Poisoned Ground: A Hakim and Arnold Mystery (Hakim & Arnold Mystery 3) (21 page)

She had a long wait. Her only consolation was that because it was winter and the old hotel was empty, not many visitors drove into the area, and that included traffic wardens. She just had to cope with the boredom. Beyond the hotel, there was nothing to see at Gallions. Through a forest of empty transparent box-like balconies, she could just see the end of the Royal Albert Dock. But if she got out and went to have a look, she might draw attention to herself. Most of the flats were probably empty because their owners were at work. Antoni and his mates were in the white block – somewhere – and those places had a lot of windows.

Amy sat. Every so often she’d look over at the BMW and then just stare into space. All she knew about Gallions Hotel was that it had once provided accommodation to people going abroad on the ships that left for far-flung parts of the British Empire from the Royal Docks. She’d heard that it had even had its own railway station, once. Not a station like the Gallions Reach Docklands Light Railway station, but a real steam-train terminus where people walked from the bar straight out onto the platform. How
many modern drunks would have appreciated that when they went one over the eight in the middle of the night? Amy smiled. When she’d been in the police she’d pulled more Friday and Saturday night shifts than she could remember. Turfing pissed boys out of the Beckton Arms in Canning Town and pushing aside outraged Muslim men to pick up intoxicated white girls off the pavement outside pubs on the Barking Road. Booze was a bloody menace and, ever since she’d worked the streets of Newham as a copper, Amy had all but given it up.

Amy wondered whether Antoni and his mates were getting pissed in one of the flats. Maybe the driver of the car had taken them to his place for a booze-up. Although if he did live at Gallions, why hadn’t he put his car away in the underground car park? Unless the driver had been desperate for a drink? But he hadn’t struck Amy as that sort of bloke. His skin was unblemished and his car was too good. To her, he’d looked much more like a drug dealer than a boozer.

Time began to feel like slow-running treacle. Ten minutes ticked lazily into fifteen and as the drizzle stopped and the sky began to lighten, Amy began to feel her eyes get heavy. She was bored and the car was stuffy, so she opened a window and took a swig from the flask of coffee she kept underneath the passenger seat. She couldn’t drink too much in case it made her want to go to the toilet.

She’d just put her flask back when she heard a muddle of loud, boyish voices. There was laughter and she heard the BMW driver say, ‘I told you!’ But in the middle of the talk and the hilarity there was an incongruous sight. One of the boys, the white kid who called himself Puffy, was having to be supported by Antoni and the Asian boy. His eyes were closed and his feet dragged along the pavement. He looked practically unconscious.
Amy photographed the trio. The driver said, ‘Just put him in the back. He’ll be OK.’

The kids clearly found Puffy a heavy load and it took longer to put him in the car than the driver wanted. ‘Come on!’ he snapped. ‘What you like, eh? Weak little girls?’

Once Puffy was in, Antoni and the Asian boy jumped into the car. Then it sped off, again at some ridiculous speed. Amy followed. At Gallions Reach, the BMW headed back towards Custom House along the Royal Albert Way. But then, just beyond the old derelict post office on the side of the Royal Albert Dock, the car suddenly stopped. Unless she wanted to blow her cover, Amy had to drive on by. But as she passed she saw Antoni and the driver pull Puffy out of the BMW and lay him on the pavement. She noticed that his face was a bright, almost translucent white. Amy pulled over as soon as she could and dialled 999.

*

It was weird being back in the East End. Lee had got used to the smell of cockles and vinegar as well as the relative emptiness of Southend. Maybe Susan had been onto something when she’d talked about him moving out of London? But then perhaps she hadn’t. She wanted him in any way she could get him and he now knew, for certain, that he didn’t feel likewise. When she’d got Vi’s number off his phone, she’d shot herself in the foot. But he hadn’t ended their relationship. He wasn’t up to any emotional scenes and he suspected that Susan would make a few. Besides, he was a coward when it came to women and he knew it.

‘Lee!’

He’d just left the car in Morrisons supermarket car park and was walking along Stratford Broadway towards Derek Salmon’s office.

‘Lee Arnold!’

It was a woman’s voice, which he didn’t immediately recognize. But then he looked down. Rosie Sweeney had always been small.

‘Where you striding off to like you’re on a mission from God?’ Rosie said.

She’d never been pretty even as a teenager when they’d been at school together but there had always been something about Rosie that made lots of blokes want her. Lee had never got it. But then he liked curves and Rosie was a bit light on those.

‘I’m just off to see your old man,’ Lee said.

He saw Rosie’s face drop even before she spoke. ‘Well, be careful, he’s got a stinking cold and he’s not “my” anything, Lee,’ she said. ‘Not any more.’

Lee frowned. Rosie and Derek Salmon had been childhood sweethearts. They had two kids, both now at university, and what he’d always imagined was an idyllic lifestyle in the posh Essex village of Ongar.

‘But Derek never …’

‘Said anything?’ Rosie snorted. ‘Fucking coward! He wouldn’t, would he?’

‘I don’t …’

Rosie put her four heavy supermarket bags down at her feet and straightened her back a little painfully. She looked down. ‘Shopping for Mum.’ She looked up. ‘She’s still at Shipman Road.’

Lee remembered the house. When he was a kid it had been typical Custom House fare, all cheap furniture inside, broken-up old tat in the yard outside.

‘So are you and Derek …?’

‘We’re so fucking over it isn’t even funny,’ Rosie said.

‘I’m sorry to hear that, Rose, truly.’ But she just shrugged. ‘What happened? You two were always solid.’

‘What happened? If I knew I’d tell you,’ Rosie said. ‘Eleven months ago he comes home one evening and tells me it’s all over. Luckily the kids were both away at college when it all kicked off. Although of course I had to tell them when they came home for Christmas because Del had buggered off by that time. He’s renting a flat and I’ve had to put the house up for sale. Not that there’s any more than a gnat’s fart of equity left in it. We’re skint.’

Lee didn’t understand. Derek had always been very successful. In fact, his new posh offices gave the impression that he was doing very nicely. ‘But …’

‘No, I don’t know what my husband has been spending our money on either,’ Rosie said. ‘I didn’t know he’d taken out a second and then a third mortgage on the house. Christ knows how he managed to trick me into those.’

Lee felt for her. Rosie had always been a decent sort. Why had Derek Salmon dismantled their lives in this way? He couldn’t believe it was just to fund his shiny new offices. Was there someone else?

Rosie said, ‘But anyway, that’s not your problem. Just make sure that if he owes you money, you get it, OK?’

‘Del’s always paid me on time and in full in the past,’ Lee said.

She shook her head. ‘And he probably will again. The business is probably fine. I’m just bitter. If I knew why he’d ditched me and the kids, I wouldn’t be so fucking livid. But he won’t talk to me, and so what can I do? He calls it “irreconcilable differences” but that can mean anything. As far as I was concerned, we agreed on most things.’ She picked her shopping up. ‘Anyway, must get back to Mum’s. Might be living with her soon, so I can’t afford to piss her off.’

Rosie left and Lee went to see her soon-to-be ex-husband. He
didn’t tell Derek he’d met Rosie but he did look at him with different eyes. As far as he could see, Del was just Del. The solicitor seemed sad that the Phil Rivers case had come to nothing, but happy to hand over a big fat cheque from the missing man’s wife. He didn’t say a word about Rosie.

Amy had followed the ambulance to Newham General Hospital. Even before it had arrived, Antoni and his mates had got back in the BMW and sped off towards Custom House. She’d put Puffy in the recovery position, but he’d stopped breathing.

The paramedics got him going again, which was a relief, and although Amy only owned up to being a disinterested passer-by, she followed the crew to the hospital anyway. As soon as they’d taken Puffy inside, she called Mumtaz.

‘I don’t know what those boys did in that flat,’ she said. ‘But when Puffy came out he was all over the place.’

‘You think he took something?’ Mumtaz asked.

‘That would be my best guess. But I don’t know what,’ Amy said. ‘The others seemed straight.’

‘But we can’t assume that.’

‘No. I didn’t tell the paramedics who I was and I haven’t told the medical staff anything yet,’ Amy said. ‘But I’ll have to fill them in.’

‘Of course,’ Mumtaz said. ‘Tell them anything they need to know. I’ll tell Antoni’s mother what’s happened.’

‘OK.’

Amy finished the call and walked into Accident and Emergency. She told the nurse at reception that she’d come in with
the boy who’d collapsed on the Royal Albert Way. She was told to sit with the other patients in what was a very full waiting room. Someone would come to speak to her. The first hour was the worst, especially when a couple of alcoholics decided to have a wheelchair race.

*

It was never easy talking to someone you didn’t know well. Ever since he’d started at Ilford, Shirley had felt that Dr Golding was a bit aloof and unhappy. But then she’d had that brief conversation with him in Sara Ibrahim’s old room and she had felt something she had interpreted as sympathy for the dead girl. She came across him in the staff canteen. Dr D’Lima had just left and so Golding was alone. Not knowing how long she’d have him to herself, Shirley sat down opposite Golding and smiled.

He smiled back. Shirley looked at the door, which remained closed.

She said, ‘Dr Golding, I don’t know whether you remember me …’

‘You’re Mrs Mayfield from the Advocacy,’ he said. ‘Of course I do.’

He was very good-looking and so Shirley blushed a little. She said, ‘Can I ask you something, Dr Golding?’

‘You can.’ He put the sandwich he’d been eating down. ‘Don’t know if I’ll be able to answer, though.’

Shirley looked at the door one more time and then she leant forward. ‘Were you called out to Dylan Smith on Forensic in the early hours of this morning?’ she asked.

He didn’t answer for a moment. Watching him, Shirley felt he was considering her question very carefully.

She’d just about given up hope of ever getting an answer when he said, ‘Yes. Yes, I was.’

‘Why?’

‘I can’t tell you that,’ he said.

Patient confidentiality. Shirley understood. ‘I see,’ she said.

‘Sorry.’

Shirley looked at the door yet again. Anyone could come in at any minute and she wasn’t even sure that she could or should trust Golding. But she felt she could. Was that good enough?

‘Well, can you tell me if Dr el Masri was there?’ she asked. ‘He tried to perform an examination of Dylan at six-thirty in the evening and …’

‘Dr el Masri and myself were with Nurse Pool in Dylan Smith’s room in the early hours of this morning,’ he said. ‘Unless Dylan decides to tell you more about that meeting, I can’t say anything else, Mrs Mayfield.’

He looked disgruntled now and although Shirley wanted to push her case further, she didn’t. Her information had come via a cleaner who had been listening to gossip. So Golding had been in Dylan’s room with el Masri in the early hours of the morning? So what?

Dr Golding stood up and began to walk towards the canteen door. Shirley said, ‘Don’t you want your sandwich?’

He turned, looked at the sandwich and then said, ‘No.’

‘OK.’

He made as if to carry on walking out, but suddenly reversed and came back to Shirley. With one furtive look at the canteen door he said, ‘I can’t tell you what happened last night. But I can tell you one thing, which is that Dr el Masri didn’t even attempt to perform an examination of Mr Smith until the early hours of this morning.’

And then he left, quickly.

Shirley was stunned. Mr Cotton had assured her that el Masri had tried to examine Dylan at six-thirty. But if Golding was right then it had actually happened right in the middle of Pool’s shift. Dylan hated Pool – he would have been terrified if he’d been in attendance. No wonder he hadn’t consented to the examination. But why had Mr Cotton lied to her?

*

If being back in the East End was weird, then sitting behind his desk in his office was even weirder. It seemed as if he’d been away for months and yet, in reality, it had only been a few days. Lee allowed himself a smile. The place was still as cramped and dark, and the ever-present damp hadn’t deigned to go away, but he was glad to be back, even if he was on his own.

He’d called Mumtaz, who was working her Ilford Hospital gig. Apparently Amy was at the General with some kid who was a friend of the Polish boy she’d been following. The kid had collapsed and so Amy was going to have to blow out the case in order to possibly save the boy’s life. Which was a pain in the arse. But at least he’d just put a nice wedge of cash in the business account, courtesy of Derek Salmon. He flung Derek’s paperwork on Mumtaz’s desk. She’d file it for him later. Money was always an issue and whenever it came in, Lee just banked it and then moved on.

Lee’s mobile rang. It was Susan. He ignored it. He wasn’t ready to talk to her. But was that fair? He thought about Derek Salmon’s wife, Rosie, and how wrung out she’d looked when he’d met her in Stratford. And why was she in such a state? Because Derek had given her her marching orders but not given her a reason. Lee looked at his phone again and was just about to pick it up when it stopped ringing. He shook his head. Why did he find
dealing with women he was romantically attached to so difficult? Or was he making too much of his recent experiences? Was it just Susan?

His phone rang again and this time he picked it up. He expected Susan, but in fact it was DI Cobbett from Southend.

‘Thought you’d like to know the result of the inquiry on the body in the Rivers’ flat,’ he said.

‘Yeah.’

‘Ken Rivers finally admitted that the body in his bedroom was that of his wife, Bette. According to Ken she’d died suddenly in their bed and he hadn’t known what to do.’

‘You said natural causes before – do you know any more?’

Cobbett said, ‘The poor lady had an aneurysm. No sign of foul play.’

‘Good.’

‘But he still failed to get medical attention for his wife,’ Cobbett said. ‘Admittedly there would have been little anyone could have done for her, but he didn’t report her death and he carried on collecting her pension. He also attacked and imprisoned you.’

‘True. Why did he lump me one?’

‘He’s sticking to his story that he was trying to do a disappearing act,’ Cobbett said. ‘You’d caught him gambling and you knew he was in debt up to his bollocks. Quick as a flash, he reckoned that if you were found with the body of Bette he could do a runner and you’d take the blame for her death. He’s not the brightest tool in the box.’

‘He is a tool, though.’

Cobbett laughed. ‘And now Shane Warner, his landlord, has given him notice to quit,’ he said. ‘There’s not a lot anyone can do about it. Warner, as well as being a go-to bloke when it comes to drugs and women, also has a very good solicitor. Ken’s
tenancy is very clear: if he doesn’t pay rent to Warner for three consecutive months, then he’s out. And it’s watertight.’

Lee shook his head. Ken Rivers wasn’t a nice man but he wasn’t a completely rotten one either. Just stupid.

‘So is he in his flat now?’ Lee asked.

‘He’s got two weeks to get out. If we can’t find his son or some other relative he’ll be a candidate for the homeless shelter,’ Cobbett said.

Lee told him that his hunt for Phil Rivers was over.

‘Well, we’ll see if we can find him,’ Cobbett said. ‘If only to hand over responsibility for Ken to him. I never understood your client’s interest anyway – it’s a strange world when a woman wants to find her ex-husband to see if he’s all right and doesn’t care about the vast amount of money he’s ripped her off for.’

It was odd, but then there was no blueprint for relationships. When he’d finished talking to Cobbett, Lee went outside the office and had a fag. A couple of schoolgirls were lurking around the end of the back alley smoking cigarettes too. One looked like a Goth while the other one had her head covered. For a moment he thought she might be Mumtaz, until he saw her face.

When she’d phoned him they’d talked mainly about Amy and her Polish kid whose mother had, it seemed, been right to worry about the company he kept. Mumtaz had said she had news about her own assignment too. But it would have to wait for the next morning. She’d finish at Ilford at five and then go home to do some more packing. Lee, meanwhile, also had to go home.

Normally that thought would have filled him with joy. To go home and see Chronus, put the telly on and get a bit of cleaning done. But Tony Bracci was also in the flat and he left coffee cups on floors and didn’t think that pairing socks was important.

*

MJ offered Rashida the joint again.

‘It’s only weed,’ she said. ‘It won’t do you any harm.’

Rashida shook her head. ‘No, it’s un-Islamic to take drugs,’ she said. ‘It’s OK for you.’

‘What, because I’m a Hindu? Not really,’ MJ said. ‘But so what? It’s just cannabis, girl. Honest to God, there are things that are
so
much worse out there and it will help to relax you.’

But Rashida carried on shaking her head. ‘All drugs are bad,’ she said.

MJ smoked. ‘Weed’s not. It’s not like heroin or that mad stuff gangsters in Russia make out of petrol and Mr Muscle.’

‘Petrol and Mr Muscle?’

‘They call them legal highs because you can’t get arrested for having them. But they’re lethal. Then there’s coke, that’s bad, and there’s even some prescription drugs on the street that can really fuck you up.’ She puffed again. ‘Weed just relaxes you a bit and you laugh at stuff.’

It also made you say things. Rashida had been around MJ long enough to know that when she was stoned she just gabbled away about anything. That was OK for her. MJ didn’t have secrets. Rashida thought about her father’s lock-up and she moved even further away from the joint.

MJ laughed. ‘Fucking hell, man, it won’t bite you!’

But Rashida said ‘No’ once again because she knew that it could.

*

It took a while to track Daria the cleaner down. Like a lot of the other girls who’d been brought in by the cleaning contractors to work at the hospital, it was rumoured that she was probably an illegal immigrant. Whatever her status, she worked all and any hours God sent. She was cleaning the toilets in the admin block
when Mumtaz found her. But how to open a conversation with Daria, who she didn’t know, about a dead patient?

Mumtaz washed her hands and thought how she might start a dialogue when Daria walked over to her. About forty, Daria was very dark – some people had said they thought she was a gypsy – and very, very thin.

‘You are Muslim woman?’ she said to Mumtaz. She pointed to her headscarf.

‘Yes.’

‘Me also,’ Daria said. ‘Albanian. Kosovo.’

‘Ah.’ Most Albanians in the UK were Kosovan Muslims. The women, particularly, tended to be poor. Daria conformed to this Albanian norm. She wore big, baggy shalwar trousers that looked as if they were made of curtains, and an oversized, very threadbare man’s suit jacket. On her feet she wore flip-flops. By comparison, Mumtaz looked like a catwalk model. How could she, in all conscience, ask this woman to do anything for her without offering her something in return? But what? If something illegal had happened to Sara Ibrahim’s medical notes, and Mumtaz gave Daria money, then the whole investigation could be put at risk. It could be argued that she’d paid Daria to fabricate evidence.

‘You know we are forgotten Muslims,’ Daria said. ‘In old days we are ruled by Turks and then they go. Then Serbs come and kill everyone. Because we are European Muslims nobody cares.’

That wasn’t strictly true. Although the international community had not done enough to protect the Kosovars during the ethnic wars of the 1990s in the former Yugoslavia, they hadn’t totally abandoned them. Nobody had been “forgotten”. But Daria was poor and so how could she see any kind of parity between herself and almost every other person she met – and that included the service users. Mumtaz suddenly felt stupid
and manipulative. How could she ask this woman to give her anything? Even information.

But she’d given it to Kylie. Why? Was Kylie her friend, or did she think that she was? Maybe she should have asked Kylie to introduce them. Maybe she could still do that.

‘Well, I’m Mumtaz,’ she said. ‘What’s your name?’

‘I am Daria.’

‘Oh?’ The deception came quickly and easily. She creased her brow as if trying to remember something.

‘Oh? What you mean?’

‘I’ve heard your name,’ Mumtaz said. ‘I’ve got a friend called Kylie …’

‘Ah, Kylie, yes!’ Daria’s face lit up. ‘She my friend too! Sometimes we go to pub!’

‘Do you?’

Mumtaz didn’t think there was any implied criticism in her tone. But Daria must have picked some up. ‘I don’t drink,’ she said. ‘Just have conversation.’ And then, unexpectedly, she gave Mumtaz an opening. ‘You must come! Pub is only at end of road. Me and Kylie, we go tonight. You must come.’

*

Amy saw Mrs Brzezinski drag Antoni up to the reception desk. ‘I have brought in my son to see Dr Banerjee. Antoni Brzezinski.’

‘Oh, yes.’ The receptionist took them straight through to the treatment area.

Dr Banerjee had been very understanding when he’d met Amy. Some medics, just like some coppers, automatically sneered at PIs. But he’d totally got why Antoni’s mum had employed the agency. He’d said, ‘Parents can’t be too careful, especially not on estates.’