M
ickey leaned back, fingers interlaced behind his head, stretched his body. Felt the pull of the muscles down his arms, his sides. He flexed, stretched again. Took a deep breath, let it go. Relaxed again.
He hated paperwork. Loathed it. Despised it. Some people, Milhouse for one, were natural-born desk jockeys. They loved nothing better than sitting in front of a computer screen, trawling through virtual facts and figures in an unreal world, emerging with something real and concrete at the end. Mickey couldn’t do that. He was built for action. He hated to admit it, knew the admission made him sound like some musclebound thug, the kind that volunteered for riot-squad work, but it was the truth. Not the riot-squad stuff; he couldn’t stand the kind of officers that arm of the job attracted. Just the action element. Thief-taking. Catching criminals. That kind of thing. Proper police work. Not sitting here in front of a screen, getting eye strain.
But he had found out some interesting things. He had to admit that. The time hadn’t been wasted.
So that was something.
And the office felt better when Glass wasn’t there. Mickey had had reservations about him before the chat outside. An instinctive distrust of the man. Or a dislike. For Mickey, the two things were often the same.
But Glass’s words kept running around his mind. Was the DCI right? Had he allied himself too closely with Phil? Would it impact on his career? He shook his head. Now wasn’t the time to be thinking about things like that.
He rubbed his eyes, looked again at the screen. Richard Shaw. Tricky Dicky. Hadn’t been so clever about hiding his paper trail as he thought he had. Certainly not if Mickey could find it.
He rubbed his eyes again. Couldn’t stand another second looking at this screen. He needed to get out.
Mickey smiled to himself, took his phone out. Perfect, he thought. Just the excuse.
‘I want to meet,’ he said by way of greeting. ‘Now.’
Fifteen minutes later, he was on the footbridge overlooking Balkerne Hill. On one side was the old Roman wall bordering the town centre. The Hole in the Wall pub built into the corner. On the opposite side, the upmarket suburb of St Mary’s. Beneath him, traffic roared down the dual carriage-ways in and out of the town.
‘Hello, Stuart,’ he said.
Stuart was already there, staring down at the road. He looked up as Mickey approached.
‘You know I don’t like meeting in broad daylight,’ he said, eyes darting round, checking for spies. ‘Especially not somewhere like this.’
Mickey smiled. ‘Perfect place, Stuart. Beats hanging round in some back alley or the corner of a dodgy boozer. Up here … no one’s looking. You’re ignored. You’re safe.’
Stuart, Mickey could tell, didn’t look convinced.
‘So what did you want to see me about?’ he said, a sigh of resignation in his voice.
Mickey looked at him. Stuart had been an informant longer than Mickey had been in Colchester. He had provided information for the previous DS in MIS and had seemed perfectly happy to let the arrangement continue with his successor. Today he looked rough. But then, Mickey thought, he always looked rough.
Stuart was tall and thin, and his black Cuban-heeled suede boots had seen much better days. Probably when John Lennon was divorcing Cynthia. His jeans were also black, drainpipe-cut, barely clinging to his drainpipe legs. A once-black T-shirt now gone grey, proclaiming the name of some band Stuart was keeping the faith for. One that had split up, re-formed, split up again and had three of its founder members die through various forms of self abuse. A black waistcoat and the same black leather jacket he always wore, so old it had come back into fashion at least three times without him noticing it. And his hair was a filthy nest of artificially blackened spikes. He looked old enough to have been a mod, but dressed as if the last tribe he had followed had been punk, and seemed to have lost the energy to reinvent himself since.
He claimed to be a poet. Although Mickey had never heard of him having anything published. He claimed he used to be a rock star. Although no one could ever remember him doing any gigs or releasing any records. He had always endorsed the sex, drugs and rock ’n’ roll lifestyle. Well, the drugs at any rate, thought Mickey. Still, he seemed to know everyone in the area, some good, most bad, and had a knack of finding things out from circles Mickey could never get into.
‘Tricky Dicky Shaw,’ said Mickey.
Stuart frowned. ‘Tricky Dicky Shaw … there’s a blast from the past … ’
‘His son’s been in town,’ said Mickey. ‘Calling himself Adam Weaver. Just been killed at the Halstead Manor Hotel.’
‘Heard about that,’ said Stuart. ‘Any idea who did it?’
‘I was going to ask you that.’
‘Oh. Right.’ He nodded. ‘Tricky Dicky Shaw … well I never … ’
‘D’you think you could have a bit of a nose-around? Find something out for me?’
Stuart shrugged. ‘Sure. See what I can do.’ He screwed up his face again. Concentrating. ‘Adam Weaver … that name rings a bell.’
‘Good. Give you something to go on.’
‘When d’you want to hear something?’
‘When you’ve got something to tell me. Sooner rather than later would be good, though.’
‘Right you are, Mr Philips.’
‘OK. Call me when you’ve got something.’ Mickey turned to walk away. Stuart stopped him. Mickey turned.
‘Couldn’t give me a bit in advance, could you? On account?’
Mickey sighed. He had been expecting this and come prepared, but it was a ritual he had to go through. He dug into his pocket, pulled out a tenner. ‘Here you go.’
‘Much appreciated, Mr Philips. Hey, have I ever told you you’ve got the same name as the guy who discovered Elvis and Johnny Cash?’
‘Only every time we meet, Stuart,’ said Mickey with a weary smile. ‘And it’s only the surname, as you know. Ring me when you’ve got something.’
‘Right you are.’
Mickey walked off. It wasn’t a car chase, he reasoned, but it beat doing paperwork.
T
he Minories café was tucked away at the back of the art gallery of the same name at the top of East Hill, opposite the castle, in a sprawling Georgian building. With its stripped wooden floors and mismatched furniture, not to mention the huge cakes and quiches, it was a favourite lunch haunt of Marina’s. Now she was there with Don, because it was the place where they were least likely to come across police officers.
They had taken a seat at one of the outdoor tables, the weather being just warm enough to allow it. They had sat as far away as possible from anyone else, mindful that they didn’t want anyone overhearing their conversation.
Marina stared at her empty coffee mug, the dregs drying round the rim like geological strata, dating the time they had sat there. She blinked as if coming out of a trance, leaned back, looked round.
The garden, with its odd assortment of architectural features, its archways and vaults dotted about seemingly at random, always reminded her of a mini Portmeirion. But she wasn’t noticing that now. She was taking in what Don had said, letting the words settle.
‘Oh my God … ’
What he had told her had made the day fall away. It had been like hearing the most unreal and unfamiliar things in the most real and familiar of settings. That had just heightened the effect of what he had said.
‘Oh my God … ’ she said again. There were no other words to express what she had just heard.
‘I’m sorry you had to hear it like this,’ Don said, eyes on his own coffee mug. Not empty like Marina’s, since he had been doing most of the talking, but cold. Unwanted. ‘I’m sorry you had to hear it at all, really.’
‘No, no, it’s … ’ She shook her head. ‘Poor Phil … ’
‘I always knew I’d have to tell him one day. Well, I thought I would. But I hoped it would never come to it.’ He leaned forward, placed his hand on hers. She left it there. ‘I certainly never imagined it would all come out this way. Never in a million years.’
‘I’ll bet.’
‘I thought all that was over. In the past.’ He sighed. ‘I wished it was.’ Shook his head. ‘I really … ’ Sighed again.
Marina wanted a cigarette. She hadn’t smoked for years, not since she was a student trying to impress other students. But whenever she got stressed, she could feel the burning smoke being pulled down her throat, entering her lungs. Soothing her, comforting her. She knew the effect was imaginary, illusory, and had resisted it. But it was calling her now. More strongly than she had felt for years.
Don sat back. Removed his hand from hers. ‘So anyway. Now you know.’
‘Yes,’ she replied blankly, not fully engaging with the words, ‘now I know. And it explains a lot.’
‘How so?’
‘Phil’s behaviour. He thinks he’s cracking up. Seeing things that aren’t there, being … I don’t know, haunted by ghosts he doesn’t understand. By ghosts he thinks don’t exist.’
‘Oh they exist all right,’ said Don. ‘They’re all too real.’
‘Poor Phil … ’ Marina shook her head.
‘The question I suppose I should ask,’ said Don, ‘is now that you know, what are you going to do about it?’
‘That’s one question,’ said Marina, ‘yes. Probably the most important question. But there’s another.’
Don waited.
‘What does it mean for this case?’
Another sigh from Don. ‘Well,’ he said. ‘That’s where this comes in … ’
He took the stolen report from inside his jacket, laid it on the table before them. They both looked at it, Marina frowning.
‘I think we’d better get more coffee,’ said Don. ‘This might take some time.’
M
ickey was back in the office, printing out copies of his findings on Richard Shaw, looking at his watch, thinking it would be time to go home after he had done that, when his phone rang.
He checked the display. A number without a name attached. He answered.
‘Detective Sergeant Philips.’
‘Oh,’ said a voice on the other end. ‘Oh. Very formal.’
Female and familiar, Mickey thought. And in those few words, holding a lot of promise.
‘Who is this?’
‘Oh, sorry. I should have said. I just automatically assumed you would know. Sorry. It’s Lynn. Lynn Windsor.’
As soon as she said her name, Mickey received a mental image of the solicitor. It was an image he was happy to look at.
‘How can I help you, Lynn?’
‘Well I don’t know, exactly … ’ Her voice dropped, as if she wanted to say something private but was afraid of being overheard.
‘Take your time,’ he said. Then realised he was smiling. Very unprofessional, he thought, but he made no effort to stop.
‘I’ve … ’ Her voice trailed off. ‘I don’t know … ’
‘It’s all right,’ he said, sensing that she needed encouragement. ‘Take your time.’
She sighed. ‘I’ve … ’ Her voice dropped even further. ‘I’ve discovered something. Something … ’ Another sigh. ‘Look, it’s probably nothing. Nothing important. But I just thought, you know, what with everything that’s been going on in the last couple of days … ’
‘You’ve found something you think is important and you want me to take a look at it.’
The relief in her voice was palpable. ‘Exactly. Look, I’m sorry, it’s probably nothing, like I said, but I just … Can I see you? Tonight?’
If the smile Mickey had experienced on hearing her voice hadn’t been professional, the erection he felt stirring certainly wasn’t. ‘Yeah, sure … when and where?’
I think it would be better if you came round to my flat,’ she said, voice low and breathless. ‘Will that be OK?’
‘Sure … ’
‘I’ll give you directions.’
She did so.
‘See you soon,’ she said. ‘Oh, one thing, Mickey … ’
‘I’m still here.’
Her voice took on a breathy aspect. ‘Don’t tell anyone. Please.’
His own voice had dropped to a whisper. ‘Well it’s not correct procedure, strictly speaking … ’
‘Please, Mickey. Please. I’m taking a … a big risk coming to you about this. If anyone finds out about it … ’ Another sigh.
‘Well … ’
‘Please, Mickey, I’m begging you.’ And she was. Her voice was doing exactly that. ‘Keep this to yourself. If anyone else found out about this … please … ’
He sighed. ‘OK.’
‘Promise?’
‘I promise.’
‘Good. You won’t regret it.’ And she rang off.
Mickey pocketed his phone. Sat staring at the screen.
Wondering whether he had just done the right thing.
Wondering if he was about to make things worse.
‘F
ound it.’
Donna stopped what she was doing, looked up. She had been sitting on the bedroom floor, pulling out drawer after drawer, rifling through the life she had spent with Faith. She hadn’t been enjoying it. It was like a betrayal of trust, no matter that Faith was dead. She felt like a horrible, venal relative, tearing up the family home looking for a will, seeing what she could get out of it for herself.
Which in a way was exactly what she was doing.
Except, she kept telling herself, it was the only way she could keep both herself and Ben alive. And if she made a little money from it too, so much the better. She was sure that was what Faith would have wanted. It was what she had been doing herself. When she died.
Donna had been getting sidetracked, seeing clothes Faith would never wear again, remembering times when she had worn them. Places they had gone together. Fun they had had. If she had kept on like that, she would have found herself tearing up. So when Rose shouted, she was glad of the distraction.
She looked up, felt the pain in her knee, tried to ignore it.
Rose was in Ben’s room. The boy had been exiled to the living room, stuck in front of a DVD. Donna had thought that was for the best. She didn’t want him to see the two of them tear the house apart.
Rose entered the bedroom holding aloft a blue exercise book. Donna looked at it. She could remember Faith buying it, coming home from Wilkinson’s with it.
I’m writin’ my life story
, she had said, and they had both laughed. And that had been the last Donna had thought of it.
Until now.
Rose sat on the edge of the bed, one arm wrapped protectively round her damaged ribs. ‘Have a look at this,’ she said. ‘See if it means anything to you.’
Donna pulled herself off the floor, sat next to the police officer.
Rose opened the book. The two women started to read.
They didn’t move.
‘Oh my God … ’ Rose was stunned.
Donna said nothing. There was nothing more to say. They read on.