by Lizzie Lewis
I phone for a cab, and five minutes later, the milky tea still coating my palate, I’m saying goodbye to Stephanie Cooke.
I phone Phyllis Miller and give her all the details about Stephanie Cooke and the invitation to enter by the back gate with Laura if she wants to spy on Victor Armitage. Mrs Miller thanks me and says she will decide whether to take Laura with her or not, but she certainly intends to be there when the woman with the black sports car turns up at five o’clock. From the way in which she’s talking, I’m envisaging a punch-up in the road outside, which should certainly get a few net curtains twitching.
Unless Phyllis Miller subsequently requests my presence at Stephanie Cooke’s house, I’m done for the day. This may not be the end of things. If Mrs Miller wants me to find a marriage certificate, or divorce papers, it’s time-consuming and going to be expensive unless I know the time and date where these things were registered.
I wouldn’t complain if she asked me to proceed, but for her sake I hope her daughter Laura sees sense when she discovers that she is being two-timed by Victor Armitage.
I mustn’t forget to collect my clock from the MacDonalds’ house this evening, but now I’m going back to the office to recover. I also have to start writing my report on how I set the camera up at the MacDonalds’ house, with a full specification of the camera used, in case there are any subsequent legal complications. And I’ll have to make a DVD from the memory card when I get it, for Tom and Daisy to keep.
I don’t know why, but whenever I return to my office, I feel compelled to call into Button Up first. Perhaps I’m hoping there will be a client there, waiting for me to return, or Abi or someone will have a secret message that a visitor doesn’t want to commit to writing or pass on in a phone call. Some sort of coded phone number or something.
Oh, I’m tired. Working as a private investigator clearly isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. I have to learn not to get caught up in my client’s emotions. I have to be cool, calm and collected. But I’m not built that way. Having suffered physically and emotionally for several years in Poland, I can identify only too readily with other people’s hurt. Maybe that’s why I’ve taken this up as a career. To protect the innocent and the vulnerable.
As I enter Button Up, I freeze in the doorway. I recognise that balding head and wispy moustache. What is Detective Inspector Dickinson doing here, unannounced? The cheek of the man!
Chapter23
(Last Chapter)
DI Dickinson jumps to his feet. He’s wearing dark jeans and a lightweight navy blue bomber jacket. It would be easy to assume he’s come here informally, but this is how detectives dress when they’re working. It’s how Sam dressed. Detectives don’t want to advertise who they are. They leave that to the uniformed police.
Danny Wells, of course, has to wear his own version of uniform, a slate grey very expensive-looking suit, because he does want to advertise who he is. As Abi has reminded me several times, he’s a junior solicitor with a promising future at Branks, Davis & Waters.
“Janika,” DI Dickinson calls, as he comes across to me, knocking into one of the tables and almost upsetting a nearly full glass of coke. The woman who is sitting there with her child grabs hold of it just in time.
I’ve no idea why the detective inspector is here, and I’m certainly not going to rush into his arms like old-time friends.
“We need to have a chat, Janika,” he says, turning briefly to apologise to the woman with the quick reactions. “Can we go up to your office, Janika?” the detective inspector says. “I’ve got some news I want to share. And don’t forget, please call me Roger.”
Well, that’s what the office is for. I’m assuming he’s here for work, not for romance. “Come on up.” My keys are in my bag, and I beckon him outside. We’ve become the centre of attention for both customers and staff. I can see Pete raising his eyebrows at Abi, and grinning. No matter, I would probably have done the same at his age. No I wouldn’t. Bruno had already broken my spirit by the time I was Pete’s age. And it took me nearly six more years to finally summon up the courage to break free and return to England. Crazy.
I want to keep this visit on a formal footing, but I nod. Anyway, calling him Roger isn’t going to hurt. I can’t believe he’s here with passionate intentions.
I unlock the street door and reach to unset the alarm. For some reason, I manage to block what I’m doing by keeping my head in the way of the keypad. I’ve no idea why. Just something seems a little bit off. I tell Roger to go on ahead. I’m still uncomfortable with men following me closely up the stairs.
Roger makes suitable noises to indicate he’s still impressed by my office. Well, that is still all he’s going to see. I point towards the leather armchairs by the window and invite him to sit down. I’m not going to make him tea or coffee. He’s probably drunk more than enough coffee down below, and I really don’t want him invading my living quarters to use my toilet. Hopefully, he thought of that before I arrived.
“Busy, Janika?”
“Two interesting surveillance jobs,” I explain. “Both completed satisfactorily from the client’s point of view, although the people on the other end are clearly going to be upset. I can’t let that affect me. I’ve righted two wrongs, and that makes me feel good ... Roger. I’m sure you’ve not come all the way from Brevelstone to see my office again. I imagine you have something special to tell me.”
He’s nodding. “Look, Janika, we’re on the verge of a breakthrough. Thank you for sending us that note and envelope. I’m sorry you had to go to so much trouble. If I’d been in the office, I would have sent a car immediately, and saved you the kerfuffle.”
“Did Gerry the Taff tell you anything interesting?”
Roger Dickinson frowns and raises a finger. “Best not to discuss it here, Janika,” he says. And he leans across and touches my knee as he speaks. Then he seems to realise what he’s done and draws back quickly. But he doesn’t apologise.
I swing my legs a little further away, and try to ignore what’s just happened. This is a man whose family have left him, according to Detective Constable Courtney Jacobs. Perhaps he’s lonely. Well, if so, he’s not getting any comfort here.
“I can assure you, Detective Inspector, this whole apartment is completely safe. I’ve done a full bug sweep. Nothing.” I’ve decided to call him Detective Inspector from now on, just so he realises we’re still on a formal footing. I probably made a stupid mistake in calling him Roger.
He’s shaking his head, and I can see a slightly superior smile on his face. “I’m sure you appreciate, Janika, from the training you did, that nowhere is completely safe for confidential discussions. Just ask the British embassy in Moscow!”
I realise I shouldn’t have mentioned Gerry the Taff. Presumably that’s the mistake I’ve made. “Sorry,” I say meekly. After all, I am in the presence of an experienced Inspector of the CID.
There’s a small table close to the armchairs with a notepad on it, so I can quickly make notes should I be lucky enough to get a client. DI Dickinson pulls a pen from his pocket and writes in capitals: WE NEED TO TALK PRIVATELY OUTSIDE.
Then he puts his finger to his lips and shakes his head, as though telling me not to comment aloud. So, using my own pen, I write: WHY?
He points to the door at the top of the stairs and stands up. I have to make a decision quickly. If he has information relating to Sam’s death, and his possible killers, then of course I have to go with him. If he’s looking for a stand-in wife, then I’m staying put.
He writes: THIS IS IMPORTANT. TO DO WITH YOUR HUSBAND.
Okay, I might as well do as he suggests. I nod, and get up and go to the door at the top of the stairs.
He’s shaking his head and pointing to my phone. From the way he’s waving his hands, he wants me to leave it behind. I frown and shake my head, and open my hands in a sort of despairing gesture.
“Bugs,” he mouths silently.
Naturally, we didn’t do lip-reading on my residen
tial course, but I can usually manage to catch just one word at a time. I want to tell him that there aren’t any bugs on my phone. It’s been fully checked by phone shop guy – unless of course he put one on there. It would be foolish to think he’s part of the gang that killed Sam. I’m not going to get into an argument, so I place my phone on the desk. Perhaps it’s a sensible thing to do, if Detective Inspector Dickinson is going to name names.
I wave DI Dickinson to go ahead of me, but he needs the keys to be able to open the door to the street.
We are out in the street and I’ve locked the second security lock after setting the alarm. It seems that DI Dickinson approves of all my security measures. Actually, I’m feeling proud of how well I thought things through. I don’t want an irate grandmother or a sleazy Romeo breaking in and berating me for daring to spy on them. And perhaps even angrier visitors storming up the stairs.
“This is awkward,” Roger Dickinson says. I’m thinking of him as Roger again now we’re out in the open. “The thing is, Janika, I don’t want to raise any attention to ourselves. Is it all right if I put my arm around your shoulder so we look like friends?”
“Definitely not,” I say firmly, whilst trying to make my response sound friendly.
I’ll say that for him, he backs off immediately. “What I have to show you is beyond confidential,” he says. “There can be no possibility of being overheard or even watched. I noticed the small park at the far end of this road. Perhaps we can go there to talk.”
Danger signals are popping up in my head, but only small ones at this stage. My self defence training will come in handy, should it be needed. And I’m sure it won’t be. Roger Dickinson may be missing his family, but I can’t believe he’s entertaining any romantic fantasies of moving in with me.
“The benches are well spaced out,” Roger says. “I’m sure we’ll find an empty one. We need to find one without any bushes behind us.”
I’m about to say, “Anywhere, as long as it’s not near any bridges,” but that would be tasteless as well as tactless. The detective inspector only has my welfare in mind.
That’s good, there are four empty benches out of the five in the park. A woman with a child in a buggy is feeding the pigeons on one, and that would seem the safest bench to sit near. I didn’t need to be trained to work that one out.
A scruffy man with a newspaper has come in after us and goes to sit down on a bench on the other side of the park. He has a nearly empty beer bottle that he puts on the bench by his side. He’s probably drunk, but I don’t think he’s likely to bother us.
“The thing is, Janika,” Roger Dickinson says as we settle ourselves down, “information from Gerry the Taff, plus finding his prints on the envelope of the threatening note you got, has led him to enter a plea bargaining proposal. We found other prints on the note, besides yours, Janika.”
I force a laugh. “I hope you’re not here to arrest me, Roger.”
He shakes his head and looks serious. “We don’t know who the other prints belong to yet, and they may have no connection with the gang ‒ but Gerry the Taff doesn’t know that. He knows a lot more than he’s telling us, but he’s scared, and wants to go into our witness protection programme and be off the streets.”
Roger points to a large beech tree on the edge of the park that the council have recently lopped. “Gerry the Taff is a minor player. You don’t kill a tree by chopping off branches here and there. We need to kill the tree by destroying the roots, and Gerry obviously has some worthwhile information to share.”
The man with the beer seems to be reading a newspaper. He drains the bottle and tosses it into the undergrowth behind the bench.
Trust us to end up in the park with a drunk. I hope he keeps to himself, but at least I have Roger Dickinson with me if there’s going to be trouble. Surely I don’t need to be afraid.
“I want to level with you, Janika,” Roger says. “About my wife and children leaving me.”
It’s not only the man with a newspaper who’s making me feel uneasy. I hate to think where this is going.
“They haven’t really left me,” Roger says quietly. “I was afraid my family’s lives would be threatened in connection with this case. I have an aunt in Scotland. We discussed it, and between my wife and me we decided that the most sensible thing was for them to stay there, and not leave a written forwarding address. And then, when your husband was killed, I knew I’d done the right thing.”
He points to his mobile phone. “I phone them a couple of times a day. It’s probably an over-the-top reaction, but I put word around that we had split, so if the gang find out, they won’t see making a threat to my family as a major objective.”
I’m too embarrassed to say I was worried that he might be visiting me specially to see if I was interested in a relationship. Stupid, stupid me. No man is going to be interested in me, a widow with a violently aborted baby and a damaged womb that might not be able to bear another child. Yes, stupid, stupid me.
Not that it worried Sam. I told him all about it before our relationship became serious, and he promised he loved me just as I was. The past was the past, he said, and it was only the present and our future that mattered. And when the right time came for us to talk about having a family, Sam assured me he would arrange the very best consultant we could afford for advice and possible treatment. So unless Sam shared these details at work, Roger Dickinson won’t know.
The man is still sitting on the opposite bench. He’s managed to produce another bottle from somewhere, and it’s already nearly empty. He now seems more interested in us than his newspaper.
“We need to go somewhere quieter,” Roger says. “Somewhere where we’re not going to be interrupted. I’ve got some photographs on my phone I want you to see. You might recognise someone. What’s through the gate at the other end of the park?”
We are too late. The woman and the child have gone and it’s just us and the stranger. He’s coming across unsteadily, and smiling as though he’s going to ask us the time or something.
Without turning to look at the man again, I say, “Roger, I think we’re in trouble.”
“Already on it,” Detective Inspector Dickinson says. “Leave it with me. I know how to handle it.”
I hope he really does know how to handle it. This is looking bad. Then it occurs to me. The two men are in it together! No wonder Detective Inspector Dickinson wanted to come to this particular park to talk. I’m going to die. The detective inspector wouldn’t have wanted to kill me in my office, because everyone knows he’d gone up there with me. But in the morning, someone’s dog is going to find my body in the bushes and start barking. So, so clever.
“Stand up and start walking,” the man says. “I have a gun.” His speech is slightly slurred. He’s been drinking, so he’s probably going to behave irrationally. Just like Bruno did when he had too much lager in the afternoon.
I glance at the detective inspector and he catches hold of my arm as though he doesn’t want me to leave him, even though my instincts are screaming at me to run and run and run. Shouting for help of course at the same time. If only I had my phone.
We were taught how to handle someone with a knife, but the recommendation was that unless we’re just about to be shot, it’s better to try to pacify a gunman and wait for them to make a mistake. The mistake I’ve made is coming here with DI Dickinson.
“The boss wants the book from your office, Mrs Jones,” the man says.
“Book?” That’s my first reaction. “What book? If you’re looking for a notebook, Sam didn’t leave one.” I say Sam, because I can’t think of any other reason for what’s happening.
“Do as he says,” the detective inspector says. He seems to be no help at all. Even so, I can’t really believe he’s in on this. He was with me in the office. He could have asked to borrow whatever book this man wants.
“The Police Driver's Handbook,” the man says.
It’s probably the tension, but I can’t help laughing. Al
most hysterically. “That book! There’s nothing valuable about that, I can assure you. I’ve looked through it a couple of times as part of my training. There’s nothing written in there, and not even a loose sheet of paper for a bookmark. I nearly didn’t bring it with me when I moved here.”
“Good thing you did,” the man says. “I know we’re rather late, but it’s taken a long time to crack the encryption on your husband’s phone. Now we’ve done that, we’ve seen a note about there being something special in that book. Now, just walk slowly, the pair of you, and we’re going back to your office, Mrs Jones, and I’m going to collect the book. And you, Detective Inspector Dickinson, well, the boss says I have to deal with both of you. It’s just a job to me.”
This certainly didn’t come in my training. I take a quick look backwards. The man has a folded newspaper over his arm, which is presumably concealing a handgun.
“We tried to get in,” the man says. His speech is slurred. He’s definitely drunk.
We? How many are there involved in Sam’s death?
“Your locks are too good, and we know you have an alarm you set in the daytime when you’re out.” The man stops for a moment and gives a loud belch. “I could kill you both here and take the keys, but you’d probably give me the wrong code to the alarm before I shot you.”
“You’re welcome to the book,” I say, trying to sound calm. “There’s no need to kill us. We don’t even know who you are.” As if that’s going to make a difference.
“The office,” the man says. “And you, Detective Inspector Dickinson, get your phone out of your pocket and throw it over to me. Slowly. Do it!”
Roger Dickinson does as he’s told. The man might be drunk, but his reflexes are still good enough to catch the phone with his free hand. He pushes it into his pocket. I can only hope this is not some elaborate trick the DI has dreamed up. Perhaps he has two phones, and is doing this to make me think he’s on my side.