Faithfully: Chase & Halshaw #1 (12 page)

Chase parked his Mondeo in the cul-de-sac, opposite the
small terrace of modern houses. The third house along stood out: its paintwork
was flawless, and its uPVC windows gleamed unnaturally white.

He checked his notes one more time. 5 Sutton Mews was the
address she had given to Ken Thomas, four days and a lifetime ago. He clambered
out of the car, marched up to the navy blue front door and rapped briskly on
the gleaming brass knocker.

No reply.

He took a step back. The afternoon was gloomy, and there
seemed to be lights on inside the house, but there were no signs of movement.

Then he noticed a white plastic bell push to one side of the
door. He pushed it tentatively, then again, harder.

This time the door opened almost immediately. “Oh hello,
Inspector,” she smiled. “Come in, please.”

“Thank you, Mrs Birkdale,” he replied, wiping his shoes
scrupulously on the doormat before setting foot on the pristine beige carpet.

“Come and sit down,” she continued, ushering him into a
compact but pleasantly light and airy lounge and offering him a seat on the
cream leather sofa.

“Tea or coffee?” she asked, with a smile.

“Coffee, please. Milk and two sugars.”

“Coming up.” Her smiled broadened further. “Make yourself at
home, Inspector. I won’t be a moment.”

Chase leant back on the sofa and rubbed his face wearily.
What a week! Halshaw was as delightful and as infuriating as ever. He’d
forgotten how much he enjoyed her company, but she wasn’t the easiest person to
work with. Challenging, that was the word his DS had used at one of his annual
appraisals, years ago, when he was a young and eager DC. Just like Lauren
Halshaw, in fact.

And what on earth had got into him when he agreed to take on
three cases at once, even with Halshaw to help him? It wasn’t just that Dave
Kelmarsh and Bryn Lewis were linked to two of them. That was a major
coincidence, of course, though he had been a copper for long enough to know how
often coincidences happen. No, there was something there, some connection
between the break-in at Amy Birkdale’s flat, Lucy Faith’s murder, and the
Chiltern Park burglaries. But what? He could sense an idea forming, hovering
just out of reach. It would come, he knew, in time. But he didn’t have much
time, with Chief Superintendent Royce breathing down his neck. If only he
wasn’t so tired…

He twisted round and looked at the photos on the shelf
behind him. In the first, a gawky teenage Amy struggled to hold a lively white
Cairn Terrier puppy. The second was a wedding photo, in which a much younger
Anna Birkdale, delicately beautiful in white dress and veil, looked up
adoringly at her handsome groom, who gazed out of the photo commandingly, his
jaw jutting. An alpha male if ever I saw one, Chase thought. Just like
something out of Mills and Boon. The third photo was an old colour print, the
unnatural tones muted with age. It showed a pretty blonde child and an adult
couple, posing in front of a two-tone Ford Anglia. The man, who stared grimly
at the camera, wore a tweed jacket and a soft collar and tie, topped off with a
jaunty corduroy cap. The fair haired woman with him was smiling gaily.

“Milk and sugar?” Anna asked, proffering a laden tray.

“Thanks.” Chase poured a generous portion of milk and two
spoonfuls of sugar into the china mug nearest to him, and seized two Hob-Nob
biscuits.

She laid the tray on the coffee table in front of the sofa,
picked up her own mug, and sat in the armchair opposite him, her legs curled up
beneath her. “What brings you here, Inspector? Any news?”

He sipped his coffee. “We’ve made some progress, of course,
but I’m sure Amy’s told you all about that already.”

“Oh, Inspector!” she smiled. “She never tells me anything!”

“Why’s that?”

“Because I’m her Mum, that’s why!” She smiled again.

Chase noticed for the first time how beautiful her smile
was. While Amy’s full lips gave her a somewhat petulant look, her mother’s
radiant smile lit up her face. Will Amy look as good when she’s that age, he
wondered.

“Do you have children, Inspector? If so, you probably know
yourself. Or ask their mother. She’ll tell you.”

“I don’t have any children, Mrs Birkdale.”

Her smile seemed to soften. “Oh, I’m sorry. Are on your
own?”

He nodded, and sipped his coffee again.

“Married to the job, I bet.”

“Not really,” he replied. “My wife was married to her job.
That was the problem.”

“She wasn’t a copper too, was she?”

“No. A teacher.”

“Even worse,” Anna replied, with a wry twist to her smile.
“So anyway. What should my darling daughter have told me?”

“Well, for one thing, we’ve a shrewd idea who broke into her
flat.”

“Who was it?”

“I can’t tell you yet.”

“Why not?”

“I can’t tell you that either.” He noticed her look of
disappointment and added quickly “…but I think Amy might have been right.”

“How do you mean?”

Chase yawned. “I’m pretty sure this was a copycat. Not
connected to the other Chiltern Park burglaries at all.”

“Oh,” she replied, thoughtfully. “You mean it’s got
something to do with her work, like she said?”

“We’re not sure yet, but it’s starting to look that way.”

“I see. Was that it?”

“Was what it?”

“What you came to tell me?”

He yawned again. “Sorry,” he gasped. “No. I’ve been trying
to catch Amy for the last two days but I keep missing her.”

“Why? Anything wrong?”

“Not really. I’ve got a few questions I want to ask her,
that’s all. You know, just to check some details. Is she around this afternoon?”

“I’m afraid not, Inspector. She needed a break, so she’s
taken herself off to Edinburgh to stay with friends for a day or two. She’s due
back late Sunday afternoon.”

“Whereabouts in Edinburgh has she gone?”

“I don’t know exactly. Sorry.”

“Is there any way I can contact her?”

“You could try her mobile. Her personal iPhone, that is, not
her company phone. Let me give you the number.”

“Thanks,” replied Chase, stifling yet another yawn.

“I’ve got the number on my phone. Just a moment.”

He pulled out his notebook and a pen, while Anna Birkdale
retrieved her mobile from her handbag.

“Ready?”

He did not respond.

“Are you all right, Inspector?”

Chase shook himself. “Sorry. I was miles away. Go ahead.”

As she dictated the number, Chase’s eyelids began to droop.
After she had finished, he looked down at the page and saw that the last few
digits were an unintelligible scrawl. Then his eyelids drooped again.

“Hello, Chiltern Cars. Vik speaking. How can I help?”

Halshaw smiled to herself. “Good afternoon. My name is
Detective Constable Halshaw, from River Road police station. Who am I speaking
to, please?”

“Vik. Vikram Shetty, that is.”

“Hello, Mr Shetty. What’s your position at Chiltern Cars?”

“Manager. Dispatcher. Dogsbody. Whatever.”

“Is it your business?”

“No, it’s my Dad’s and my Uncle’s. What’s this all about,
please?”

“I’m trying to trace one of your drivers, Mr Shetty.”

“What’s his name?”

“Andy, we think.”

“Yeah, he’s one of ours. Why?”

“What’s his real name?”

“
Antreou
. Stavros
Antreou
. What’s he supposed to have done, anyway?”

“Nothing wrong, I assure you, sir. It’s just that we think
he might have carried a suspect one night earlier this week.”

“Hold on, love.”

There was crash and a bang. Halshaw listened to faint white
noise for several seconds before Vik came back on the line.

“That wouldn’t have been our Andy, love. He was on holiday.”

“When did he get back?”

“Dunno. But today’s his first day back at work.”

“Where did he go?”

“Corfu.”

She thought for a moment. “OK. How can I contact him?”

“Like I said, love, he wasn’t here...”

“It might have been last week, Mr Shetty. Our witness isn’t
sure. Do you have a mobile number for Mr
Antreou
,
please?”

“Yeah,” Vik replied. “Hang on a mo.... right. Here you go.
Got a pen?”

“Yes.” She noted the number down. “Thanks.”

“But he might not answer.”

“Why not?”

“Because our drivers aren’t allowed to take calls while they
have a fare in the car. And he won’t answer if he hasn’t got a hands-free, of
course.”

“Of course,” replied Halshaw, ironically. “OK, Mr Shetty.
Many thanks.”

“That’s alright. Bye, love.”

She ended the call and dialled the number she had been
given.

“’
Allo
?” a gruff male voice
answered, backed by a thumping house music soundtrack.

“Mr
Antreou
? This is Detective Constable
Lauren Halshaw, from River Road. Are you OK to talk for a moment?”

“Sure. Hang on.” His voice faded. “Sorry mate. Gotta take
this.”

The music stopped abruptly, but the thrum of tyres on tarmac
continued. “Right then, love,” he said. “What can I do for you?”

She took a deep breath. “How was your holiday, sir?” she
asked.

“Great, thanks.”

“Where did you go?”

“Corfu. My nephew’s come into a bit of money, so he paid for
the missus and me to go away for a week. Five star hotel, no expense spared...”

“Did he go with you?”

“No. It was just the two of us.”

“Why not?”

“He had business to attend to.”

“Here?”

“No, in Spain. Why?”

“When’s he due back?”

“Tomorrow evening. Why do you wanna know about Dmitri,
anyway?”

“No reason. What I wanted to ask you was this...”

Her mobile buzzed. She glanced down at the new message:

On train
now. Cant w8 2
c u
babe. Tobe xxx

She smiled softly for a moment, before turning back to the
phone. “I wanted to ask you about someone you may have carried one evening last
week, Mr
Antreou
,” she continued. “She was a young
woman, white, quite tall, long dark hair, smartly dressed, striking-looking.
You’d remember her, I’m sure. She was with an older man, medium height, greying
hair, wearing an old pinstripe suit. He booked the ride.”

“What night was that?”

“Last Monday, we think.”

“What was his name, the geezer what booked the ride?”

“Chase. And her name was Amy Birkdale, if that means
anything to you.”

“Don’t remember either of ‘em, love,” he said. “Sorry.”

“That’s OK,” replied Halshaw, hoping she sounded suitably
disappointed. “Thanks for your help.”

“Tell you what, darling,” Andy went on. “Ask Vik at the
office. He can tell you if this Chase bloke booked a ride.”

“Thanks,” she said. “I’ll do that.”

She ended the call, then picked up her mobile and replied to
the message.

me 2 luv
xox

She tucked her mobile into her handbag, rested her elbows on
the desk, and propped her chin in both hands. Dmitri didn’t go away with his
aunt and uncle after all, she mused. But he did go abroad. So he still has an
alibi for the night of the robbery. Well, probably.

She glanced at her watch. If I’m going to meet Tobe off the
train I need to be out of here before long. Wonder if DI Chase will let me duck
out a bit early. It is Friday afternoon, after all. Where the hell is he,
anyway?

She picked up the phone and began to dial Chase’s mobile.
Then she stopped and replaced the phone in the receiver. I don’t want to piss
him off, she thought. He might be in his car, on the way back here. And if he
is, he might not answer anyway. No, I can wait. I’ll give him another five
minutes before I start hassling him.

Idly, she picked up My Lady’s client file, struck by how
thin it was. She opened it at random and scanned the sleek, prosperous
businessman’s page. The long list of medical issues caught her eye: myopia,
gastroesophogeal
reflux, hypertension... She flipped on to
another client, another sleek, prosperous businessman with an almost identical
set of medical issues. Then she flipped backwards, and stopped abruptly when
she saw the name at the head of the page.

She leafed rapidly through the rest of the file and then
reached for the phone. I really do need to go soon, she said to herself. And
now I’ve got the perfect reason to phone him.

The room seemed darker, and he felt something soft
against his cheek. There was a faint smell of leather, and his feet felt
strangely cool. He wiggled his toes experimentally, and realised that he was no
longer wearing his shoes.

He opened one eye and looked around him. He was lying on the
sofa, covered in a chocolate brown fleece blanket. His head rested on a soft
white pillow.

Anna Birkdale was still sitting in the chair opposite him.
“Morning, Inspector,” she smiled.

“What time is it,” he murmured, trying and failing to sit up
straight.

“Half past five.”

“In the morning?”

“No!” she chuckled. “You’ve only been out for a couple of
hours.”

This time Chase managed to sit up. He checked the pockets of
his jacket. Everything seemed to be where it should be, except for a few coins
that had slipped out on to the sofa. He checked his mobile. No texts. And no
missed calls, either.

He looked across at her. The china mugs had been cleared
away. She held a tall, misted glass tumbler, containing a slice of lemon and an
inch of clear fluid. And there was something different about her, but in his
befuddled state he couldn’t make out what.

“What did you put in my coffee, Mrs Birkdale?” he demanded.

She burst out laughing. “Nothing, I promise you,” she
replied. “Though I do have a small confession to make.”

“What?”

“It was decaff.”

Chase found himself grinning inanely.

“You thought I’d slipped you a Mickey, didn’t you?” she
continued, draining her glass. “Is that the right technical term?”

He shook his head in embarrassment. “I’m sorry, Mrs
Birkdale,” he sighed.

“Don’t be,” she smiled. “But I think we can progress to
first names, don’t you? Now that you’ve slept with me, I mean.”

Chase looked at her, unsure how to respond. But he realised
what was different about her. She had unfastened her loose bun, and her
ash-blonde hair framed her face to stunning effect. And there was a noticeable
twinkle in her eyes. A combination of amusement and alcohol, he guessed.

She returned his gaze steadily. “I’m Anna,” she said, holding
out a hand.

“Allen,” he responded. “But everyone calls me Al.”

“Pleased to meet you, Al,” she chuckled, as they shook
hands. “Can I interest you in one of these? Or are you still on duty?”

Chase glanced at his watch. Too late to go back to River Road,
he decided. “What are you drinking?”

“Vodka and tonic. Slimline, of course. Good and strong. Want
one?”

“Oh, yes please,” he sighed.

She smiled coquettishly. “Coming up, Al,” she replied, and
she undulated towards the kitchen.

He was admiring the fit of her figure-hugging jeans when
Booker T. Jones’ Hammond organ rang out.

“Chase speaking,” he snapped, hoping it would be Amy.

“Evening, Sir,” said a familiar voice.

“Hello, Halshaw,” he sighed, hoping she couldn’t detect the
disappointment in his voice. “How’s it going?”

“Good, thanks. I’ve got a list of Lucy Faith’s clients.”

“Well done. What did you find?”

“OK. For one thing, there are only six of them now.”

“Six?”

“Yes. There are about twenty names in the file in total...”

“All men?” he interrupted.

“All male, yes. As I said, there are about twenty names in
the file, although she probably never had more than ten or twelve active
clients at any one time. But one by one they’ve died or moved on. And I’ll tell
you something else, too.”

“What?”

Halshaw smiled broadly and said nothing.

“What?” he repeated.

“I can’t find any record of any payments. From any of them.”

“None at all?”

“Nothing. I mean, there are lists of dates in the file, but
I can’t find any matching financial transactions.”

Chase remembered how My Lady had boasted of her
expensiveness. “Who are they?” he asked. “Her current clients, I mean.”

“Bryn Lewis, of course. A film director called Peter
Upson
, and a restaurateur called Pascal Bertrand. A couple
of City types, Edward Sinton and Charles Robertson, both retired now. Matthew
Lowther
, the Human Resources Director of Logistical Group.
She seems to have had these same six for the last two or three years.”

“Anyone interesting among her former clients?”

“Not much. Quite a few of them are dead. All from natural
causes,” she added quickly. “I checked.”

Chase sighed with disappointment. “Well done you,” he said.

“There’s one name you might find interesting, though.”

“Who’s that?”

“Someone called Christopher Birkdale. He’s an Estate Agent. Or
was, at any rate. He lives in Spain now, according to her file. Any relation,
do you think?”

“I don’t know,” replied Chase, evenly. “Worth following up
on, though.”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Did you get anywhere with her legitimate clients?”

“I haven’t started on those yet, I’m afraid. I was trying to
find the payments from her other clients first.”

“OK. That’s the next job, is it?”

“That’s why I rang, Sir.” She hesitated. “My boyfriend‘s
coming up for the weekend and I’d like to go and meet him at Waterloo. Is it OK
if I call it a day?”

Chase sighed. “Of course it is. Enjoy your weekend, and I’ll
see you on Monday.”

To his surprise, he heard Halshaw heave a huge sigh of
relief. Surely I’m not that intimidating, he wondered. Am I?

“Thank you. What shall I do with Ms Faith’s files?”

“Oh, just leave them on my desk. I’ll drop by and pick them
up later.”

“Right, Sir. Thanks. Have a good weekend.”

“You too, Halshaw. You too.”

He had just tucked the phone back in his pocket when Anna
Birkdale reappeared, carrying a brimming glass in each hand. She handed one to
the Inspector, folded herself back into the armchair, and shot him another
radiant smile.

“Thanks, Mrs Birkdale, sorry, Anna,” Chase said, finding
himself smiling back. He took a sip. It was good and strong, as promised. He
looked around the room. “Nice place,” he said. “Have you lived here long?”

“Almost three years,” she replied. “When my marriage finally
broke up I came to live here with Mummy.”

“Did you grow up here, then?”

“God, no!” she laughed. “I was born in Guildford. For most
of my childhood we lived in rural Surrey, not far from Effingham. But Mummy
came from round here originally, and her sister never moved away. So after Dad
died she sold up and bought this place instead. I moved in a few months later.”
She grinned and spread her hands wide. “Only temporarily, as you can see.”

“This decor looks like your taste, rather than your
mother’s.”

She frowned. “I’ll take that as a compliment, I think.” Then
she smiled broadly. “Yes, it is. Mummy had done it all out very nicely, but it
had a bit of an old lady look, if you know what I mean. And a few months after
she died, my divorce settlement finally came through. So I decided to splash
out.” She frowned. “Do you like it? Come on, be honest.”

“It looks really good,” Chase replied. “Much better than my
place.”

“Where do you live, Al?”

“Not far from here. I’ve got a flat in an old Victorian
terrace.”

“Like Amy’s?”

“A bit, yes. Though her flat is much nicer. Mine’s far more
basic.”

“Functional, you mean?”

“That’s a tactful way to put it,” chuckled Chase, sipping
his drink. He could feel the alcohol begin to soothe his weary mind. Maybe,
just maybe, that idea might coalesce into something useful. Not that that was
likely to happen while Anna Birkdale kept smiling at him like that.

“Forgive me for asking, Anna,” he went on. “But from things
you said, your divorce wasn’t exactly a pleasant experience. So why do you
still have a photo of your wedding on display?”

The question failed to dislodge her smile, although Chase
noticed it stiffen.

“Let me ask you a question, Al,” she replied. “Do you
remember your wedding day?”

“Why do you ask?”

“Humour me.”

“OK. Yes, I do. Our wedding was a pretty low-key affair, but
I enjoyed seeing friends and relatives. Miriam always says she doesn’t remember
much about it, though.”

“Miriam? Was she your wife?”

Chase nodded.

“Do you still see her?”

“I haven’t spoken to her for almost exactly three years.”

“What happened three years ago?”

“She moved out. Or rather, she moved in with my best friend
Jim. Our best friend, I should say.”

Her eyes opened wide in surprise. “What did you do?
Challenge him to a duel or something?”

“God, no! Jim and I still go drinking on Saturday nights.”

“That must be strange.”

“Not really. He’s a good friend. And it wasn’t his fault
that Miriam and I split up, after all.”

“Whose fault was it then? Hers? Yours?”

“Six and two threes, really. But I thought we were talking
about your wedding, not mine.”

“Oh, mine was a big production number. His Mum saw to that.
All I had to do was turn up and look pretty.”

“You certainly did that.”

“You silver-tongued charmer,” she chuckled. “I couldn’t get
into that dress now, though. I’m far too thick around the middle.”

He reached round and took down the wedding photo for a
closer look. Anna’s white silk dress had a full, floor-length skirt and an
elaborately embroidered, tightly laced bodice that nipped in her narrow waist
and accentuated her magnificent cleavage.

“We’d have been happy with a registry office,” she went on.
“These days we’d probably have flown to Goa or Bali and got married on the
beach. Just the two of us.”

Chase looked up. “No friends or relatives?”

“No. And no interfering bloody in-laws either.”

“So why the photo?”

“To remind me.”

“Remind you of what? The day?”

“I suppose so. It was the happiest day of my life, after
all.”

He tried to detect a hint of irony in her words, but failed.

“But that’s not the only reason,” she continued. “It’s also
a reminder of how much time I wasted with that idiot.”

“How do you mean?”

“I was a trophy wife. He wanted me to be seen but not heard.
He didn’t want me to have a career, continue my education, or anything like
that.”

“Sounds rather old-fashioned,” replied Chase, cautiously.

“Very. I devoted half my life to that waste of space. And
the one, the only good thing that I have to show for it is my lovely daughter.”

“You must be proud of her.”

“Oh, I am. Extremely proud. Though I try not to show it too
much. She’s turned out brilliantly, considering all the nonsense she had to put
up with.”

“Nonsense?”

“Within months of our marriage my dear, devoted husband was
chasing other women. And not just chasing them, either. By the time I finally
decided I’d had enough he’d had dozens of affairs, not to mention a couple of
longer-term mistresses.”

“More fool him,” Chase blurted.

She smiled softly. “Thanks, Al. It was pretty tough, those
last few years. I was trying to hold it together for Amy’s sake, but he just became
more and more unpleasant.”

“Did he beat you?”

“No. Well, not really. I think he hit me twice in twenty-odd
years of marriage,” she answered, in a matter-of-fact tone.

“That’s twice too many.”

“True, but I probably provoked him.”

Chase wondered about asking how, but quickly thought better
of it. “Do you still have any contact with him?” he asked instead.

“No, thank God. On the day he paid the final part of the
divorce settlement, I deleted him from my phone, ripped the page out of my
address book, and made a bonfire of every document with his name on that I
didn’t absolutely need to keep.”

“What about Amy? Is she still in touch with him?”

“I’ve no idea, to be honest. She’s just like her father in
some ways: stubborn, a bit secretive. I know he put up most of the money for
the deposit on her flat. So yes, I expect so. But she knows not to mention him
to me, and I know better than to ask.”

“What’s his name?”

Her eyes narrowed. “Why do you want to know?”

“Humour me.”

“He was called Birkdale. Mr Birkdale.”

Chase chuckled. “I asked for that, I suppose. What was his
first name?”

She sighed. “OK. His first name was Chris, if you really
want to know.”

“Short for Christopher, I presume?”

She nodded and drained the last inch of her drink. “Fancy
another?” she asked.

“In a moment,” he replied. “There’s one question I need to
ask you first.”

“Go on.”

“Where were you and Amy last Wednesday evening?”

“Here,
Insp
– Al, I mean. We had
dinner together and watched a DVD.”

“What DVD?”

“
Letters To Juliet
. Amy rented it.”

“The one with Vanessa Redgrave?”

“That’s right. Have you seen it?”

“No, I haven’t. Any good?”

“We enjoyed it,” she smiled. “I’m not sure you would have
done, though.”

“Why?”

“It’s a romance. A chick-flick. That’s why. It wouldn’t
appeal to a man like you, I’m sure.”

What’s that supposed to mean? Chase wondered. “What time did
you both get here?” he asked instead.

“I usually finish work at two on a Wednesday. I had to go to
Waitrose on the way home but I would have been back by four o’clock at the
latest. Amy was here in good time for dinner that evening. Just for once.” She
smiled.

“What time was that?”

“I’m not sure exactly. Sometime between six and half-past,
probably.”

“Did either of you go out at any point during the evening?”

“No.”

“Did anyone visit?”

“No.”

“Any phone calls?”

“Amy had a couple of calls and texts from friends, asking if
she was OK. That’s all, as far as I can remember.”