The Coop

by E C Deacon

  Everton saw it immediately, sat and played dumb. “Who?”

  “Come on. That Farnham woman who was found in the River Wandle. Is there a connection?”

  Everton gave a non-committal shrug and picked up the Metro from her lap, indicating the photograph of Celia Lewis on the front page. “I was the one who found her daughter,” he said, fanning himself with the paper.

  “Yeah,” said Pauline, not overly interested in what she perceived as old news. “Tell me about these missing women.”

  Everton laughed out loud and said, “Christ. You’re never off, are you?”

  “It’s my job. Like yours is being a cop.”

  “I hate being a cop.”

  “Then give it up. Retire.”

  “And give you half my pension?”

  “I’ll get it anyway.”

  “You don’t deserve it.”

  “That’s a matter of opinion. It’s the law. I’m bringing up your son.”

  “I’m paying for it.”

  “He’s well by the way, in case you forgot to ask.”

  Everton stood and looked out of the dusty window, turning his back on his pretty blonde wife and her pain and hiding his. “It’s not right, using Adam to punish me.”

  “I don’t. He’s fourteen. He’s quite capable of doing it himself.”

  She watched his shoulders slump as the barb hit home and for a second almost felt sorry for him. Then he gave a little shuffle sideways, tottered and fell against the window.

  Everton could hear Pauline’s worried voice through the static rushing through his head, but he couldn’t respond. The floor had turned to sponge beneath his feet. The last thing he remembered was falling to his knees and looking up to into the concerned eyes of Fiona Gale, their mediation lawyer.

  “Mr Bowe? Everton… Are you alright?”

  He vomited in response. Looking down at the sour pool of stew on the Persian rug, he wondered how much more the consultation was going to cost him.

  Pauline insisted on giving him a lift home despite his protests that it was just his vertigo playing up. She joked about him playing for the sympathy vote, but he could see how concerned she was, and was surprised how much comfort it gave him, knowing that part of her still cared for him. She caught his smile and asked him what he was thinking about.

  “Nothing,” he replied, not wanting to ruin the moment. “Don’t tell Adam about what happened. Okay? I don’t want him to worry.”

  She smiled and nodded. He looked back out of the passenger-seat window, knowing – and happy – that she undoubtedly would.

  Later, in his flat, whilst reading the copy of the Metro he’d filched from Pauline, who’d insisted he keep it on his lap in case he threw up in her car, another wave of vertigo swept over him. This time he was ready for it. He lit a spliff, lay flat on his back and began rolling his head from side to side as he focused on a laminate card, printed with the letter W, stuck on the ceiling.

  Frieda phoned Laura to fill her in about the meeting at The Wharf. She’d subsequently heard from an irate Colin Gould that he received an email stating that he was no longer welcome at the Chill Out. And that when he phoned Megan for an explanation, she put the receiver down on him.

  Laura could hear from the burr in her voice that she’d been drinking and suggested they meet for a coffee, but Frieda cried off. She just wanted to let her know that she was resigning from the club and that, as a friend, she was disappointed Laura hadn’t shared the news of Gina’s will with her, rather than her having to hear it second-hand from Colin.

  It was a gentle rebuke, but hurt Laura nevertheless, because it was true. Floundering in her own confusion, she’d told no one, reasoning that it was no one’s business but her own – except now it was. And it wasn’t just the Lewis family who felt betrayed by their daughter, but now seemingly her own friends.

  She felt bereft and the summons from Merton Council that arrived the following morning was the last straw. It was from the Traffic Enforcement Centre and contained a grainy black-and-white still downloaded from a CCTV camera on Putney Hill, showing her car jumping the red light on the night of Gina’s suicide. It warned her that she had thirty days to pay the hundred-pound fine unless there were any mitigating circumstances.

  “Mitigating bloody circumstances!” she exploded, ripping the summons to pieces and throwing it into the wicker basket.

  Everton was rudely awoken by Laura’s phone call. He listened patiently to her complaint because, in truth, he had a stinking hangover and he couldn’t think of anything to say. But then, he surprised himself by promising to intervene to get the ticket rescinded and suggested they meet for a coffee.

  Cutting the connection, he wondered what the hell he’d just done. Being the first cop on the scene of the suicide made him technically the lead officer, but with no suspicious circumstances it was a relatively simple case, despite Mrs Lewis’ involvement. He’d therefore mentally put it on the back-burner until the inquest, which would be weeks away and well out of the press spotlight if the Lewis family and their high-ranking friends had any influence. So why was he involving himself now? He already knew the answer, even if he couldn’t admit it to himself. For the first time since he discovered his wife’s affair and his trust was shattered, he actually felt something for someone. And it wasn’t sex, unlike with Helen Lake who, at first, he’d slept with to punish his wife for her betrayal. It was something deeper than that and ultimately more dangerous, especially for a cop. Empathy.

  Laura had been a Friend of Kew Gardens for over ten years. Having no outside space of her own, she used it as her back garden. And since it was barely a five-minute stroll away from her flat, it was perfect for her. She preferred it out of season, when there weren’t too many tourists and you could walk the far-flung corners without seeing another soul. Especially on weekdays when people were at work. It gave her time to think, and today she had a lot to think about.

  Only five weeks ago, she invited a group of friends to the September Kew Music Festival, one of a series of open-air concerts held every year in the grounds. The lead act was a Brazilian samba band, whose vocalist – an extraordinary woman who sounded like a man – must have been in her eighties. They queued for an hour to get in and ran to claim their picnic spot, laying out various blankets, plastic plates and glasses; along with barbecued chicken, numerous salads, French bread and wine.

  Don Hart loved it and insisted on teaching Laura to samba, which he knew nothing about. Everyone fell about laughing at his inept attempts until Gina pushed him aside and grabbed Laura’s arm, and the pair performed a brilliant duet, Gina taking the male role. Everyone stood and clapped and toasted them with Prosecco. Don claimed it was the sexiest dance he’d seen since “a bird with a snake in From Dusk Till Dawn” – a film no one had ever heard of, let alone seen. Still, it was terrific fun and everyone “oohed” along with the firework finale and vowed to do it again next year.

  Now, as she wandered past the towering spikes of echiums and silver agaves in the Princess of Wales Conservatory, killing time before she met Everton, she wondered where it had all gone. How easily their friendships fractured, exposing the petty jealousies concealed beneath. She’d done nothing, yet events conspired to portray her as greedy and manipulative and her erstwhile friends had so readily accepted it. Her mind was reeling. She wanted to phone Megan, who she knew was the ringleader, but was too angry. Christ, she wasn’t the one who’d been betrayed – she was by Megan Howell. And the others had just followed like lemmings.

  “Excuse me, please.”

  A lone Japanese tourist smiled at her and held up his camera, miming to ask if she’d take his photograph beside the Princess of Wales plaque. She walked straight past him, seeing nothing but her own pain. Lemmings. Don Hart was right, she thought, when he’d called them that. He may have had his own selfish reasons – he may even be a crook as Colin Gould claimed – but he was still right about them. Her supposed friend Iris and her (not so) secret phone calls to
Don. Frieda, who had initially defended her but felt obliged to “share” her disappointment at her behaviour. They’d all appointed themselves judge and jury. She shook her head, irritated at her frailty. What would her father think of her? Had she forgotten everything he taught her about having the courage of her convictions and doing the right thing no matter what the personal cost? She dabbed her eyes with a tissue and blew her nose hard into it, ridding herself of her doubts, and strode out to meet PC Bowe.

  Everton Bowe was having a rough morning too. True to his word, he phoned Merton Traffic Department on the direct police line and explained the extenuating circumstances of Laura’s ticket, but he got short shrift. Whilst the supervisor sympathised with her position, he pointed out to Bowe that she’d had no knowledge of her friend’s suicide at the time of the offence and was therefore still culpable. Everton thanked him for nothing and slammed the receiver down. Then promptly picked it up again, redialled the automatic payment line, entered Laura’s ticket number and paid the fine himself.

  So, when he exited Rock and Rose, the fourth on the list of garden-related bars and pubs in Kew, in which absolutely no one recognised Tessa Hayes’ photograph – he was not pleased to discover a traffic warden issuing him a ticket.

  “Whoa. Hold on. I’m a copper,” he said, flashing his warrant card.

  The warden, a benign-looking Indian chap in his fifties, was nothing of the sort. “Then you should know better than to park in a restricted zone,” he said, pointing to an UNLOADING ONLY sign.

  “I’m on duty.”

  “And I’m doing mine, mate,” he replied, tapping Everton’s car registration details into his handheld computer.

  Everton pulled out his notebook, gave his pencil a theatrical lick and said, “Name?”

  The warden was not going to be intimidated and pointed to his ID badge. “Ravi Gupta. My number is below it. Please use it in all communications with the traffic department.”

  “Ravi Gupta. I’m arresting you on suspicion of aggravated vehicle-taking, under Section 12 of the Theft Act–”

  “What…?”

  “You do not have to say anything but anything you do say–”

  “No! You can’t… What are you doing?”

  “My job, mate. You match the description of a car thief we’ve been looking for. Hold out your hands,” ordered Everton, producing a pair of handcuffs and flicking them open.

  The warden faltered momentarily, but stood his ground. “No! This is harassment. I’ll complain.”

  “Be my guest. My number is 3339. You can fill out a complaint form down at the nick.”

  “Alright! Okay. Alright… Look, I’ll let you off with a warning this time,” said the warden, cancelling the input on his computer and beating a hasty retreat.

  “Ditto,” replied Everton. “Have a nice day.”

  He pulled out a packet of Rothmans and lit one up in celebration of a job well done. Then he perched on the bonnet of his Ford Focus, ignoring the rain, determined to enjoy the ritual. He placed the cigarette lightly between his lips, rid his lungs of air, and slowly sucked the delicious smoke back in, holding it to cool in his mouth, letting it wash across his tongue, savouring the taste before finally taking it down into his lungs.

  Helen’s phone call rudely interrupted him. “Where are you?”

  “Where you sent me. Kew.”

  “Any luck?”

  “Not yet. But you missed some off your list. The Glasshouse, The Cricketers, The Rose and Crown–”

  “I don’t need an inventory. Did you ask about their CCTV?”

  “Those that have it – a lot don’t – usually wipe it after seven days.”

  “Shit. Okay. Get anything they still have.”

  “I already have. But it’s going to be a slog, just you and me going through them.”

  “I know. Let’s hope we can pin it down or we’re in for some long nights.”

  Everton toyed with the idea of making a crack, thought better of it and said, “And no overtime. Terrific.”

  She was standing outside the Victoria Gate entrance to the Gardens, sheltering from the rain under a green National Trust golf umbrella. Everton didn’t recognise her at first. For a cop, he had a poor memory for faces, but curiously almost a photographic one for facts, which somewhat compensated for it.

  His mother, Eileen, first noticed it when he was eight years old and he wrote his homework essay backwards. Not just from right to left on the page, but with each word backwards and correctly spelt. His primary teacher was stunned and suggested that he might need to see a child behavioural psychologist. Eileen, who would defend her sons, right or wrong and to the death, was affronted and categorically refused. But when, five weeks later, it happened again in a history class, she finally relented. The psychologist, a twitchy guy who looked like he needed therapy himself, diagnosed Everton with Development Co-ordination Disorder. Eileen, who’d never heard of dyspraxia, was warned that it was a lifelong condition and that her son would need long-term rehabilitation classes – neither of which, it transpired, were true, since Everton never had an episode again. Eileen’s mother called it the “Lord’s work”. But Eileen had seen too much suffering to put her faith in the Lord, so she put her faith in herself and her two boys.

  Everton pulled his unmarked police car to a halt thirty metres past the gate on a single yellow line and tooted his horn. Laura briefly looked up from beneath her umbrella and, not recognising the car, ignored him. He tried again and carefully reversed past a black cab, which had stopped on the double yellow lines, mistaking Laura for a punter. The cabbie, then mistaking Everton for a minicab driver, began hurling abuse and honking his horn in complaint. Everton, who’d had enough aggravation for one day, ignored him. He pulled up beside Laura and powered the passenger window down.

  “Miss Fell? It’s me. PC Bowe.”

  Laura didn’t recognise him for a moment. He looked different out of uniform; less imposing. Ordinary. “Oh, sorry. I thought you were a minicab.”

  “Yeah, so does Mr Angry.” Everton grinned as the black cab U-turned past them, the cabbie giving him the finger, and disappeared in search of more willing prey. “Climb in.”

  Laura collapsed her sopping umbrella and eased herself into the passenger seat, propping it in the footwell. “You’re not in a uniform. Are you not on duty?”

  “I’ve been seconded to CID.”

  “Ah,” she said, not really knowing what it meant. Realising she must look a mess, she dabbed her face with a tissue and said rather obviously, “It’s horrible out there… The rain…”

  “Tell me about it,” said Everton. “I’ve been traipsing all over Kew looking for a pub or a bar with a name related to the Gardens.”

  “You mean Kew Gardens?”

  “Yeah. You know, like The Rose and Crown, The Plough, The Magpie…”

  “What about The Botanist? It’s a bar on the corner of Kew Green. Near the main entrance.”

  Everton rechecked Helen’s list. The Botanist was not on it. He slewed the car round, in a tight U-turn and headed for Kew Green.

  Laura sat on the faux-leather window seat, watching Everton, who was deep in conversation with the bar’s garrulous Australian manager, wondering what on earth she was doing? She’d phoned Everton not about the traffic ticket but because she needed someone to vent her anger to, and there was no one else. She wasn’t a bitter person by nature and had been thrown by the depths of the resentment she felt. And now she’d agreed to meet him for a coffee. The surly cop who trampled all over her dead friend’s flowers and didn’t believe a word she said about seeing someone in Gina’s house. Christ, she thought, I can’t be that lonely.

  Everton returned to the table carrying two large cups of cappuccino.

  “Sorry it’s taking so long. They’re just checking through their CCTV. Would you like a cupcake? They’re evidently home-made, but not on the premises.”

  The tiny joke was lost on her. She shook her head and pushed an unruly lock of b
londe hair behind her ear, allowing herself to lift the cup to her lips. Everton watched her, for a moment, her long slender fingers cradling the cup, and long slender neck arching down like an antelope to drink. Then, catching himself, he turned abruptly back towards the manager, who was waiting behind the wrap-around bar.

  Laura, who’d seen him watching her, killed the time by destroying the cocoa-powder B, sprinkled onto the frothy milk of her coffee, with her spoon.

  “Sorry.”

  She looked up. Everton was seating himself opposite her, carrying a clear plastic bag containing a small memory card, which he placed in a folder alongside a number of others, and Tessa Hayes’ photograph.

  “Is she on there?”

  “I don’t know yet. It’s the right date but we’ll need to check it out properly back at the station. None of the staff recognised her photo.”

  Laura gave an involuntary shiver and whispered, “It gives me the creeps.”

  “Sorry,” said Everton. “I didn’t mean to frighten you. I shouldn’t really have told you.”

  “No. I meant… I’ve actually met guys here myself.”

  “You mean on blind dates?”

  “From online dating sites.”

  “Surely you don’t need – sorry… I meant that as a compliment, not…”

  Laura managed a small smile and said quietly, “London is full of lonely people.”

  Everton wasn’t sure if it was an observation or if she was speaking from personal experience. He’d lived in London all his life and he’d never felt really lonely. Even after the break-up of his marriage, he’d regrouped, taken stock and got on with his life. He suspected he never really felt strongly about anything, apart from his guilt over the death of his brother and the estrangement of his son.

  “Were you… ever married?”

  “It nearly happened a couple of times,” she replied, non-committal.

  “I didn’t mean to be personal. Sorry.”