Paternoster (23 page)

‘Make it a few rounds of toast and jam and you’re on.’

The caff was as dispiriting as the rest of the neighbourhood. Plastic-covered chairs bolted to the floor, chipped formica tables and a blob of tomato ketchup in the sugar bowl. It stank of bad breath and vinegar.

‘So what’s up?’ Kaz said, when the toast and jam arrived. Her accent was pure Bristol; vowels so thick you could stand a spoon in them. She bent her face close to the plate to eat, revealing grey roots to her ebony hair.

‘I’m looking for a girl.’ Eden slid the photograph across.

‘She don’t look like a tom.’

‘She isn’t. Yet.’ Eden sipped her coffee: it had come out of a machine not a jar and was surprisingly palatable. ‘You heard of a bloke called Zamir?’

‘Pimp?’

Eden shrugged. ‘Could be. Could just be a supplier.’

Kaz fixed her with a look. ‘Fresh meat?’

‘Uh-huh.’

‘Bastard.’

She showed Kaz the photo of Zamir. ‘Know him?’

‘Nah. Not seen him before. Could be he doesn’t use cats.’ Kaz poked a triangle of crust into her mouth. ‘Not old cats, anyway.’

‘Could you do a bit of asking around for me? Just quietly?’

Kaz glanced up at ‘quietly’. ‘Vicious bastard, is he?’

Eden shrugged. ‘I don’t know yet. It could just be the old story, runaway teenager, comes home after a few days. But there’s something I don’t like. A feeling in my guts. And it’s got …’ She searched for the right word.

‘Hallmarks?’ Kaz supplied.

‘Yes, hallmarks.’ The word made her shudder.

‘You all right? You look like someone just walked over your grave.’

‘Perhaps they just did, Kaz. Perhaps they did.’

A return to the takeaway didn’t bring her any closer to Zamir. The manager said he hadn’t seen him for a couple of weeks, but did pass on a mobile number. Eden rang it and was informed that the number no longer existed. With Kaz gathering intelligence amongst her punters and colleagues, there was little more she could do, so Eden headed back to Cheltenham.

It was after seven by the time she arrived back, and on impulse decided to visit Paul Nelson’s ex-wife, Zoe. Zoe had admitted seeing Paul on Monday. According to the coroner, Paul was poisoned sometime between Saturday and early Tuesday morning. That put Zoe squarely in the time frame. Time for a surprise visit.

Zoe evidently hadn’t had time to change after work when Eden called round. She was still in a smart business suit and ivory silk blouse, and she padded around in stockinged feet as if she’d only just kicked off her heels. The death of her ex-husband, the father of her children, evidently hadn’t kept her from work.

‘Mrs Nelson? I’m Eden Grey, we spoke on the phone yesterday. I rang to tell you about Paul.’

‘Yes, yes. What do you want?’

‘I wanted to check you’re all right. How are the girls?’ Eden said.

‘They’re upset.’

‘Of course. A terrible shock for all of you.’ Eden glanced up at the rain. ‘Can I come in for a minute, please? I wondered if I could have a word.’

Zoe seemed distracted but opened the door wide to let her in. It was a beautiful house: a Regency terrace with two clipped shrubs standing sentinel either side of a generous front door. The hallway was light and airy, the floorboards had been sanded and varnished to a deep patina, and the walls were palest cream. She could imagine Paul being happy here, with these classic lines and the feeling of space.

Eden’s nose twitched as she entered the hall and Zoe swung the door shut. A scent, familiar and yet elusive. What was it? The same perfume her primary teacher wore? The scent that spoke to her of stories about owls and illustrations in primary colours. Learning to read.

The sitting room, which Zoe referred to as the ‘drawing room’ was large and square, with a pale blue rug in the centre. The furniture was a discreet wheat colour, and obviously expensive. No Ikea tables or sofas here. Eden was directed to a deep corded armchair.

‘What do you want?’ Zoe asked, sitting opposite her with her legs demurely bent to one side.

‘I’m investigating Paul’s death,’ Eden said. ‘The coroner believes it’s suspicious.’

Zoe’s hand crept to her throat. Her fingernails were freshly manicured in palest pink, the half-moons picked out in white. ‘Suspicious? I thought he …’

‘Thought he what?’

Zoe swallowed. ‘He said he couldn’t afford to pay more maintenance for me or the girls. I assumed his business was in trouble. You know how men can react.’

Eden didn’t reply, intrigued by the sudden appeal to complicity.

‘I … assumed he’d done something silly. Taken his own life.’

‘When did you last see him?’

‘Monday evening, just after six. We’d arranged for him to come over and see the girls, but also he wanted to talk about the maintenance. I was asking him for more. He refused, said he couldn’t afford it.’

‘How did he seem?’

Zoe spread her hands wide. ‘Wary. He seemed to think I had a live-in lover who ought to contribute to my upkeep.’

‘Do you?’

Zoe stared at her. ‘That’s not the point. He’s the girls’ father. He ought to pay for their upkeep.’

She stood and paced to the mantelpiece, adjusting a photo in a silver frame: her and two girls; matching hair and eyes, a smile printed from the same block. There were no photos of Paul on the mantelpiece; maybe his daughters kept pictures of him in their rooms. Zoe returned to her chair. That scent again, but now Eden knew why it was familiar.

‘Do you have a key to Paul’s apartment?’ she asked.

‘Yes, as it happens.’

‘When were you last there?’

Zoe looked up at the ceiling, thinking back. ‘A while ago. Christmas, perhaps. I don’t go there as a rule. Paul comes here to collect the girls.’

‘You went to his apartment yesterday morning, early. You let yourself in with a key. Why?’

‘What? I wasn’t … how do you know?’

‘Someone saw you.’ Not strictly true, but easier than explaining that Eden herself was in Paul’s flat when Zoe called. Eden’s voice hardened. ‘So I’ll ask you again, why were you in Paul’s flat the morning he died?’

Zoe sighed and crumpled against the cushions. ‘He always goes running early in the mornings. I knew he’d be out. I wanted to look at his bank statements. We shouted at each other when I saw him on Monday. He refused to pay any more for the girls, accused me of spending the money on myself. I called him terrible things. I wish I hadn’t. He is their father, after all. Anyway, I know his routine, so I thought I’d go and find the evidence I needed to get the maintenance increased.’

‘And did you?’

‘Yes, I took some of his statements away with me. I returned them after you’d called and said he was dead. No point anyway, the statements showed he was broke.’ Her voice cracked. She pressed her hand to her eyes and visibly composed herself. ‘And now he’s dead. I wish we hadn’t parted like that.’

‘Did Paul leave a will?’

‘He remade it after we divorced. He’s left money in trust for the girls.’

‘Are you a trustee?’

‘Yes, I am. I’m their mother …’

‘How much is the trust worth?’

Zoe licked her lips. ‘Three and a half million pounds.’

Unfinished business beckoned, and this time it was going to be sweet. She pulled up at the end of the street and made her way on foot to the house. A ring on the bell brought a skinny woman with a fake tan. Eden flashed her ID and put on her most menacing ‘don’t mess with me’ face.

‘I want to speak to Chris Wilde.’

‘He’s eating his tea.’

‘No, he isn’t. You eat early, about six-ish.’

‘How the hell do you know …?’

Eden sighed theatrically. ‘I’m a detective. Where is he?’ She jammed her foot in the door. ‘Get him here now.’

Chris Wilde’s missus shot her a venomous look but scuttled off to fetch him. There was a babble of voices; recriminations by the tone of it; then Chris Wilde’s bulk filled the hallway.

‘Mr Wilde, I’m Eden Grey, we’ve met before. I’m here to ask you to do some work for me.’

Chris’s gaze shuttled between her and his wife, wrong-footed. ‘Some work? I thought …’

‘I want you to sand down, clean and repaint my office door, and then I’d like a pot of bright spring flowers, preferably a mixture of narcissi and hyacinths, to place outside it. The pot should be frost-resistant, heavy, so it’s less easy to pinch, and at least twenty inches wide. And I want it crammed with scented flowers.’

Chris scratched his ear. ‘Sure, no problem. That’ll be … let me see.’

Eden stepped so close to him their noses almost touched. In a low, deadly tone, she said, ‘It will be free, and you will do this by Monday morning, latest, or I take the CCTV footage to the police.’

‘CCTV?’ Chris stuttered.

‘Of you scrawling an offensive slogan on my office door. That’s criminal damage. You will receive a fine and be ordered to pay compensation. You will have a criminal record. Not helpful when you’ve recently been made unemployed.’ She paused. ‘Or you could put it right and I won’t bring the force of the law crashing down on your pathetic head.’

Chris’s mouth worked and gibberish came out.

Eden turned on her heel. ‘By Monday 9am, latest. I think you’ll find it’s a better solution than going to court.’

She allowed herself a snicker as she drove away. The old CCTV wedge of persuasion. Worked every time.

Aidan was waiting outside in his car when she returned home. He sprang out and rushed over to kiss her cheek the moment she unclipped her seat belt.

‘What are you doing here?’ It came out more churlish than she expected; she’d evidently picked up some young person’s attitude talking to Bryony and Olivia.

Aidan didn’t flinch. ‘I’m offering to make you dinner.’

‘Dinner? You’re going to cook?’

‘Yes.’

How wonderful that sounded: someone cooking her dinner. Just what she needed after the day she’d had. Hammond’s voice had echoed in her mind, haunting her every move. Every time she closed her eyes she saw Dave the Nutter with his fist high in salute outside the Court of Appeal. Free.

‘OK, I’ll be round in about an hour. I’m all grungy and stinky,’ she said. ‘Been to Gloucester today.’

‘I’m going to cook for you.’ Aidan held up a supermarket carrier bag. ‘In your place.’

‘Oh.’ What if there was another message on the answering machine? Another threat from Hammond? Impossible to laugh it off to Aidan, and explaining would mean revealing too much about herself. She was aware she sounded ungrateful; he was offering to cook her dinner, after all. Trying hard to smile naturally, she said, ‘That sounds nice. Come on up.’

She pretended the door was stiff; turning her back on him so she could check the hair was still in place. It was. She heaved open the door with an over-bright cry of, ‘Here we are!’ and stepped inside with trepidation fizzing in her veins.

Nothing had been moved; the flat was silent and still. She breathed out a long, deep breath she hadn’t even realised she’d been holding.

Aidan bustled into the kitchen with carrier bags of ingredients, and set about hauling out frying pans and saucepans. Typical man, can only cook something if he uses every pan, plate and utensil in the place, she thought. At least his pernickety nature meant he cleaned up after himself and she wouldn’t be faced with a leaning tower of washing up at the end of the meal.

‘I’m just going to have a shower and get changed,’ Eden called. He nodded back, putting on a CD of Beethoven and singing along while he chopped onions. He’d brought the CD with him, too.

Eden went into the bedroom, stripped, and tossed her mucky clothes into the washing basket. She stood for a long time under the shower, scrubbing away the stress and misery of the day until the water began to run cold.

With a fresh towel wrapped around her, she returned to the bedroom. She cracked open the door: Aidan was still singing, and she could hear pans sizzling in the kitchen. The occasional burst of staccato swearing indicated he was happily employed. She was safe to make a phone call.

Underneath a layer of t-shirts in the bottom drawer of her wardrobe was a box. She lifted it out on to the bed and raised the lid. Eight mobile phone handsets, fifteen used SIM cards, and twenty SIM cards still in their packets. Underneath it all was a plain exercise book with a blue cover. She flipped the pages until she found the number she wanted, the name ‘Roger the Dodger’ and his phone number written in her own slanting script.

She selected a handset, inserted a new SIM card, and dialled a number she hadn’t used for years.

‘Roger, it’s Isabel.’

‘Isabel?’

‘We met a few years ago. About a Monet.’

‘Isabel! How you doing, girl?’

‘I’m good, thanks, how are you?’

‘Bold and breezy, just the same. What can I do you for, girl?’

She doodled a cat on the cover of the exercise book. ‘I need some info on a bent Constable.’

‘Plenty of them about, girl. You tried Scotland Yard?’ Roger chuckled.

‘Not a bent copper, Roger, a bent Constable of
Hay Wain
repute.’

‘Oh him. What you got?’

She pulled her notes on the Paul Nelson case towards her. ‘I want to know if a Constable entered the black market, sometime between ten years ago and eighteen months ago. Also, was someone asked to do a copy around the same time it went to market?’

Roger breathed heavily down the phone. ‘Any bent Constable, or have you got more details?’

‘I can send you a picture of the original, and of the copy,’ Eden said.

‘How you thinking of getting it to me?’ Roger’s voice was dark.

‘I’ll put the images password protected on the Cloud, and text you the password. All right?’

‘Should be safe enough,’ Roger grumbled. ‘I’ll ask around. Call you back on this number?’

‘Sure.’ She paused, then added, ‘Roger? Be careful, the last person who spotted that this picture was bent is dead.’

‘Got you. Bye, Isabel.’

She hung up. As she was about to stow the phone, a noise behind made her jump. Whipping round so fast her neck twanged, she saw Aidan lurking in the doorway.

‘Just who the fuck is Isabel?’ he asked.

‘Aidan, I didn’t see you there!’ Eden said. ‘Is dinner ready? Smells wonderful.’