by E C Deacon
“Hello. Is anyone there? Hello? Mum! They’re not answering.”
“No. No. It’s okay,” spluttered Everton, embarrassed that he hadn’t recognised his own son’s voice. “It’s me, Adam. Your dad.”
The voice at the other end of the line went quiet. Everton had a vision of him holding the mobile up to his mother and rolling his eyes.
“Listen, how’s the team doing? Your mum said they’d made you captain? Adam? Are you still there? Adam…?”
“Mum! It’s him.”
Then he was gone. Not even a goodbye. Just a dull thud as the mobile was tossed onto the sofa or something. Everton wasn’t sure if he’d been cut off, until Pauline’s self-assured voice cut in.
“I can’t talk now. I’m helping Adam with his homework.”
“At ten o’clock?”
“He’s fifteen, Everton. He’s doing his GCSEs. They get lots of homework.” She was tired and didn’t deliberately intend it as a criticism of his ignorance but it still hurt. He tried not to show it.
“So how many is he doing? Six, isn’t it?”
“Eight.”
“Oh. Great. How are they going?”
“Why don’t you ask him yourself?”
“He won’t speak to me.”
“You’re his father,” she said, lowering her voice for privacy. “Make an effort.”
“I am. I went to see him play the other day.”
“He didn’t say.”
“No… He didn’t know I was there. I didn’t want to upset him.”
“It’s obviously not working.”
They were off again, pounding the same treadmill and getting nowhere. Pauline knew it herself and changed the subject. “How’s your balance?”
“They’re doing some more tests. Can we meet?”
“To talk about what? The settlement?”
“No. I need some help.”
“Christ, Everton, let it go. Just give him some time. Please.”
“It’s not that. The woman we found in the river, the one who interested you…”
“Tessa Hayes?” He could hear the sudden spike of curiosity in her voice and made her wait for a moment to whet her appetite. “Well, go on then.”
“We think the attack on her may be linked to three other missing women. Meet me and I’ll tell you why.”
Pauline knew that if Everton had something for her he’d want something in return. The gifts between them had dried up long ago. She was huddled on a bench near the windmill on Wimbledon Common, waiting for him; something she seemed to have spent most of her married life doing. A dog was haring in loony patterns in front of her in forlorn pursuit of the bored crows that effortlessly flapped up into the blustery wind whenever it got within striking distance. My God, she thought. It has got to be male. Only a male could be that stupid.
Despite her caustic commentary, Pauline wasn’t a feminist. On the contrary, feminism bored her almost as much as politics, which was interesting considering she thought of herself as a serious journalist. She’d never vehemently campaigned for or against anything in the whole of her eighteen-year career. She viewed her work with the emotional detachment of a surgeon, looking for the narrative rather than the emotional structure of the stories she covered. They were always meticulously researched and concisely written, but a critic might observe that they lacked heart, almost as if the writer distrusted themselves emotionally. Which, in a sense, Pauline did.
It started the night that she lost her virginity. She was on a sixth-form camping trip to the Lake District and told the boy as he came, “At this moment, I love you.” And the next morning as they struck camp she heard him sniggering about it to his mates.
Strange, she thought, as she watched Everton drive up the access road towards the car park, how a simple, naive, expression of love could be turned into something ugly and stay with you like an invisible birthmark. How the smallest things in the distant past stained the future. She wished she’d told Everton to help him understand her need for some emotional separation, but it was too late now. Now she was dating again and she’d probably make the same demands and mistakes all over again.
After their separation, she signed up to a few dating sites, even went out on a couple of dates, but what could she do with a fifteen-year-old son waiting for her at home and constantly phoning to check on her? Have sex in the back of a car? No, she was too old for that. It would have been easier if Adam had agreed to spend the weekends with Everton but he’d refused. He blamed Everton and his job for the break-up and was determined to punish him, which wasn’t entirely fair; it was a mutual decision but actually prompted by her. She felt she’d outgrown Everton. He was only ever going to be what he was: a solid beat copper, a “plod”. He’d lost what little ambition he had and she hadn’t. She was still hungry for more, like the dog chasing the crows – only she’d catch whatever she was chasing.
“That dog has lost its marbles,” Everton hollered as he trudged up the gravel drive behind her. “He’ll never catch them.”
She called back, “So must I be, agreeing to meet here.” She stood and negotiated her way across the shallow ditch separating them, grumbling, “It’s freezing.”
“Yeah, sorry. I needed somewhere private.”
She looked around at the joggers and dog walkers traversing the windswept common. “This is private?”
“Here, if anyone’s watching us, I can see them doing it.”
She grunted, not entirely getting the logic, but let it go and said, “So why the secrecy?”
He unzipped his parka and indicated a sheaf of papers inside. “These are copies of the case notes on Tessa Hayes and the other three missing women.”
“You think they’re dead?”
“Yes, and probably murdered by the same man. The man that abducted Tessa Hayes and – here’s the kicker – also knew Gina Lewis.”
“That MP’s daughter who committed suicide?”
“If it was.”
“Wow. And you’re going to give them to me?”
“Yes…”
She felt the “but” coming and she was right.
“But I need something from you first,” he said, re-zipping the parka like he was closing a safe. “Some confidential information that I can’t be seen to be looking for, but you can.”
“Because it’s illegal?”
“Because I’m a cop and I’m being leant on. Do you want them or not?”
Pauline stared at Everton, thinking she could have seriously underestimated him, and nodded her acceptance.
Iris Costa’s round-robin email about the Friday film night had largely gone unanswered. Frieda hoped to make it, being a fan of French films, but Rust and Bone would not have been her choice. She’d have preferred something with a little more Gallic flare and a little less brutality.
Iris was relieved when she did eventually turn up because no other member of the group had arrived at the Richmond Curzon. It was disappointing because she’d arranged the evening in the hopes of reuniting the friends, and with Don Hart finally out of the picture she felt more comfortable about meeting Laura again. But Laura, like the others, hadn’t even bothered to answer her email.
Colin Gould saw the earlier five o’clock screening and then watched Iris and Frieda’s arrival from the window seat in the Watermans Arms opposite, noting that both his tormentors, Don Hart and Megan, hadn’t turned up. After they were safely inside he made his way to Vestry House on Paradise Road and spent a desultory hour and a half killing time by looking at an exhibition of tepid watercolours by local artists. Ninety minutes later, he hot-footed it back to the Curzon to wait for Iris and Frieda to emerge from the cinema.
They were as surprised to see him as he claimed to be them. And barely hesitated before accepting his offer of a drink. They sat upstairs in the perennially empty dining room of the Watermans, away from the crush downstairs. Colin insisted on buying a bottle of house Chardonnay and some Thai hors d’oeuvres to nibble as they talked. He seemed muc
h more like his old self and was keen to get their reaction to the film; lying that he’d never seen it, but that it was high on his bucket list.
They spent a pleasant hour critiquing the movie, and French films in general, and when last orders were called Colin insisted on giving them both a lift home. Frieda had her car but Iris accepted, knowing that it would give the two of them the chance to talk more openly. They took the shortcut to the car park, turning right down Water Lane and right again, walking with their heads down against the blustery wind and along the Thames towpath.
“I want to apologise for what I did. Not for what I said, because I did love Gina and we did have a relationship… a special relationship.”
The vehemence of Colin’s outburst took Iris by surprise and it took her a moment to compose her response. “The ‘special man’ she met… that was you?”
He gave an almost imperceptible nod and said, as much to himself as her, “She made me promise to keep it secret… until she was sure… and then this happened. I don’t understand why she would do this to me. That’s why I went to talk to her parents… to try and make sense of it… but I shouldn’t have done that, just turn up like that, without them knowing, and upset them even more. They had every right to be angry… You all did… especially you, because, well, you and me, we’ve been more than close.”
“Colin. There was never anything between us; you may have wanted it but there wasn’t.”
He remembered her over-eager tongue when she invited him to a “traditional Greek meal” at her cottage and thought, Christ, what a hypocrite. But accusing her now would not serve his purpose. That could wait. He merely repeated his hollow apology. “Anyway, I’m sorry about what happened… and I hope we can be friends again.”
He waited for her to reply but she merely smiled. They walked on in silence and turned right onto Friars Lane. He could feel her watching him, judging him, out of the corner of her eye and, as they entered the car park, knew he was running out of time.
“I would never intentionally hurt you, Iris. I hope you know that.”
“Well, I’m disappointed you weren’t more honest with me, but I accept your apology.”
“Thank you,” he said, opening the passenger door for her. “I’d like to try and apologise to Megan too. I phoned and left a message but she didn’t ring back.”
“That’s Megan, I’m afraid. She’s not as forgiving as me. She’s not speaking to Frieda either.”
“That’s a shame. Is that why she didn’t come tonight?”
“Actually,” said Iris. “I haven’t heard from her for days. I was getting a bit concerned.”
She was right to be. Because when she finally visited Megan’s Lower Richmond Road flat two days later, Iris found the lights on but got no response to her knocks at the door. Concerned, she made her way to the back of the mansion block, up the rusting cast-iron fire escape and onto the second-floor balcony.
She didn’t find Megan. But her dog lay dead under a cloud of voracious flies.
The local police were called and forced entry into the flat. But they found nothing apart from empty wardrobes and a pair of women’s panties on the sofa.
Don Hart read about the arrest of Philip Tann and felt a huge sense of relief. His son’s complaint against the detective now looked even more plausible, which meant the Met would in all probability quietly drop the doping case against him. So, he was doubly frustrated to find Everton and Helen rapping on the newly repaired front door of his Tooting semi.
“You want to see me, phone and make an appointment. Don’t just turn up here and expect me to start answering bullshit questions about something I know nothing about.”
He stood in a white velour dressing gown and matching monogrammed Hilton open-toed slippers, like he’d just crawled out of bed. Helen smiled to herself, wondering if he’d stolen it directly from the hotel or it had fallen off the back of a lorry. Either way, he didn’t look as good as he thought he did in it.
“We did try and phone, Mr Hart. But the mobile number Miss Fell gave us was unavailable?”
“Yeah,” said Don, more watchful now on hearing where they’d got his details from. “I stood on it. Had to get a new one.”
“Maybe you could give us your new number, in case we need to contact you again?”
“Leave me your card. I’ll text it to you.”
“You can’t remember it?”
“It’s new.”
Helen knew he was being obstructive but had no other option than to hand him her card. He barely gave it a glance before pocketing it in his dressing gown.
“You want to tell me what this is about? I was told that Gina Lewis committed suicide?”
“We’re investigating some articles that appear to have gone missing from her Wimbledon home,” said Everton, avoiding a direct answer. “Her mobile and laptop.”
“Well, I haven’t got them,” declared Don, suspecting he wasn’t being told the whole story, because in his experience it didn’t take two coppers to investigate a bit of thieving. “I don’t think I’ve ever been to her house. Who told you I had? Laura?”
“We asked her to compile a list of Gina’s friends who were at the Chill Out on the night of her suicide. You were evidently expected but didn’t make it. Where were you?”
Don ignored the question and slouched into the kitchen, calling over his shoulder as he went, “I’m assuming you don’t want tea.”
Undeterred, Helen tracked him into the small but surprisingly tidy room, which looked like it had rarely, if ever, been cooked in. “I ask because Laura Fell said that she tried to ring you repeatedly but your mobile was off.”
“Like I said, it’s knackered. I phoned her back later to apologise.”
“Why? Were you dating?”
“We had a thing for a while. She used to call me her ‘bit of rough’,” he said with a barely concealed smirk. “Some women like that.”
“Really? Do you enjoy being rough with women, Mr Hart?”
“It was a figure of speech, and not mine.”
“I see. Was there any reason you changed your mind about going to the Chill Out that night?”
“I didn’t change my mind. I was going but my son got mugged.”
Everton appeared in the doorway beside Helen, echoing, “Mugged?”
“Yeah. Some black bastard jacked his mobile.”
Everton ignored the dig and said, “Where was this?”
“South Wimbledon. I was on my way to The Telegraph when I got his call.”
“You were lucky.”
“My son had just got mugged, mate. I don’t call that lucky.”
“I mean that your mobile was working again.”
“You don’t believe me, check with him. He’ll confirm everything I just told you.”
“Of course he will. You whistle and he barks.”
Helen couldn’t believe the aggressive change of tone in Everton. He seemed to have taken a genuine dislike to Don. She assumed it was because of his sexist remarks about Laura Fell.
“If you’re going to be a smartarse, mate, you can piss off out of it. Okay?”
“My pleasure, mate. Give my best to Richie. Be seeing you.”
Helen watched Everton go, wondering what in God’s name had got into him.
Driving back to the nick, she found out.
“He’s lying,” growled Everton.
“Yeah, and you weren’t exactly subtle about letting him know it.”
“Guys like that, you need to rattle their cage a bit.”
“Just as long as that’s all it was.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“Nothing. Do you want to tell me how you know he was lying?”
Everton pulled out a photograph from his inside pocket and said, “I borrowed this from the lounge. It’s Hart and his son, Richie.”
“So?”
“I know him. Richie didn’t get jacked in South Wimbledon. He and his junkie girlfriend were trying to mug a Rasta guy on Wi
mbledon Ridgway.”
“How do you know that?”
“Because I took the shout. The guy fought back and beat the shit out of them. They tried to stitch him up, called us and claimed he attacked them.”
“So why would Hart lie about it?”
“I don’t know. But he wasn’t there. And wherever he was, he wasn’t on his way to The Telegraph either.”
Lost and found
The number of officers working on the case had grown to nine, and the investigation had been given a formal name: Riverbank. The team – six men and three women – were gathered around Helen, who was updating them on the latest developments.
“We’ve run a CRO check on Don Hart and he’s got form. In 2014 he was involved in a doping ring, targeting dog tracks in the Midlands. He was accused of supplying and administering the drugs used on the greyhounds.”
“He was acquitted,” corrected Clarke, keen to establish his status in front of the new team.
“Yeah, on a technicality, but he was subsequently banned by the GBOG from any connection with the sport. He’s now under investigation again by the Fraud Squad.”
“I’ve spoken to Catford nick. That case is on hold. One of the investigating team battered his wife to death.”
“Not a great career move,” grunted Teal.
“Yeah. Hart, for the foreseeable future, is unlikely to be charged with anything.”
This was unwelcome news to Helen and further proof that Clarke was intent on undermining the missing-women enquiry.
“Don’t you think it might have been useful to share that information?”
“I’m sharing it now,” replied Clarke, turning towards Teal and directing the rest of his comments to him. “And I’ve got to be honest, guv, I still don’t see how any of this connects Hart to Gina Lewis and the other missing women.”
“I’m getting to that,” interrupted Helen. “We know that Hart lied about his son being mugged but also, critically, about the time. He maintains that he received a distress call from Richie whilst he was travelling to The Telegraph pub. But if he was travelling at ten thirty he’d have been far too late to meet Laura Fell or any of the others.”