I Know You (DI Emma Locke)

by Louise Mullins

  Marcus’s attempt at an intimidating stance continues as I’m ushered into the small kitchen by a tall moody-looking woman I’m told is his twenty-two-year-old sibling. ‘It’s only glue,’ she says, gathering up a pair of nitrile gloves, a scouring sponge, and some cleaning fluid from beneath the sink. ‘Eczema,’ she adds, noticing my close observation.

  Leoni listens in on our conversation while dousing away the mess I’ve created in the hallway, and in seconds of her leaving the room the kitchen feels claustrophobic, the atmosphere tense with menace.

  I note the lack of appliances and a sparsely filled cupboard, the open door of which is hanging from one hinge. When Marcus flicks it shut with a squeak of resistance there is a fist-sized hole visible in the wall.

  Marcus glares at me. ‘Wha you wan?’

  ‘Just a chat.’

  I wait a beat before diving into interrogator mode, sensing from his attitude the gentle approach will get me nowhere fast.

  ‘Steven was your brother.’

  ‘So wha?’

  ‘Since when have you known?’

  ‘Since I be a tike,’ he says, looking disgusted.

  ‘You had a problem with him?’

  ‘Nah, man. I already tol you.’

  ‘My colleague, DC Pierce, who you spoke to during the initial days of our investigation into Steven’s murder, wasn’t aware you shared the same father then, Mr West.’

  At my use of a formal prefix in recognition of his near-adult status, he relaxes his position and saunters further into the kitchen to stand directly behind the bar stool that separates us. I inspect his body language, his reaction when I accuse him of fatally injuring his half-brother.

  ‘I wouldn’a hurt him. On my life. You gotta believe dat.’

  ‘Maybe not intentionally. But accidents happen.’

  His eyes widen and his nostrils flare. ‘What, nine times?’

  ‘How’d you know how many times he was stabbed?’ The wounds, their amount, and where exactly they were situated on Steven’s torso haven’t yet been reported. We wanted to catch the person who could identify the official cause of his death by ensuring those details remained off public record, and therefore couldn’t be known by anyone other than Steven’s killer.

  ‘He got a punctured lung, innit? Dat’s what I got tol.’

  ‘By who?’

  ‘Jerome. Natalie tol him. Dese boys from West London came down to da playground in their Lexus and warn her off buying weed from outside da county. Dey’ve been supplying da area for years.’

  ‘And they told her what had happened to Steven?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  Had Natalie known something she shouldn’t? Was she killed for telling her brother? And was Jerome now in danger of a similar fate?

  ‘Was anyone with her at the time?’

  ‘Leighton, I think. Dey was always together.’

  ‘Did she tell you who these teenagers were or describe them to you?’

  ‘Nah, she wouldn’t say. And Leighton’s no grass. I’m not sure I’d say da same for Jerome tho.’

  ‘Why is that?’

  He crosses his fingers. ‘Steven and Jerome were solid, innit. If anyone knows anything it would be him. But gettin it out’v him…’ He swipes the air, symbolising a slashing knife. ‘You ain’t got no chance.’

  *

  The sky is dark, the damp air caresses my cheeks and smells faintly of wet moss. Flecks of moonlight reflect on the surface of the puddles I splash through as I tread down the narrow walkway to the flat Jerome shares with his mother, Carmen.

  After leaving Marcus, calmer than I had expected he might be, I visited Leighton. My unannounced visit was charged with hostility and grief and produced little more than tears, so I’ve decided to give him longer to come to terms with his girlfriend’s loss before re- approaching him. For now, I’m going to concentrate on getting Jerome to crack. And I’m certain he will.

  When first interviewing Jerome he appeared powerless in the face of his best friend’s loss. I therefore believe he may be the weakest link in the gang. Easy prey for rivals. Easy for me to break.

  The door opens reluctantly, and I’m hustled inside with a sigh and an eye roll.

  Carmen is her typical stoic self once the front door is closed behind me. Moving listlessly along the well-worn sofa to offer me room to sit then glaring at me with narrowed eyes, chin raised to a point, leaning forward as though about to attack.

  ‘I suppose you want Jerome?’ she says after several excruciatingly long minutes of icy silence.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘He’s not here.’

  ‘I need to speak to him.’

  ‘Are you deaf? I said he’s not here!’

  In a flash she’s knocked the coffee table over, two half-drunk cups of tea spilling their liquid down one leg of the white trousers she wears. The rest is splattered up the wall, across the carpet and over a radiator packed with drying clothes, now stained light brown and dripping wet.

  I hold her at arm’s length. Can feel her hot breath on my forehead as she crumbles in my arms, sinking to the floor, wailing like a banshee.

  ‘I know you’re upset. But if you do that again I’m going to arrest you for threatening behaviour.’

  She nods and whines, and I can’t help but sympathise with her predicament.

  She inhales fast through her nose, and exhales slowly out of her mouth to calm her receding anger, which I’m unsure from where it extends. ‘Jerome’s gone to live with my brother,’ she gulps. ‘He’s always had a positive influence on Jerome. It will do him good. I had to get him out of here, away from all the sadness and violence. I don’t want to lose another kid.’

  I can’t say I know what it feels like to lose someone in such horrendous circumstances but I’m positive if anything were to happen to one of my children I’d fall apart. But two? I’d be sectioned. Living out my days in a psychiatric hospital, curled up in a ball, rocking. There’s no way on this earth I’d cope half as well as Carmen. If I had a third child at risk, I’d probably pack him or her off too, just like she has done.

  ‘You’ve done the right thing. That’s our job as mothers, isn’t it? To protect our children. But I still need to speak to him. You see Honour’s home was broken into this morning and she seems to think—’

  ‘That bitch,’ she gasps.

  ‘She’s lost her only son. And while I appreciate you’ve lost a son and a daughter, you do still have Jerome. Honour is on her own now. I’d have thought you’d empathise with her.’

  ‘She thinks Jerome had something to do with her son’s death, but if anyone’s to blame it’s her. Her ex-boyfriend, Steven’s so-called father was – is – a crack-head. A waster. He’s in jail, you know. Pointed a gun at a female cashier’s face.’

  ‘How did you become aware of that, Carmen?’

  As far as I know Honour didn’t even tell her son about his father’s criminal behaviour so why would she have told Carmen?

  She laughs and huffs. ‘He told me.’

  ‘You spoke to Dejuan after his incarceration?’

  ‘Of course I did. He’s Marcus’s as well as Steven’s father. I do Zumba with Marcus’s mum. I’ve known her and Dejuan for years. Since way before the boys started at Deptford Green school. We’ve remained in contact by phone since his incarceration.’

  Though Marcus knew he had a sibling, he believes Steven hadn’t been told.

  ‘Are you aware as to whether Steven was informed that Marcus was his brother?’

  ‘I can’t answer for a dead boy, can I? Though Dejuan made me promise not to tell Honour I knew so I guess he didn’t.’

  Her coldness is unnerving. Carmen’s face occasionally softens but then she opens her mouth into a hard line and spits venom like an asp. Grief seems to have turned her heart to stone.

  To save myself another trip on the merry-go-round I decide that it’s time to leave. ‘I’m going to need your brother’s address. The sooner I can officially eliminate Jerome fr
om my inquiries into the intruder who entered Honour’s home the quicker I can give you some peace to grieve.’

  She retrieves a spiral-bound notebook from a drawer beneath the coffee table, rips a corner of the lined paper out of it, scribbles on it with a black biro, and hands it over with a loud exhalation of frustration. The address she gives me causes my gaze to jump to hers. ‘Addison Square. Isn’t that in Addiscombe Gardens?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What’s his name?’

  ‘Keenan Palmer.’

  ‘He’s your step-brother.’

  ‘No need to be pedantic.’

  ‘Miss Campbell, Keenan was reported missing by police four days ago. It’s presumed he left his property the night Natalie died. He returned to empty it two days later and hasn’t been seen since.’

  ‘Well, who the fuck has Jerome been texting then?’

  ‘You haven’t spoken to Keenan yourself?’

  ‘No,’ she cries. ‘I suggested Jerome send his uncle a message. He arranged it all with Keenan on his phone. I’ll kill the little shit when I get my hands on him!’

  I cringe at her crass remark, unsure if she realises what she’s said while hoping her words are not a prediction of news to come.

  ‘Ring around. If you can’t get hold of Jerome or anyone who’s seen him in the past few hours call me, and I’ll officially report him missing.’

  Leaving Carmen’s house my phone buzzes from inside my pocket. I pray Rawlings has good news.

  ‘Forensics have just informed me that the fingerprints found on the windowsill and the unit inside Honour’s bedroom where she keeps her jewellery box belong to Marcus.’

  ‘Shit. We spoke just over an hour ago. Now he knows we’re onto him he’s going to go walkabout.’

  ‘I’ve sent an arrest team to his address. Meet Pierce at the station pronto. I want you both to interview him the minute he gets booked in. I’m not wasting any more time on this. If he wants a three-course, sit-down meal in a nice comfy en-suite bedroom at Nuevo Hotel Addington then he can wait until he’s refused bail and has been transported to a holding cell on remand.’

  ‘On my way, sir.’

  ‘Oh, and Maguire?’

  ‘Yes, boss?’

  ‘Don’t take any detours on your own again or I’ll be writing it up.’

  ‘Detours?’

  ‘You know, visiting potential suspects alone in between those you’ve informed your superior about.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  SINEAD

  Newport, Wales

  I stare at the screen of my phone willing the message I’ve just received to be a figment of my imagination when another appears directly below it. The tick in the lower right-hand corner blinks to remind me he knows I’ve read it, that I am online.

  11 OCT AT 17:03

  Police came to my house today. Heard about your accident. Hope you’re okay?

  11 OCT AT 17:12

  I think they thought I had something to do with it.

  Though my brain tells me not to respond, to ignore the message, to delete it from my account history, my fingers stroke the keys and I type a reply. It takes me five minutes to gain the courage to press send.

  Though I immediately regret doing it, there is a chance he might have continued to pester me if I hadn’t. I don’t want Aeron walking into my hospital room while I’m asleep to find my mobile phone hit by a stream of notifications from a concerned man he’s never once heard me name.

  11 OCT AT 17:17

  I’m okay.

  11 OCT AT 17:19

  Are you?

  11 OCT AT 17:20

  No.

  11 OCT AT 17:21

  Want to talk about it?

  11 OCT AT 17:22

  No.

  11 OCT AT 17:23

  I’m here if you do.

  I hit delete conversation and shove my phone so hard it skids across the bedside unit in my hospital room and lands face down on the hard linoleum floor with a loud smack.

  *

  I’m seated in the League of Friends café on the ground floor. I told the nurse I’m taking the wheelchair down to the rear exit for some air. I’ve left it parked up outside the oncology department despite having been warned not to walk anywhere unaided. It took me almost ten minutes to convince her not to chaperone me and I was worried it might prolong my visit from Mr Persistent.

  I glance around the slim cornered-off section with ‘Café’ scrawled across a chalkboard leaning against the wall, noting the pink chairs crammed into the cubby hole in front of a serving hatch where patients and visitors sit in quiet repose swigging back scalding tea that looks like ditch water.

  I cradle a small carton of orange juice that I sip through a straw one of the health care assistants gave to me before I went walkabout. My hand trembles with impatience and anxious anticipation as I take a seat close to the door leading from the outpatients’ area and into the main hospital.

  I hear him before I see him, his kind yet authoritative voice distinctive against the grey monotones of those chattering nearby. I glance to my right to find him holding the door open for an elderly woman. A younger woman, possibly her daughter as they seem to share the same round shaped face and slanted eyes, thanks Gareth and escorts the older woman out into the noisy corridor, her shoes squeaking along the linoleum as she shuffles away.

  He hasn’t changed at all. Though it’s easy for me to say that because having exchanged several messages with him earlier, I noticed his profile picture had changed. He’s aged well. Has a trim beard. But it only serves to make him look more defined. More handsome.

  I swallow hard as he moves towards me and takes a seat opposite at the melamine table. He smiles awkwardly. Then, face serious, he says, ‘How are you, Sinead?’

  And suddenly I feel tearful. Tiredness and worry overriding the pain and sickness.

  I don’t plan on throwing all my shit at him, but he keeps prodding, asking questions I can’t answer falsely. Not with him staring into my eyes. And, so I tell him about everything that’s happened over the past few days though I skip the fact that I experienced something similar three years ago.

  He doesn’t push the subject and so I change the topic to more neutral concerns. It’s surprisingly easy to slide back into conversation with him. I almost forget how long it’s been since we last spoke face-to-face.

  I ask him how he’s been, how his daughter is doing in school. I learn he’s newly single, has a higher income, and is working on a major project with Cardiff City Council.

  Then he catches me off-guard while I’m slurping my second carton of orange juice. He mentions London. Or more specifically Croydon. And I fidget in my chair. ‘I don’t want to talk about that place.’

  ‘Whatever happened there, you don’t think it might be relevant to the things you’ve been going through lately?’

  ‘What makes you think… What gives you the right to… You have no idea what went on back then. You know nothing about my life. Not really.’

  He looks wounded. But that doesn’t stop him from asking what happened to me, why I was under investigation.

  ‘It’s a long boring story.’

  ‘I’ve got time.’

  ‘Have you?’

  He leans forward, resting his elbows on the table and sighs. ‘I’m here. And I suggest you take full advantage of that because I’m going to have to make a run for it if your husband arrives. I remember him yelling at one of his workers when they’d brought the wrong paint up to the platform. Made the man go all the way back down the scaffolding only to tell him when he returned that he’d now chosen the colour the man had brought up. Couldn’t face admitting he’d made a mistake. The poor sod looked humiliated.’

  ‘That doesn’t sound like Aeron.’

  ‘People act differently at work, at home, out on a boozy night in the town with their mates.’

  ‘I don’t.’

  ‘I suppose you were always scared of your own shadow.’

  I fold m
y arms over my waist in a protective stance, but he can see through my defensive posture. ‘You know I wasn’t.’

  ‘I want to help you, Sinead. But I can’t unless you tell me exactly what’s been going on. The truth this time,’ he shushes me as I open my mouth to speak. ‘No more bullshit.’

  DI LOCKE

  Newport, Wales

  Reading through the reports sent over to me an hour ago I feel as though I’m absorbing a crime thriller. The Met are currently focusing on Keenan Palmer, the server from the chicken restaurant, in relation to both Steven and Natalie’s murders. The shop is thought to be the front behind a technical, sophisticated, money laundering enterprise. Financed by the sale of Class A drugs: crack cocaine and heroin, believed to have been imported via air by his mule girlfriend, Mercedes.

  During my earlier phone call to Maguire, she disclosed details regarding Mercedes’ death an hour before expected on a flight home yesterday morning when locking herself into a disabled toilet inside Bangkok airport and swallowing a gram of heroin, thought to be a tester for a large sale business deal with whoever she met in Thailand. The bag split inside her stomach causing her to overdose. Although the coroner will have to confirm her cause of death, I predict it will be heart failure.

  As well as Mercedes’ unexpected demise, the fact Keenan still hasn’t been located is highly troubling. However, former Detective Sergeant Sinead Nicholls’ previous suspicions during the case she was working on involved the possibility that Dejuan’s drug-dealing friend Keenan was somehow involved with the gang thought to be responsible for Tyrell’s murder. The suggestion led me to theorise that someone high-up in the organisation got wind of Sinead’s prior involvement in the case and has decided to get rid of her. She’s a valuable witness. An asset to us, a liability to them. Whoever they are.

  Jones swivels his chair round from the desk to face me. I clock him in my peripheral. ‘What have you got?’

  ‘I’ve spoken to Sinead’s boss, a co-worker, and a client. Same story as that we have from her husband and Gareth. Good timekeeper, eager to work, team player, analytical, meets company objectives, studious, independent…’