The Mourner Read online

  The boy stared at her, his face a mix of fear and incredulity. One of his mates hovered in the background. ‘She’s a fucking cop, man. Gotta be. Or some fucking anti-terrorist shit. They have guns.’

  ‘You a cop?’ The boy seemed almost hopeful.

  Nicci allowed herself a small smile but her eyes continued to drill into his, willing him to make the move. She wanted it. The creature inside wanted it – wanted to hurt him, break him, make him bleed.

  Sensing this, the boy lowered the blade, started to turn away. ‘Fuck this shit, I’m outta here.’

  As he turned, Nicci grasped his shoulder and spun him round. ‘Not so fast. First you apologize.’

  The boy was reddening now, any scrap of self-respect he had left was in the gutter with the old lady’s shopping trolley.

  He glared at Nicci, shame and resentment making him braver. ‘I don’t do no apologies. You wanna fucking nick me, nick me.’

  Nicci laughed derisively. Suddenly her hand was on his chest and she shoved him back against the side of the bus shelter. He had nowhere to run. He looked petrified, his soft caramel eyes glistening with the suggestion of a tear. Nicci watched him for a moment. Then she took a deep breath and reined herself in. This was totally wrong, she knew that – he was only a kid.

  With a shake of her head she changed tack: ‘You don’t do apologies? You have got to be the stupidest little fuck I’ve met for some time. So instead of turning to this lady and saying I’m sorry I kicked your trolley, you’d rather be nicked? Well, I have to tell you, sunshine, all our young offender units are fit to bursting at the moment. So they’d have to find a place for you in adult nick. And once the nonces set eyes on a fresh little virgin like you, they’ll have a field day.’ Nicci pulled her phone out of her pocket. ‘But if that’s what you want . . .’

  The boy’s shoulders sagged, he wiped his nose with the back of his fist. Nicci keyed in a couple of random numbers then hesitated. She had him completely, she knew that. She lowered the phone. ‘What’s your name?’

  He swallowed, his voice a croak. ‘Leon.’

  Nicci gestured towards the old lady. ‘Say sorry, Leon, then you can get off to school.’

  Leon turned to the old lady, but he couldn’t meet her eye. He stared at her feet and mumbled, ‘Sorry.’

  She responded with a nod. Leon turned on his heel and fled across the road; his mates strolled after him, trying to maintain some semblance of cool.

  The old lady was beaming from ear to ear. ‘Well, I’ve never seen the like of that! Not even in the old days.’

  She started to clap. The rest of the queue joined in.

  An old Jamaican gent doffed his trilby to Nicci. ‘Respect to you, Officer.’

  Nicci found herself marooned in a sea of well-wishers. She drew in a weary breath; a solid lump of embarrassment had settled in her gut. How the hell did this stuff happen? Yet again it had crept up on her, ambushed her, this fury she couldn’t contain. But for the most part it skulked in the shadows, always there, biding its time, waiting for its chance.

  And once again she had let it ambush her.

  2

  Kaz Phelps was the last person off the Glasgow train at Euston. A cleaner was already trundling through the carriages dragging his clear bin bag when she finally managed to collect her chaotic thoughts and her backpack and step down onto the platform. She hadn’t been in London since they’d driven her down from Scotland for her brother’s trial; she’d been totally cocooned then, escorted everywhere, securely accommodated in an anonymous hotel.

  Joey Phelps had been sentenced to life with a thirty-year tariff. The look he’d given her from the dock remained etched in her brain. As she’d delivered the testimony that helped put him away, his eyes never left her face. They contained a chill beyond hatred, but she also knew he was making her a promise: she’d betrayed him, sold her own brother down the river and, no matter how long it took, one day he’d get even. But it wouldn’t be today, or even tomorrow – or at least, that’s what she got up each morning and told herself.

  In her new life under the witness protection scheme Kaz hadn’t paid much attention to the outside world. As Clare O’Keeffe she lived in a bubble insulated from the past. Her new carapace kept her safe but separate. She coped by keeping busy. So far as the world was concerned, Clare was just another art student with a family as ordinary, humdrum and boring as everyone else’s. Her carefully constructed history was bland – a faked record from a sprawling London comp, an imaginary gap year, which had ballooned into an extended period working abroad. She was a mature student, older and cooler than the rest. And she didn’t do any social media crap because . . . well, it was crap.

  Mostly she enjoyed her new persona. It allowed her to skim through her days without addressing any deeper feelings and it was certainly easier than being Kaz Phelps, a convicted felon serving out her sentence on licence. To keep the probation service onside and ensure that she was meeting the conditions of her licence she was required to pay regular visits to the Criminal Justice Social Work office in Glasgow; her cover story was that she was seeing a drugs counsellor. In the eyes of her student mates this made her uber-cool.

  She worked hard and obsessively at her art, socialized little and deliberately ignored all forms of news. So Helen Warner had been dead a full month before Kaz saw her picture flash across a television screen in the coffee shop where she worked part-time. The sound was always muted and she had to follow the scrolling caption to learn that a police investigation had concluded that the newly elected MP had committed suicide. Kaz pounced on the nearest student and demanded to use his laptop to check the story online. Reeling in disbelief, she ran most of the way back to her flat, buried her face in the folds of her duvet and howled. Then after a tortured night, wired on grief and caffeine, she packed a bag and caught the early morning train to London.

  Standing on the empty platform Kaz felt desolate and alone. To say she hadn’t thought this through was an understatement. She had no plan. Misery and shock had simply engulfed her. The love she felt for Helen Warner was the beacon that guided her; it had got her through jail time, off the booze and drugs, through despair and the years of waiting. It had even survived Helen’s rejection of her. And the notion that Helen had taken her own life – jumped in the River Thames was what it said on the Net – well, Kaz simply didn’t believe it. She wouldn’t believe it.

  Over a year had gone by since they’d seen each other – their only contact had been one postcard from Helen she’d ignored – but the news Helen was dead had twisted Kaz’s insides into a knot of searing pain. Even apart and estranged, her ex-lover had remained a vital presence, the one person Kaz was still unconsciously trying to impress. And suicide? It was too unbelievable to accept. Something had happened to Helen and Kaz would find out. No matter what it took or how much it cost her, she’d get to the truth.

  3

  The taxi edged towards yet another set of temporary lights on Rosebery Avenue. It had been crawling since the Angel. Nicci peered out of the window at a tangle of blue corrugated plastic pipes sticking out of an abandoned-looking hole in the road. The red-and-white crash barrier had collapsed against a mound of mud. They seemed to be digging up half of London; all the cast-iron Victorian water mains were giving up the ghost at the same time.

  Nicci checked her watch and leant forward towards the driver. ‘You can let me out here. I’ll walk the rest.’

  He pulled in to the kerb. ‘Sorry, love.’

  She handed him a tenner; the 73 would’ve been cheaper, but the cab had offered her the quickest escape from the old lady and her new-found fans in the bus queue.

  Turning into Gray’s Inn Road she had only a few hundred yards to walk. The offices of SBA Security occupied the fourth floor of a recently refurbished pre-war office block. The interior of the building had been gutted, the facade clad with mirrored glass to create the impression of a new build. The entrance hall was now a lofty atrium filled with slick modern art and a
small coffee franchise.

  In daylight hours a double-shot espresso was Nicci’s drug of choice. Catching the aroma she hesitated, but only for a moment. She was running late and Blake had always been a stickler for punctuality. She swiped through the security barrier and headed for the lifts.

  Nicci had been a newly minted detective constable, barely out of uniform, when she first encountered Simon Blake. It was in the wake of the Stephen Lawrence Inquiry and the Met was desperately trying to clean up its act. Blake was then an experienced DCI who’d served his time in all the heavy squads – serious crimes, homicide, robbery. But as the culture in the Met was forced to change, Blake was a man who’d found his moment. At Bramshill he was exactly what they were looking for: he had a degree, an MSc in Criminology; he knew how to get results but didn’t look like a meathead in a suit. Rapid promotion to Chief Superintendent followed as he headed up several high-profile murder investigations. And Nicci had become a fixture on his team.

  In the last bitter days of their marriage Tim had taken to insisting that Blake had always had a thing for Nicci. How else had she made DS so fast when he was stuck at DC? What Tim didn’t understand was that Blake was a player; he read the mood of the times and saw immediately that mentoring and promoting smart young women officers would set him apart from the old guard. Unlike some colleagues, he wasn’t looking for any kind of sexual pay-off in return. If he stayed after work for a drink, it was only ever a swift half. Then he took the train home to Surrey, to Heather and his three boys.

  When Nicci went on maternity leave to have Sophie, Blake had been poised for promotion to Commander. After that it was all a question of luck and timing – he was the right age, all he had to do was play the game and wait for his chance at one of the top slots. But that was nine years ago now, before both their worlds turned upside down.

  Nicci stepped out of the lift and into SBA’s spacious reception area with its oversized ferns and two huge undulating leather sofas. There, seated behind a glass desk, was the ever-immaculate Alicia.

  She glanced at Nicci over her narrow red-framed glasses, raised a long, decorated nail and pointed. ‘He wants you to go straight in.’

  Nicci skirted round various workstations and headed for the large corner office. It could’ve been an upmarket lawyers, a successful IT company or a hedge fund. Around a dozen people were scattered across the large open-plan office – suits, ties, state-of-the-art computer hardware and a general atmosphere of quiet industry. Simon Blake Associates had been up and running for nearly six months. Their main remit was security, in whatever form the client required. They also provided a broad range of private investigative services from simple process-serving to preparing defence briefs for a growing number of law firms. Professional, trustworthy, discreet – that was the brand Blake was attempting to build, backed by high-tech surveillance and a rapidly developing expertise in computer forensics and fraud.

  Blake had left the Met a very angry man. His career had stalled when he found himself the fall guy in a power struggle between the Commissioner and the Mayor. He’d had operational oversight of the Territorial Support Group and on his watch a couple of gung-ho officers beat up a climate-change campaigner on a demo, fractured her skull and put her on life support. She was eighteen, female, middle class and white, so the media went to town. Scalps were duly called for and the Commissioner’s priority was to save his own. Blake took the rap and was moved sideways to a non-job in community liaison. Promises were made – his loyalty would be rewarded. But Blake knew it was bullshit. He was tainted. So he abandoned any prospect of a full pension and walked.

  A year down the road he was more than glad that he had. The end of his career as a public servant gave him a new lease of life. At fifty he was heading up his own business with equity partners who knew better than to interfere. Crafty politicians, unscrupulous colleagues and the baying media pack were all things of the past. SBA operated mostly under the radar and he was his own boss. And whereas the recession had sent many enterprises to the wall, the security sector was booming. Blake let his wife keep the Prius. He finally bought himself that Aston Martin DB9 and he didn’t have to justify it to anyone.

  Nicci paused at the heavy plate-glass door to the office. Blake was leaning back in his chair, mid-sentence, his hands outspread to emphasize a point. She caught his eye and he immediately waved her in.

  Seated on the sofa facing the desk was a small woman clutching a coffee cup. Blake got to his feet.

  Nicci mumbled an apology. ‘Traffic.’

  Blake’s smile was only a tad sceptical. He waved a hand, indicating his guest: ‘This is Julia Hadley – Helen Warner was her partner. My colleague Nicci Armstrong.’

  Julia looked to be in her mid thirties, around Nicci’s own age, it was hard to tell. Her clothes were expensive and slightly arty but her mousy hair was scraped back in a severe bun. Her cheeks were a little too pink, the darkly etched shadows under her eyes betraying a slew of sleepless nights.

  Nicci stepped forward and offered her hand. ‘I’m very sorry for your loss.’

  Julia responded awkwardly. Her hand was decked out with rings and was slightly clammy. But she met Nicci’s gaze and nodded acknowledgement.

  Blake returned to his chair as Nicci settled at the far end of the sofa, making sure not to crowd Julia Hadley.

  Blake leant on his desk, placed his fingertips together pensively. ‘Well, Ms Hadley and I have just been discussing the police investigation into Helen’s death. They certainly pulled out all the stops and, on the face of it, everything was done that ought to have been done. Now the matter has been passed back to the Coroner.’

  Julia Hadley turned abruptly towards Nicci, her eyes glassy with the glint of a tear. ‘She didn’t kill herself . . . I don’t care what anyone says, what the police think. There’s absolutely no way.’

  Nicci nodded, more as a gesture of reassurance than agreement.

  Blake glanced at the notes in front of him. ‘The police seem to be relying heavily on the Facebook posting, which appears to be a suicide note—’

  Julia Hadley erupted at this, her frustration flooding out. ‘It’s total rubbish! On Facebook? Doesn’t even sound like her. And she was always leaving her phone lying about. She’s lost two in the time we’ve been together.’

  Nicci’s eyes met Blake’s. ‘The suicide note was posted from her phone?’

  Blake nodded.

  Julia jutted her chin, her eyes darting from Blake to Nicci. ‘Anyone could’ve got their hands on it. Anyone.’

  Nicci nodded sympathetically. Julia could contain her grief but not her anger. That was a feeling Nicci knew only too well; trying to hold it all together and failing. Julia’s raw pain reminded her of her own. She glanced at Blake to check that he was happy for her to pick up the baton, then asked, ‘What about CCTV?’

  Julia huffed. ‘Yeah and that’s another thing – where the bloody hell is the CCTV? She left the building just past midnight—’

  ‘The building being . . . ?’

  ‘Portcullis House. On the corner by Westminster Bridge. That’s where her office is. She’d only been elected in January. She . . . she was so . . .’ Julia sniffed and swallowed. ‘It’s what she’d always wanted, a career in politics. And she had to fight for it. Well, because of us. She wasn’t going to lie. And some people are still quite prejudiced.’

  Julia’s eyes softened, for a second she was lost in memory. Blake and Nicci exchanged a covert look as they waited for Julia to drag herself back.

  Rubbing her nose delicately with the tip of her index finger, she went on: ‘She often went back to the office to work after the House rose. Sometimes she didn’t leave until late – it wasn’t unusual.’

  Nicci nodded. ‘And did anyone see her or speak to her?’

  ‘A colleague saw her at the coffee machine about ten.’ Julia sighed.

  ‘But nothing later than that?’

  Julia flung a challenging look at her interrogators. ‘That does
n’t mean she was planning to kill herself! She was working, that’s all.’

  Blake made a note on his pad then looked up. ‘So . . . according to the security scanners she left the building at twelve seventeen. Then we have a gap of forty-eight hours until her body was found washed up at low tide down the river near Tilbury.’

  Julia winced at this, the terrible end of the story. She took a breath, transferring her gaze to the expanse of sky through the window behind Blake as she forced herself to plough on: ‘After she left the building there are no pictures. No record of which way she went. We’re talking about the middle of Westminster, only yards from the Houses of Parliament, but that night half the CCTV cameras were on the blink! It’s ridiculous.’ Julia turned to Nicci, palms outstretched. ‘It doesn’t make sense. Unless of course it was deliberate.’

  Nicci returned her gaze. When there was no sensible explanation, try conspiracy; she’d been there too. ‘No pictures at all?’

  ‘Well, the camera on the doorway picked her up.’

  ‘But that’s the last digital image of her?’

  Julia tossed her head impatiently. Sensing that an explosion was imminent, Nicci reached out and gently put a hand on her shoulder. ‘I know you must’ve been over this too many times already, and no one seems to be listening. But the detail matters. We need to build up as accurate a picture as possible of what we do know.’

  Julia bowed her head. ‘I’m sorry . . . I . . .’

  ‘You don’t have to be sorry.’ Nicci waited for her to look up, met her eye. ‘Seriously, you don’t. So, no CCTV?’

  Blake watched the interchange with the ghost of a smile. This was why he’d wanted Nicci here. There was something in her manner, a sincerity you couldn’t fake. She’d been the best interviewer in the squad.

  ‘The police supposedly looked into it,’ Julia sniffed. ‘It was very wet that night. They reckon some cables linking the network round Parliament Square, the bridge and the Embankment got waterlogged. And they were digging up the road.’