Faithfully: Chase & Halshaw #1 (27 page)

“Ready?” asked Fenway.

Halshaw took a deep breath. “Ready,” she replied, with a
taut smile.

“OK,” said Fenway, flinging open the Interview Room door.

The man sitting at the table was tall and muscular, wearing
jeans and a dark fleece. His lank black hair tied back in a ponytail, and the
ear nearer the door was pierced with a large silver sleeper. Halshaw felt his
eyes sweep over her as she strode across the room and sat at one of the chairs
opposite him, her legs crossed.

Fenway closed the door, switched on the recorder, and sat
next to Halshaw. “You said you wanted to talk to DI Chase, Dmitri,” he began.

Dmitri looked back at him impassively.

“About the Chiltern Park burglaries?”

Dmitri grunted.

“DI Chase has left for the evening,” Fenway continued. “This
is DC Halshaw, his assistant.”

Another grunt.

“Over to you, darling,” smiled Fenway, pushing his chair
backwards and stretching out with a contented sigh.

She uncrossed her legs, leant forward, and rested her elbows
on the table. “My name’s DC Lauren Halshaw,” she said, with more confidence
than she felt. “What did you want to talk to us about?”

Silence.

“Was it that break-in in Chalfont Parade, the Monday before
last?”

Dmitri hesitated, and then nodded.

“Was that the first one you’ve been involved in?”

He shook his head.

Halshaw heard Fenway shuffle impatiently in his seat, and
shot him a warning glance before turning back to Dmitri.

“Did someone pay you to break into that particular flat?”

She saw the faintest flicker in his eyes before he replied
indignantly, “No!”

“Who was it, Dmitri?”

“No-one. Like I said.”

“Oh, come on. We’ve got a witness who can place you in The
Green Parrot receiving money from him.”

“Then they’re lying, aren’t they?”

“I don’t think so, Mr
Antreou
. And
anyway, why did you want to talk to us?”

Dmitri sniffed. “Well, I know the boys what done it, like.”

“You mean it wasn’t you?”

“No.”

“So what’s your involvement, then?”

Silence.

“Who are the boys?”

Silence.

“How many of them?”

“Two.”

“Did they do all the burglaries?”

“Some of ‘em, yeah.”

“Why only some of them?”

“Because a grown man can’t get through them vent windows, of
course.”

Something clicked into place in her brain. “You mean they’re
children?” she asked, incredulously.

Dmitri grinned and nodded.

She sighed. “Was that all you wanted to tell us?”

He leant forward intently. “No. No, it wasn’t.”

“So what was it then?”

He smiled and said nothing.

She gritted her teeth, hoping he couldn’t sense her
desperation. “What was it, Mr
Antreou
?”

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” boomed a voice from
behind.

Halshaw and Fenway both spun round. Glaring at them was a
stocky, dark-haired woman in her late thirties. Fenway scrambled to his feet,
and after a moment’s hesitation Halshaw followed suit.

“Hello,” she smiled, willing her racing pulse to slow. “I’m
DC Lauren Halshaw. Working with DI Chase. You must be DCI Hopkins. Good to meet
you at last.”

“I know who you are, Trainee Detective Constable,” snapped
Hopkins. “What are you doing with my witness?”

“Dmitri – Mr
Antreou
– said he
wanted to speak to DI Chase.”

Hopkins looked around the room theatrically. “I don’t see
him,” she replied.

“That’s because he’s left for the evening.”

Hopkins snorted derisively.

“So I thought...”

“Sod off! Hopkins ordered.

“But...” spluttered Halshaw, two red spots of anger burning
in her cheeks.

“You can talk to Mr
Antreou
when
I’ve finished with him, and not a moment before. And when I say you, I mean
your boss. That’s if he ever deigns to show his face, of course. Now
sod
off!”

Halshaw tried to smile apologetically at Dmitri, before
stalking out of the room with as much dignity as she could muster. As she
passed Fenway, he caught her eye and winked.

*

There was a tap at the office door. Halshaw looked up, and
saw Fenway’s grinning face appear.

“You OK?” he asked.

She forced a smile. “Oh, I’m fine, thanks,” she sighed.
“It’s not the first time I’ve been shouted at by a DCI, and I’m sure it won’t
be the last.”

“That’s OK then,” he replied, letting himself into Chase’s
office and closing the door behind him.

“Have you finished with Dmitri yet?” she asked.

“Not yet, no.” He perched on the edge of the desk. “What are
you up to?”

“Going through the crime reports for the other break-ins.”

“Trying to work out what he meant about children?”

“Partly, yes. But let me show you something.” She cleared
the screensaver and pulled up a window. “Look at this,” she said, turning the
monitor around for Fenway to see.

“Dmitri
Antreou
,” he murmured,
leaning forward. Then he turned to her and frowned. “Sorry, what am I looking
at?”

“This.” She pointed to a paragraph.

He scrutinised it carefully. “OK, so his parents died when
he was a teenager and he got fostered for a few years.”

“No, you don’t understand....”

“And he got done for various petty offences. Big deal!”

“Look at the name of his foster parents,” she insisted.

“Michael and Brenda
Rodway
, in
Acton...” He looked at her and frowned. “So?”

“When you went to his flat, did you meet his girlfriend?”

“Yeah?”

“What was she like?”

“Quite short. Skinny. Fit, I suppose, if you like ‘em like
that. Not my type, though...”

“Do you remember her name?”

“Not sure. Diane, I think. Something like that. I can look
it up for you if you like.”

“There’s no need to do that. Her name’s Dinah. Dinah
Rodway
. Her parents are Michael and Brenda
Rodway
.”

Fenway whistled softly. “How do you know her?”

“Because she works at Logistical Group. She sits at the next
desk to Amy Birkdale, whose flat was burgled last week. She’s Amy’s boss’ PA.”

“Was that the burglary you and Dmitri were talking about?”

She nodded.

“Coincidence?”

“I don’t know, Rupert. Not yet. But it can be a very small
world sometimes, don’t you think?”

Chase took a deep breath, unlocked the front door, and held
it open for her. “Come on in,” he said.

Anna wandered into the living room and looked around
appraisingly. The room was simply furnished, with a black leather suite, and
dominated by a large piano-black Sharp LCD TV, balanced precariously on a pine
veneer cabinet containing an old but impressive component hi-fi system. A large
Casablanca
poster hung above it. On the opposite side, above the sofa,
were a series of framed Art Deco posters, for
Holland-America Lines,
the
Londres
-Vichy Pullman
, and
The
Flying Scotsman.

“Not bad,” she smiled. “Not bad at all. You didn’t do the
place justice, Al.”

“Thanks, Anna,” he replied, relieved that he had taken all
the boxes of Lucy Faith’s documents back to River Road earlier. He had even
found time for a quick hoover round.

“What shall I do with this?” she asked, indicating the
bulging shopping bag.

“The kitchen’s through there,” he answered. “I’ll take your
bag into the bedroom for you.” He hoisted the small but heavy
holdall
over his shoulder and headed into the bedroom,
where he deposited it on the bed, then took off his shoes and tie and hung up
his jacket in the wardrobe.

When he emerged he found her scanning the overstuffed
bookcase.

“Found anything interesting?” he asked, apprehensively.

She turned. “No Wagner?”

“No. Can’t stand him, I’m afraid. Why?”

She smiled broadly. “Neither can I,” she replied. “But Lily
was sure you’d have some opera about the place. There again, she was convinced
you drove a classic Jag too.”

“Chance would be a fine thing,” he grinned.

Anna ran a finger lightly along the spines of the CDs. “I
can’t work out your taste in music,” she went on. “The Cure, Lloyd Cole, Miles
Davies, The Flying Buttresses, Eric Satie, Paul Simon. And you’ve got
Green
Onions
as your ringtone. What’s the connection?”

“My ringtone used to be
You Can Call Me Al,”
he
chuckled. “Ken did it for a joke. I made him change it, so he set it to
Green
Onions
instead. I’ve kept it ever since.”

“Ken?”

“My Sergeant. Ken Thomas. Don’t you remember?”

“Oh yes, of course. Why did he do that? Is it your favourite
song or something?”

“Not really, though I do like it. It’s more that I don’t
know how to change it.”

“I’m just as bad!” she laughed. “Amy has to do all that kind
of thing for me.”

“So what music do you like, Anna?”

She waved a hand dismissively. “Oh, nothing as intellectual
as you.”

Chase laughed. “Intellectual? Me? Not at all. It’s all down
to Jim and Miriam.”

“Jim and Miriam? The Miriam, I take it?”

“Yes. They always loved music. All kinds of music. They
always used to play me their latest discoveries. Some of it was unlistenable,
most of it left me cold, but some struck a chord with me. That’s all.”

She chuckled at the unintentional pun.

“More to the point,” he continued, “these are the ones I
could find cheap after Miriam got custody of our CD collection.”

She smiled sympathetically.

“You were going to tell me what music you like,” he
prompted.

“Oh, James Blunt, Michael
Bublé
,
people like that. That’s about as adventurous as I get. I’ve just discovered
Nouvelle Vague, and that’s thanks to Amy.”

Chase smiled. “Want to put something on?”

“OK. Anything in particular?”

“Not really. You can choose.”

Chase watched her manicured fingers hover over the shelves.
“How about this one?” she asked eventually, handing him a CD.

He glanced at the box, hoping that Anna didn’t notice the
expression on his face. “OK,” he replied, turning on the amplifier and slotting
the disk into the player. A clatter of
syndrums
and a
burst of finger-popping bass filled the room, quickly followed by a chocolaty
baritone voice.

“Were you a New Romantic?” he asked.

“Oh, I’m much too old for that, I’m afraid. I was married
and pregnant by that point.” She smiled distantly. “I do love Spandau Ballet,
though. I associate them with playing with Amy, when she was little. They
always seemed to be on the radio at the time.”

“So who was it for you, then?” he grinned. “Donny Osmond or
David Cassidy?”

“Bloody cheek!” she retorted. “I didn’t think much of either
of them.”

“What about The Bay City Rollers?”

“Even worse!” she grimaced. Then the distant smile
returned for a moment. “Though I did have a thing for David Essex, once upon a
time. Now he was gorgeous!”

“Did you ever like Zac Houston? He had that same
kind of gypsy look.”

She smiled. “My big sister did, yes. She used to be
into Marc Bolan, but when Zac Houston came along, well…”

Chase didn’t know how to reply to that, and just looked at
her, a stupid grin slowly spreading across his face. She looked back at him
quizzically.

“What is it?” she demanded. “What’s so funny?”

“How do you mean?”

“What are you grinning at?”

“Nothing. Really.”

“Come on. There must be something. Did I say something
funny? Something I did, perhaps?”

“No, Anna. It’s nothing like that. It’s just that I can’t
believe you’re here, that’s all.”

Her face softened. “Neither can I, to be honest.”

“Why?”

She smiled bashfully and broke eye contact. “No reason.” She
looked up again. “Mind if I hang up my clothes?” she asked.

“No.”

“Back in a moment,” she smiled, and disappeared into the
bedroom.

Chase turned Tony Hadley down to a low warble, and idly
browsed his CDs. When he reached
Redux
, he opened the jewel box and
slipped out the index card. Yes, Jim was right. As always. Malcolm Balfour was
credited with playing bass on a good half of the tracks. Chase looked a little
closer and realised that Adrian Balfour had played percussion on several tracks
too. He had just returned the CD to its space on the shelf when he heard a
muffled curse.

“Is everything all right?” he called, hurrying into
the bedroom.

Anna stood by the bed, arms akimbo, glaring at her holdall.

“Yes,” she replied. “Sorry, Al. It’s just that I’ve
forgotten something.”

“What?”

“I’ve got a little kimono I meant to bring, just for
slopping around in.”

“Do you want to go back and get it?”

“Sorry. Well, unless you’ve got something I can borrow.”

“I don’t have any little kimonos, I’m afraid.”

“I should hope not!” she chuckled. “No, a shirt, a T-shirt,
something like that.”

“My wardrobe is your wardrobe,” he replied.

“Thanks,” she sighed. “I didn’t really want to go back home.”
She kissed him softly on the lips. “I’ve waited long enough for this.”

“So have I,” he smiled, reaching out for her.

She took his hands in hers and kissed first one, then the
other, then his lips again. He slipped his arms around her waist and gently drew
her towards him. She began to respond, but then he sensed her stiffen.

“What’s the matter, Anna?” he asked.

She smiled ruefully. “I think I’d better have a quick shower
first, if that’s OK. I’m afraid I’m a bit smelly.”

“I don’t mind.”

“I do,” she replied. Then she noticed his look of
disappointment and smiled. “I shan’t be long. It’ll be worth the wait, I
promise.”

“Don’t you want your tea first?”

“Not at the moment, thanks. You can choose what we have
next: sex or tea.”

“But shower first?”

“Oh, shower first, definitely,” she chuckled.

And with that she slipped out of his embrace, gathered up
her belongings, and disappeared into the bathroom. Soon, Chase heard the sound
of running water and her mezzo-soprano humming cheerfully.

*

Ten minutes later, Chase was clattering contentedly about
the kitchen when he heard a slow ballad begin, the plucked guitar chords and
falsetto voices contrasting with the pulsating brass and chanted chorus of the
up-tempo number that preceded it. He smiled fondly as he recalled the party in
Jim’s bedsit, the keg of London Pride, slow dancing in the small hours,
watching the sun rise together. He would always associate
True
with that
night, the night it all began with Miriam.

Gradually, he began to sense that he was not alone. He
turned.

Anna stood there, smiling damply from the shower. She wore
his new blue and white striped Oxford shirt, the sleeves rolled up and the
fabric straining across her proud breasts. Her smooth, tanned legs were bare,
their shapely profile accentuated by a pair of vertiginous
slingbacks
.

He shook his head slowly in wonder and said nothing.

She strutted slowly across to him and wrapped her arms
around his waist. “I promised you it’d be worth the wait, didn’t I?” she
whispered.

Chase nodded mutely, wondering why it was that his
all-too-familiar shower gel smelt so exotic on her skin.

She kissed him long and languorously, and then took one of
his hands in both of hers. “Boing” she smiled, stepping back and beginning to
pull him after her.

“Boing?”

“Time for bed, said Zebedee,” she grinned.