O
nce back in the car, we set off for our next visit.
‘Sad, a little kid dying like that. Wonder if she was barking mad before he died?’ I said to my colleague for the day.
‘Don’t know but, as you said, it’s sad. You got any kids, Nina?’
Here we go, I thought to myself: this might have just got easier. ‘No, just me. No one to please or worry about. You, Pierre?’
‘No. I do want kids but it’s not looking likely in the near future. I split with my partner about two months ago.’
‘You never know – you just have to meet the right person.’
‘I thought I had, but it turned out he didn’t want the same things in life.’
For crying out loud. I really was losing my touch. Might as well rip into the Galaxy bar in my handbag now.
I searched through my bag for the chocolate and offered Pierre a chunk to show there were no hard feelings. ‘Were you together long?’ I asked.
‘Four years. We still speak but, you know…’
Yeah, I did know. Knew that the smell of his aftershave was getting on my nerves. I opened a window.
As we drove, I tried Josie Newman’s number several times, but got no reply. Finally, towards the end of the afternoon, with several other dead-end enquiries out of the way, we got a reply. Pierre spoke to her on speakerphone as I wrote down the content of the conversation.
I got the impression that Josie had been expecting the call. I guessed that she’d already been warned by her mother, and Josie confirmed this was the case. She was in another country so there was little we could have done to prevent them contacting each other, which was a shame: it was always better to catch someone off guard if possible, as they were more likely to give something away, even if it was just the way they looked at you. On the phone, all I could glean was that she had a very soft lisp and was well-spoken. That revealed little.
‘Mother has lost it a bit,’ she said. ‘She may have appeared to be somewhat, shall I say, eccentric? I gather that you were asking about Amanda. Such a shock. What can I help you with?’
‘It’s a bit sensitive over the phone really,’ explained Pierre as tactfully as he could. ‘We are aware that you, your mother and Amanda were all involved in prostitution. I know that’s in your past but, as this is a murder investigation, we have to speak to those who may have information. Is there anything you can tell us that may help lead us to the person or people who stabbed Amanda?’
There was a short pause. Pierre and I looked at one another.
‘Silly Amanda. She was such a bad judge of character. We did all work as prostitutes but I’ve not taken part in anything of the sort for a number of years. Neither has my mother.’
That at least was good news. I put my hand over my mouth to stop myself from laughing. From the shaking of Pierre’s shoulders, I could see he was finding the thought of Mrs Newman and her wig turning tricks fairly funny too. Getting it caught on the back of a chair would be the least of her worries.
Josie, unaware of our silent merriment, continued, ‘I left England some time ago and settled in the South of France six years ago. I’ve made a new life for myself. I’ll help however I can but I haven’t seen or spoken to Amanda since I left. I read
about her online. Her little boy – he’ll be about eight years old now, won’t he? Is his father looking after him?’
‘Yes, he is, Josie,’ said Pierre.
We took the rest of her contact numbers from her, and requested that she call us if she thought of anything else at all, and then Pierre and I started winding down for the end of the shift. I’d enjoyed the day working with Pierre, despite my disappointment at the lack of progress in my love life. And that he kept eating my chocolate.
My headache had subsided and I fancied a drink.
22nd September
I
had offered to work on my rest day but, under the guise of health and safety, I was told to take the day off. The truth centred around an already overspent budget. Forensics alone was costing tens of thousands. I drank heavily, slept heavily and woke up feeling lousy. I drew up a list of chores I had to pack into one day off, before seeing an old friend in the afternoon and then heading off to meet Laura for a drink later that evening.
First, I worked my way through the jobs I could achieve without leaving the house. It made sense to prioritise telephone and internet tasks. Besides, I was probably still over the limit.
A couple of hours later, having demolished a pot of tea and a bacon sarnie, I got into my old, slightly worse-for-wear BMW and drove to the supermarket, where I bought the usual essentials for myself and a couple of bags of luxuries for my old acquaintance, Annie Hudson. It was difficult to describe my and Annie’s relationship. I’d got to know her when I was working as a Metropolitan police officer in the area she’d lived in all her life; we’d met through some terrible domestic circumstances of hers. When I’d transferred to the neighbouring force where I now worked, although I’d moved home as well as changed job, I hadn’t been able to leave Annie behind. I couldn’t quite put my finger on why I couldn’t shake loose of her. For over fifty years, Annie had barely
been further than her estate or the local shops. Once a year she went to the out-of-town shopping centre for Christmas presents, and she had only been to the West End of London once in her life for a school trip to the theatre. She still referred to the play as ‘a load of poncy shit’. Now and again, I would visit her and drop her shopping off, stay for an hour or so and listen to what she had to say.
Often the visits would leave me in a bad mood, other times grateful for the life I had. Stan’s situation had made me feel more benevolent so I tried to convince myself that today Annie would be of use to me. She wasn’t exactly a police informant; for a start, I paid her in coffee, butter and Italian meats. Sometimes she would pass on something of interest and I’d send it on to the relevant nick, marked ‘source anonymous’, but usually it was bored housewife drivel.
I parked around the corner from Annie’s council house in my usual spot; she ‘didn’t want the neighbours to know the filth had been’. The street was well kept in parts, an embarrassment in others. Annie must have seen me coming: she opened the door and said, ‘You’ve put on a bit of weight.’
I exhaled all of my benevolence on to the driveway. ‘And your moustache is coming along nicely, Tom Selleck,’ I replied.
She came towards me, took one of the bags from my hand and peered inside. ‘Is there Parma ham in here? Not that own-brand stuff you got me last time.’
‘Is the kettle on?’ I asked. It was like this most times I called on her. I quite enjoyed it, to be honest. That was the thing with Annie: you got the truth. Whether you wanted it or not, there was no dancing around an issue; she gave it to you straight. Sometimes it was not what you wanted to hear or was hurtful, but it was usually the answer you knew was correct.
‘You been on the piss?’ she said. ‘You look like something the cat dragged in.’
I followed her into the kitchen and set the second shopping bag down next to the one she’d put beside the fridge. Annie looked at me properly. ‘Something troubling you, girl?’
I felt the tears welling up and tried to speak. ‘It’s Stan,’ I managed to say. ‘He’s got cancer.’
She hugged me, and I hugged her back. Annie had never met Stan but I had told her bits about him over the years. I never revealed anything personal about him and I hadn’t told her about my sister and me. She was, however, aware of the huge influence he played in my life and the total trust I had in him.
In the living room, we each sat on a sofa with our tea. I’d declined a biscuit, noticing that the cheeky cow was offering me a cheap own-brand rather than the deluxe chocolate ones I’d just handed her. My phone bleeped with a new message. I’d get it later.
Now my tears were dry, I didn’t want to talk about Stan any more. Annie respected that and we caught up on what she and her family had been doing. As much as she’d want to share with a police officer, anyway. Some things I truly didn’t want to know about. Annie’s two sons doted on their mum and she on them. Their dad had been a very violent man and the burn on her face from a clothes iron still reminded me just how violent. It was no doubt a constant reminder to her, too, whenever she looked in the mirror, and to her sons when they looked at their mum.
‘Those murders down your way were bad, weren’t they?’ she asked.
‘Murders usually are bad, Annie, what with the dead people.’
‘Alright, you funny mare. You know what I mean.’
‘Sorry.’ I let her speak. I didn’t want to press her.
She sat forward as if she didn’t want anyone else to hear, even though there was no one else present. ‘I ’eard they was done by the same person because of all the stab marks.’
‘Really? Where did you get that from?’
Annie gave me a look of disgust. ‘Like I’d tell you that even if I knew. It’s just talk. All round the estate. News travels fast, you know.’
I knew that this was highly unlikely. People did not discuss the specifics of who murdered whom thirty or so miles away. There was more to it, but I knew Annie well enough to say with some degree of certainty that she would not tell me where this information came from. From experience, I trusted that if she wanted to tell me more she would, but in her own sweet time. Any information she passed to me usually had some truth to it or I would have stopped passing it on years ago. I had a feeling there was more to come, but I would have to be patient and not rush her.
W
hen I left Annie’s, I checked my phone and listened to the message. It was Wingsy, asking me to call him back. I returned the call.
‘Hi, mate. How was Crown Court?’ I asked.
‘The usual. Sat around and then they didn’t need me. Had a lovely bit of carrot cake from Jean in Witness Services, though. Anyway, you up for an early start in the morning?’
‘Yeah. What time and why?’
‘Get here for 5am; there’s a team going out to nick someone. Can’t say any more than that. I don’t know any more than that. By the way, how did you get on with Pierre?’
‘Did you know he’s gay?’
Wingsy laughed so loud, I had to move the phone away from my ear. ‘Didn’t exactly know. It’s not something you throw into the conversation.’
‘You total git. You told me he was single.’
‘Well, he is. Someone else told me his relationship had ended. Blimey, I was trying to do you a favour.’
‘You mean that the manicured fingernails and Calvin Klein aftershave didn’t give you any hints?’
‘The thing is, Nina, I look after my fingernails and wear aftershave; it doesn’t mean I’m gay. How was I supposed to know?’
I ended the call, got into my car and headed home. I thought it was better to have a drink earlier than anticipated if I was going to be getting up at 4am. I gave Laura a call to see
if she fancied meeting me as soon as she finished work rather than the time we’d arranged.
At four o’clock on the dot, I was sitting in the Dog and Gun with a glass of red wine in front of me. Out of habit, I’d deliberately chosen a table tucked at the back but with a clear view of the front door. A gin and tonic awaited Laura on her arrival. When she appeared in the doorway, a couple of the old regulars at the bar turned to watch her walk across to where I was sitting. She was single, a stunner and they didn’t stand a chance. She sauntered towards me with an air of confidence and gave me a quick peck on the cheek before removing her cashmere jacket and sitting opposite me.
‘How’s tricks, Nina?’
‘Not bad, Lol. Things much the same as ever in the office?’
She rolled her eyes. ‘You could say that. Too much work, and that miserable cow Beckensale has had it in for me since you’ve been gone. She clearly just needs someone to pick on.’
‘Yeah, she gave me a speech when I left about how
troublesome
I was and how she’d be glad to see the back of me. The feeling was mutual. I just don’t get what her problem is.’
‘Perhaps she needs a shag.’
‘She’s not the only one, but I’m pretty sure I don’t go around talking to people the way she does. It gets my goat.’
Laura chuckled. ‘Can’t you just be single and happy?’
‘I don’t want to get married, just have sex.’ I said that a lot louder than I’d meant to and the old boys at the bar looked round again. ‘But not right now,’ I added, looking in their direction.
‘What’s wrong with them, then?’ asked Laura, inclining her head towards the bar.
‘I’ve not reached the point yet where I’ll settle for a man who doesn’t have at least a couple of his own teeth.’
‘You know who’s single and has all his teeth?’ said Laura. ‘Alf, the caretaker.’
‘Very funny, Lol. I think he may just be a bit too old for me.’
‘Handy around the house, though. One minute he’s in custody unblocking the toilets; the next he’s fixing a flat screen telly to the wall.’
‘Why didn’t you say? My U-bend can be
temperamental
.’
‘Mind you, Nin, you’ll have to get in quick. He’s going to live with his son in Spain. I was talking to him the other day when I dropped some files off at Riverstone nick. His son’s loaded and owns a bar. And he’s good-looking.’
‘A bar, you say? I may have been too hasty.’
We hadn’t been in the pub long before a familiar face showed itself. We’d just got our second drink, bought by Laura, who’d seemed not to notice the barman flirting with her. She slid back into her seat, temporarily blocking my view of the door, and, as she sat down, Joe Bring came into view behind her. He paused in the open doorway, eyes accustoming to the dingy light, then ambled into the bar. Something was wrong with his walk.
Bloody hell, I thought, if he’s about to start selling knocked-off legs of lamb out of his gusset, I’m not going to be able to avoid nicking him. He’d walked into the pub opposite the police station where two officers he knew were watching his every move. This was my only day off in nine days and I was facing another six of solid work, starting in the morning at 5am.
Laura followed my gaze. We made up half of the customers in the pub. He couldn’t fail to see us. He looked straight at me and something resembling fear flashed across his face. This was an unusual reaction. Being arrested and having your plans for the next twenty-four hours ruined was one thing, but being frightened didn’t usually feature for a criminal like Joe.
‘He got bail, then?’ I asked Laura, watching Joe as he backed out of the pub the way he’d come in.
‘Yeah. Went to court and gave it the usual about having a sick child, wife couldn’t cope and it was all the fault of the system. Not a dry eye on the magistrates’ bench.’
Another hour and a coffee later, I said that I had to get home as I had an early start. I also couldn’t drink any more alcohol as I had the car, so we walked to the car park together and wished each other a good night.