the photo of Danilo from the edge of the board to the center.
“We now have a prime suspect in the murder of Geri Harding. Danilo Srecko, passport says twenty-three years old, 1.8 meters tall, muscular build, dark hair, brown eyes, crooked nose. Small scar above his right eye. Goes by the name Nilo, and it’s not too far-fetched that he could also use the name Danny. Does that sound familiar?
“My gut tells me he also killed Sheila Watson. If his conversation with Liz is any indication, he’s always hunting, so we need to bring him in fast. Evan, have you made any progress tracking his background and phone records?”
Evan stood. “Two years ago, he entered the country from Belgium by the same route as his uncles Anton and Janko. He apparently uses a Slovenian passport instead of Polish. We’re following that up. We’ve sent his fingerprints from the drink bottle to Europol to check against their databases, and we’ll get the DNA profile to them right away. The only web presence under the name Danilo or Nilo Srecko we’ve been able to find is from a youth football team site in Serbia from four years ago. The lack of web presence is unusual given his age, so we’re running the photo through some of MI5’s new face recognition software to see if we get any hits from social media, but we’re at the tail of the queue, and it could take days, if not weeks. We could use some help getting a higher priority.”
Elaine nodded. “I’ll do what I can. You know how MI5 can be. What else?”
Evan shook his head. “Nothing yet. No local address, no landline. He may be living in a flat registered to one of IRG’s shell companies, so we’ll check for those. His mobile number was issued from a small carrier in Slovenia, so it’s complicated. I’ve made the formal requests through Europol to the Slovenian carrier and directly to British carriers for foreign number call reports, but that takes longer. And we’ve flagged his mobile number on our networks, so we’ll be notified when he uses it. Again, if we were MI5, it would be a no-brainer. They don’t worry so much about the niceties. But I think I can speed it up by going in the back door.” He paused.
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