The Coop

by E C Deacon

  “Okay. But–”

  “And now not only is her mobile missing but her laptop is too. Someone was in here.” She said it with such utter conviction that for the first time Everton felt a creeping inclination to believe her. But he was still a copper.

  “Okay. That’s interesting. I didn’t know that. But let’s look at the facts–”

  “I haven’t finished yet,” she said, taking the bills from his hand and pointing to another set of telephone numbers. “These are all Gina’s outgoing calls for the last month. Look how many of them are to the same number. Thirty-seven. More than one a day.”

  “Yeah, okay, that’s a lot. But it’s probably to one of her friends.”

  “I know all her friends. And I don’t recognise that number.”

  “You’re sure? I mean–”

  “I’ve already checked the contact numbers on my phone. It’s not there,” she said, offering him her mobile. “See for yourself if you don’t believe me.”

  Impressed by her tenacity, he shook his head.

  “I phoned it,” she said, as if to reinforce her point. “A man answered.”

  “Who was it?”

  “I don’t know. He asked who I was and when I told him he cut me off.”

  “Okay,” said Everton, taking out his mobile. “Let me have a go. What’s the number?”

  Laura gave it to him and watched him dial. “You won’t get anything. He’s switched it off.”

  She was right. And cynical as Everton was, he had to admit that it was odd. “Have you got anything else to drink?” he said. “Apart from coffee.”

  “There’s Scotch in the kitchen. But there’s no ice. The fridge is switched off.”

  “Neat is fine by me,” he replied, and followed her out towards the kitchen, deep in thought.

  As he did so, something caught his eye; something that would later, although he didn’t know it, threaten both their lives. It was a downy white feather drifting like a warning cloud across the hall floor in front of him.

  Members of Parliament had eight subsidised bars in which to toast their successes or drown their failures. Celia Lewis was meeting Conrad Lester, the mayor’s chief of staff, in the Smoking Room, which no longer allowed smoking and had therefore lost some of its appeal. But as such, it was a discreet venue for their meeting.

  Celia, who preferred intimate dinner parties rather than the Commons restaurants and bars, was not a frequent visitor but had been personally invited by Conrad Lester, a quietly spoken Old Etonian, and since he was the voice of the mayor she could hardly refuse.

  Drinks were ordered and small talk and canapés shared – pistachios for her, roasted salted almonds for him. Celia watched and waited as Lester put the monogrammed bowl aside, brushed his hands clean and finally came to the point.

  “As you know, Celia, the mayor’s office has issued a number of statements refuting these awful allegations made by the gutter press about your relationship with your daughter, asking them to respect you and your husband’s privacy, in what we appreciate must be a terrible time for you both.”

  “Thank you,” said Celia. “It’s not been easy but we are coping.”

  “That’s good to hear.” He held up his Tanqueray and tonic in a small toast and took a sip, savouring the citrus flavour.

  Celia watched him, mentally framing the appropriate words; the real reason for his invite. They duly came. “But the mayor feels that we still have a problem. We’re heading into the local by-elections…”

  “I know. I’m defending a marginal seat myself.”

  “A number of us are, unfortunately. And these child abuse scandals are becoming a real issue. Not just in Rotherham and Oxford but even closer to home, so to speak.”

  “Are you talking about Lambeth, and the rumours that MPs were involved?”

  “There are people sitting within fifty feet of us now who are implicated; powerful people with connections. And we’re not just talking about here, we’re talking about people from the ‘other place’ too.”

  “If they’re involved they need to be exposed. If we don’t do it, Conrad, the press will and we’ll be vilified for being involved in another cover-up.”

  “Absolutely, not to do so would be morally reprehensible. But we can’t run the risk of being accused of double standards.”

  There it was; the dagger was out of its sheaf. Celia took a sip of her orange juice and said as calmly as she could, “Are you asking for my resignation? Because if you are, that would imply that we really do have something to hide.”

  “We’re aware of that.”

  “I have explained my relationship with my daughter and family, in detail, to the Ethics Committee. I was under no parliamentary obligation to do so.”

  “Celia. No one has more admiration for you and your qualities than the mayor. Why do you think he appointed you chair of the committee in the first place? This is merely cosmetic; a way to kill off, if you’ll forgive me putting it that way, any further speculation.”

  “I’m sorry… I don’t understand,” said Celia, aware that her fingers were drumming on the table and that she was finding it difficult to control them.

  “All the mayor is asking is that you hold a press conference to–”

  “No!” The venom in her refusal surprised both Lester and herself. “I’m sorry. You asked me to release a statement and I did.”

  “And we’re extremely grateful. We all appreciate how difficult this has been for you.”

  “No, you don’t! How could you? It’s not your child who hung herself. It’s not you the press is hounding, that her friends are blaming. It’s me!” She could feel her voice rising and her tears welling. She bit them both back and continued, “She left nothing. Not even a note of explanation. Nothing! Do you know what that feels like to a mother?”

  “Celia–”

  “No! I haven’t finished! I loved my daughter – I still do despite everything – and I shouldn’t have to prove it to you or some grubby little shit of a journalist or anyone!”

  “Celia. No one, least of all the mayor, wants you to resign.”

  “Of course he bloody doesn’t.” She was on her feet now, her face flushed with anger, her hands trembling as she snatched up her bag. “It would reflect badly on his choice, wouldn’t it?”

  Lester stood and said evenly, “It is, of course, your decision.” Then, turned on his polished heel and walked purposefully out.

  Celia watched him go, loathing him and his practised concern, and her desperate need to please him.

  Everton relit his spliff and stretched out on his sofa to think.

  Laura was right. Something didn’t add up – not least Celia Lewis’ attitude. She and Laura were the only two people who’d had access to Gina’s house since the night of her suicide. One of them must have taken the laptop – and it wasn’t Laura. Or could someone else have been there? The mystery man on the telephone perhaps? But why was Celia so uninterested? Surely as a mother she’d have some concerns? And then there was the strange white feather.

  He took an envelope from his pocket and shook it out onto his palm. It was tiny, like down, and to his untrained eye looked like it came from the breast of a white bird. It appeared identical to the ones they’d found by the river.

  Could it just be a coincidence? Maybe it came from a different type of bird? Or from a pillow or a duvet or something? But Laura reckoned Gina had suffered from allergies and never used feather bedding and when he’d checked everything was foam – Whoa, he said to himself, I’m trying to build a link between a suicide, a bald woman in a river, and three women missing, presumed dead; because of a missing laptop and a feather! Shit. I have got to be stoned.

  He hauled himself up and headed for the bathroom. It wasn’t his favourite room. For a start, it didn’t have a bath, which he always thought was something of a prerequisite considering its title. Plus, the white tiling gave it too much of an institutional feel, even for a man with his Spartan tastes.

  Hel
en used to joke that he’d be happiest living in a place that he could hose down. Which was only partly true. He’d pared down his life like he’d pared down his emotional commitments, whether it was to the job or people, after the death of his marriage. The contrast between his flat and his comfortably shambolic marital home could not have been starker. And he liked it that way, or to be more precise, chose to live it that way.

  He pulled off his sweat pants and hoodie, stepped into the shower and groaned as his mobile and doorbell rang in unison. It could only be Helen. He pulled on his sweatpants, strode into the lounge, peered through the spyhole and yanked open the door. “Do you know what time it is?”

  “Do you want me to leave?”

  “What?”

  “Do you want me to go?” she repeated, brushing past him and inside.

  “You just walked in.”

  “I’ve had a shitty day,” she replied, as if no further explanation was needed.

  “And?”

  “Do you have any vodka?” she said, ignoring his question and opening the fridge to retrieve a bottle of Corona. “No. I forgot, you think it’s ‘girly’.”

  “Helen. Do you want to tell me what’s wrong?”

  “Everything. Where’s the opener?”

  “On the fridge door.”

  She prised the ‘Stay Calm Drink Beer’ magnet from the fridge door, pulling a face at the irony of it, and yanked off the bottle top. “Why are you always half-naked when I come around?”

  “Because I didn’t know you were coming around. I was in the shower. Now do you want to tell me what you want?”

  “I needed some company. Don’t worry, not like that – well, not unless you want to. Have you got any gear? I know you have, I can smell it.”

  “Yeah, but not when you’re driving. I’ll be back in a second.”

  He made his way back into the bathroom, wondering what had happened to upset her so much. Assuming that it must be something to do with her family, a subject that she rarely spoke about – like him. He turned off the shower, pulled on his hoodie and walked back into the lounge to ask her. She was laid out on the sofa, her eyes closed, cradling her beer. He watched her, remembering the comfort he’d found in her, the only woman he’d slept with since the end of his marriage, and her generosity, demanding nothing from him but respect.

  “Why are you staring at me?” she said without opening her eyes.

  “I’m not.”

  “Liar. I know I look a mess. Do I look a mess?”

  She did, and she hadn’t even bothered with her make-up.

  “You look a bit…vulnerable… It makes a pleasant change.”

  She opened her eyes, surprised by the cack-handed compliment, and smiled. “It wouldn’t really work, would it?”

  “Hey. A fuck is just a fuck. A friend is for life.”

  “Wow. That is possibly the nicest thing a man has ever said to me.”

  “Yeah?” Everton grinned. “I think it’s a lyric from a Jay-Z song.”

  Helen laughed and put her beer on the coffee table, right on top of the feather. She took a moment to register it, eased herself into a sitting position and plucked it off with her thumb and forefinger.

  “What’s this? It looks like one of our pieces of evidence.”

  “I know. You’re not going to believe this, but I found it in Gina Lewis’ house.”

  “Who?”

  “The woman who committed suicide.”

  “Seriously? It looks identical to the ones we found with Tessa Hayes. Hold on. What were you doing at Gina Lewis’ place?”

  “I’m the lead investigating officer. I got a call from one of her friends; she thinks there might have been someone else in the house with her when she died.”

  “Was there?”

  “Not that we know of. But her mobile and laptop are missing.”

  “Hm. Interesting.”

  “Yeah. And I didn’t tell Laura – her friend – but the autopsy report mentions that she had no pubic hair.”

  “She’d been shaved?”

  “Or she’d done it herself. Anyway, I thought it was worth checking out.”

  “Yeah,” said Helen, slumping wearily back on the sofa. “So today wasn’t all bad news.”

  Everton made his way over to the kitchen, opened a cupboard and pulled out a bottle of Mount Gay Rum. Poured a finger into a couple of shot glasses and handed her one.

  “Okay. Let’s hear it. Warts and all.”

  She pulled her mobile from the pocket of her jeans, hit the photo icon and handed it to Everton. “The family album. Enjoy.”

  Everton flipped through the bleak photos of her father and his hospital room in silence, knowing there was nothing he could say that would make her feel any better.

  He woke at 4am with a raging headache and a torrent of white noise in his head – the consequence of a spliff and half a bottle of Mount Gay. Helen lay naked beside him, wisps of her tangled hair covering her face like a veil and moving in rhythm with her boozy breath. He gently eased her arm from across his chest and turned his guilty face away from her, knowing that, despite his best intentions, he’d capitulated and taken advantage of the situation. That he’d failed again.

  Five hours later they were sipping cappuccinos, minus any froth, from a vending machine in the reception of the forensic lab, a cheerless room enlivened by red plastic chairs and a view of a red-brick wall.

  Helen, wolfing a Kit Kat, having missed breakfast to dash home and change before their appointment, shrugged away Everton’s apology. “Relax. I had a shitty day. I needed to get laid and you obliged. It’s no big deal. If anyone should be apologising it’s me not you. Anyway, it won’t happen again. I’m dating someone.”

  The revelation hit Everton like a slap. He wasn’t in love with Helen but still…

  “Don’t look so shocked. I haven’t slept with him yet and I didn’t want to last night, just because I was angry.”

  “Is that supposed to be a compliment?”

  “Oh, come on. I needed a bit of a cuddle. That’s what friends are for.”

  Everton surrendered and made his way into the gents to splash his face. He felt bilious and slightly unsteady on his feet, and keeling over in the laboratory was not a great option. He popped a couple of Nurofen and scooped some metallic-tasting tap water into his mouth to help them down. Then stood staring at his dripping face in the mirror, not liking what he saw. Why did he still feel so guilty? Helen didn’t and she was dating. He knew the answer but was too scared to admit it to himself. He ripped a couple of paper towels from the dispenser and dried his face. Even his skin hurt. Christ, he thought. What’s wrong with me? I’ve had no relationship with Laura Fell apart from on a professional level. Why should I feel I’ve betrayed her? It was pathetic.

  “You okay?” enquired Helen; who was standing waiting for him as he made his way out, alongside Teddy and a shaven-headed guy with Bowie incisors and a Morrissey T-shirt that matched his personality.

  “Yeah. No problem,” lied Everton.

  “This is James Noonan,” said Teddy. “Our bird man.”

  “Sorry,” apologised Noonan, wafting a bloody, surgically gloved hand in welcome. “Dismembering a contaminated liver.”

  “Cirrhosis?” offered Helen.

  “Knife wound,” said Noonan. “Right. Shall I show you what I’ve found?”

  He dumped his gloves into a surgical waste bin and led them towards a pair of double doors at the rear of the room.

  “You’re lucky,” said Teddy. “James is a rare breed of forensic pathologist in that one of his fields of excellence, ornithology, is also his hobby and his sport.”

  “You actually train pigeons?” Helen asked incredulously, as Noonan swiped his ID card and led them into a large custard-coloured room filled with a dizzying array of equipment and attendant technicians. “Forgive my ignorance, but why would you do that?”

  “You have to train them before you can race them,” he replied, as if talking to a child. “Ot
herwise they wouldn’t come back.”

  Helen, suitably chastised, said no more.

  Noonan, satisfied that his status was still intact, gestured them towards a tall, futuristic, chimney-like metal structure standing on top of one of the laboratory desks. “This is an electron microscope. I won’t bore you with the technical details; suffice to say it is very powerful indeed, allowing magnifications upwards of ten million times. Now, let me show you what you have here.”

  He lent down and peered into one of the viewfinders, talking as his pale hands deftly manipulated the various controls. “Okay. I examined four feathers in total; three from the blanket and this one from the house. In my opinion, this is the chest plumage of a rock dove. It’s been plucked from the bird, which is good news, because it’s likely to still contain traces of its DNA and, all being well, we can compare it to the ones on the blanket, by feather-sexing.”

  “It’s possible to tell all that just from a single feather?” asked Helen sceptically.

  Noonan didn’t dignify her with an answer.

  Teddy took pity on her and explained, “Biotechnology doesn’t just allow us to map the human genome but in theory the genome of every single living organism on the planet. It has huge potential, not just in forensic investigations but in medicine and–”

  “Can you confirm that these feathers are all from the same bird?” interrupted Everton, badly in need of fresh air, not a science lecture.

  “I can confirm that the plumage you previously sent me and this one are all from the same genus of bird, a rock dove, but the three I’ve tested are all from different individuals.”

  “That’s the end of that theory then,” sighed Helen.

  “Not necessarily,” said Noonan, removing the feather from under the electron microscope with a pair of small plastic tweezers. “What colour would you call this?”

  “White,” said Helen, wishing he’d get to the point.

  “Wrong,” said Noonan, placing the feather back under the microscope. “Try again.”

  Helen, irritated by Noonan’s patronising attitude, shot Everton a look and peered through the viewing lens again. “Oh, my God. It’s pink, not white.”