The Mourner Page 5

  Nicci didn’t regard herself as an alcoholic or even a problem drinker. She drank when she needed to numb the pain. In the circumstances, she regarded it as a reasonable strategy.

  Casting another glance across the room at Eddie, she pocketed her phone and got up. ‘Pascale, can I bum a ciggie?’

  ‘Thought you’d stopped again.’

  ‘Stop, start – y’know how it is.’

  Pascale rooted in her capacious bag, brought out a packet of lights and tossed it to Nicci.

  ‘No, I only want one.’ She slipped a single cigarette out before returning the packet. Holding the filter delicately between thumb and forefinger, she headed for the lifts.

  When she stepped out of the main doors she saw that the building’s miscreant band of smokers and skivers were sunning themselves against a wall. She accepted a light, pulled down a lungful of smoke and held it. It made her feel like a defiant teenager again. It also made her feel sick. She exhaled, managed a couple more puffs, then dropped the cigarette on the pavement and ground it aggressively under her heel.

  Why did nothing ever bring relief? Why was she alive and Sophie dead? Why couldn’t she have been lucky and led an ordinary, blameless existence, like her parents, like her sister? She’d tried her best, worked hard to be a decent police officer. Why had she been singled out to wade through shit?

  As the anger blossomed, bringing a tension to her chest and diaphragm, she pulled out her phone and keyed in the PIN. Swiping through her contacts, she found the number again. She didn’t owe this woman a single thing. She certainly didn’t owe the Met anything. Use, be used, it was the same merry-go-round for everyone. Calder had a choice, she could tell her to fuck off. Nicci allowed the resentment and self-pity to build to a crescendo, and once she was sure she didn’t give a flying fuck for anyone, she stroked her thumb over the number and watched the screen turn to a black void before informing her that she was calling Fiona Calder.

  8

  Kaz hadn’t realized how tired she was. The journey down from Scotland, combined with the heartache of Helen’s death, had taken its toll. The little cabin-like room in Yasmin’s prefabricated shed was as neat and cosy as she’d promised, and Kaz slept for a couple of hours until the afternoon sun came blazing between the venetian blinds and woke her.

  She could hear whispered voices through the thin partition wall. There were three girls, all teenagers; Yasmin had introduced them. Two were from Belarus, their skin pale and translucent. The other girl was a Somali refugee. Ebony and ivory: Yasmin reckoned that was her brand and a definite hit with the punters. They were all illegal and had been supplied by a cousin of Mr Kemal. Yasmin explained she had other girls who worked on a freelance basis, but they tended to be older and have families.

  Kaz struggled to sit up. Her neck was stiff and her head ached. She coughed; her chest felt tight and sore with the first hint of an infection. Hanna, the auburn-haired waif that she’d first seen in the kitchen, put her head round the door.

  Her eyes were a pallid green and extremely wary. ‘You want coffee?’ The soft voice carried a marked accent.

  ‘Yeah, cheers.’

  ‘Espresso? Cappuccino? Latte? We got machine.’

  ‘All mod cons, eh?’ Kaz grinned. ‘I’ll have a latte.’

  The girl scanned Kaz’s face; she seemed to be searching for clues. ‘Yasmin good boss, very good boss.’

  Kaz met her gaze with a direct look. ‘You don’t have to say that, y’know. Just ’cause I’m her mate.’

  The girl shrugged, but there was defiance in the green eyes. ‘I don’t say lies.’

  ‘Good for you.’ Kaz grimaced and twisted her neck to ease the tension. ‘Don’t suppose you got any painkillers?’

  The girl nodded and disappeared. Kaz could hear a snatch of conversation in an incomprehensible tongue and a stifled giggle. She glanced at her watch: nearly three o’clock.

  At half four she was supposed to start her shift at the coffee shop, which she’d completely spaced out. She could deal with that by calling in sick. But in three days’ time she had her monthly scheduled appointment with her probation officer; if she didn’t show up for that then they would definitely know she was off the grid. Kaz thought about this and decided she didn’t care.

  Hanna returned with a glass of water and a blister pack of ibuprofen. She handed them to Kaz.

  ‘Cheers.’ Kaz swallowed two tablets and drank the water.

  Hanna stood and watched. There was curiosity in her face behind the unwavering vigilance. She didn’t seem in any hurry to leave.

  Kaz looked up at her. ‘Been here long, have you?’

  ‘Six month, I think. Yasmin very good boss.’

  ‘You said that already.’

  The girl pursed her lips.

  Kaz handed her the empty glass. ‘Six months? You learnt English pretty quick.’

  ‘My father was schoolteacher. He teach me since I’m ten.’

  ‘He know you’re here?’

  ‘He dead. He get sick, sell his apartment, give money to my sister and me and tell us to go.’

  ‘So you came here with your sister?’

  ‘No. We go to Germany. On autobahn we work the truck-stop. My sister get stabbed. Turkish boy, he help me, bring me to England. Now I work to pay him back.’

  ‘How much you owe him?’

  The girl tilted her head and pondered. ‘Dunno. Maybe ten thousand euro?’

  Kaz gave a low whistle. ‘Expensive help.’

  Hanna frowned, her chin quivering, but when she answered her tone was matter-of-fact: ‘Better than dead from some fucking truck driver on autobahn.’ She nodded to reassure herself. ‘I make coffee.’

  Kaz watched her slide out through the narrow door. She was hardly more than a kid, yet she had the look of a survivor. Kaz had encountered plenty of teenage hookers in prison; most of them had serious drug habits, but Hanna was clear-eyed and alert. She seemed intent on gathering information, learning as much as she could as fast as she could. Kaz wished she’d been that smart at Hanna’s age.

  Relaxing back into the soft pillows she let her eyes close. She was drifting off when the shed door slammed, followed by raised voices and sobbing. Kaz sat up and listened. The crying became louder. She got up to investigate.

  The short corridor outside her narrow cubbyhole led to a larger room furnished with a television and a sofa. Hanna and Volha were seated on either side of Saafi, the Somali girl. Blood was dripping from her nose to the floor and Hanna was attempting to staunch the flow with a towel. Saafi brushed it away; she was hysterical, her body rigid with pain and fear. She held her shaking hands out in front of her – the knuckle of her right hand was contorted and bleeding. Her wrists were fastened together with a pair of handcuffs.

  Kaz stared in disbelief. ‘What the fuck’s going on?’

  Hanna shot her a quick glance. ‘Tevfik, Mr Kemal’s son. He come with a friend. They both drunk.’

  Kaz shook her head. ‘Haven’t you got any security?’

  ‘Yasmin take care of it.’

  ‘What, a couple of drunken thugs – on her own?’

  Hanna flashed her a warning look. ‘Yasmin take care of it.’

  Kaz wasn’t so sure. Yasmin knew her business, that was clear enough. But this didn’t feel like a normal occurrence to Kaz.

  She took a step closer, stooped to Saafi’s level. ‘What happened exactly?’

  The girl’s eyes were brimming with tears. ‘Tevfik angry.’

  ‘With you? Why?’

  Saafi was calming down, the sobs subsiding and her shoulders drooping. Her nose was clearly broken and it bled copiously into the towel. Kaz remained where she was, hands on hips, waiting for an answer.

  Finally Saafi mumbled, ‘I dunno.’

  ‘This is fucking ridiculous! I’m gonna go and see if Yasmin needs any help.’

  Hanna sprung to her feet. ‘No! Yasmin take care of it. She don’t like you interfere.’

  ‘What you so scared of? If
Yasmin’s taken care of it, then there won’t be no problem, will there?’

  Kaz didn’t wait for a response. She pushed past Hanna and stepped out of the door. Her feet were bare and she was still wearing the jeans and a skimpy vest she’d slept in. The gravel on the rough path bit into the soles of her feet, so she skipped over onto the grass to avoid it.

  The back door was open. Kaz paused on the threshold and listened. Muffled voices could be heard in the front parlour, then there was a thunderous crash of breaking glass. One of the shelves in the alcove maybe? Kaz didn’t hesitate. She strode through the kitchen and down the hall.

  The door to the parlour was ajar and Kaz decided that surprise was her best weapon, so she kicked it open. The door flew back on its hinges and three faces turned immediately towards her. Yasmin was backed into a corner, arms across her chest, hugging herself protectively, a split lip oozing blood.

  In the centre of the room a young man stood with a bottle of vodka in his hand and an angry scowl on his face. He wasn’t very tall and he wasn’t very old. No more than twenty, Kaz reckoned. Another boy lounged in a chair – he was completely wasted, eyelids drooping.

  Taking advantage of their confusion, she marched into the room, stopping only inches from the young man’s face. ‘I’m guessing you’re Tevfik. So what the fuck you think you’re playing at?’

  The young man rolled back on his heels. Kaz was at least three inches taller.

  He staggered to regain his balance then he laughed. ‘What the fuck?’

  Kaz rested her hands on her hips and eyeballed him. ‘My question exactly. What the fuck?’

  Tevfik laughed again, turned towards Yasmin. ‘Who’s this bitch? I ain’t seen her before.’

  ‘She’s just a mate. She’s got nothing to do with this.’ Yasmin’s voice was steady, but Kaz could see she was trembling.

  His smile turned to a sneer. ‘Then why’s the bitch in my face? She’s asking for a smack, don’t she know that?’

  Kaz stepped forward. ‘Yeah? Fancy trying it, you pint-sized streak of piss?’

  ‘It’s okay, babes.’ Yasmin reached out and put a gently restraining hand on Kaz’s arm. ‘I can handle this.’

  It didn’t look that way to Kaz, but registering the pleading desperation in Yasmin’s eyes, she backed off.

  Tevfik grinned and swayed a little. He was compact but his tight T-shirt revealed enough pecs and biceps to suggest he could pack a punch. He turned towards the fireplace and hurled the vodka bottle straight at it. The bottle exploded, spraying glass and vodka across the carpet.

  He flopped into the chair with a satisfied smirk. ‘What’s your name, bitch?’

  Yasmin caught Kaz’s eye, then turned to Tevfik. ‘I told you, Tev, she’s just a mate.’

  ‘She your special friend, is she? Most of you whores is queer. But a bit of dyke action, I could go for that. You girls can put on a little show for us, then I’ll fuck you both.’

  Kaz gave a dry laugh. ‘In your dreams, dipshit.’

  Yasmin moved cautiously forward. ‘Come on, Tev, I’ll get the girls. They’ll put on a show for you. Something really hot. I got new toys upstairs you ain’t even seen.’

  He ran his hand through his close-cropped dark hair and fixed Yasmin with a petulant stare. ‘Nah, I want her and you, right here on the fucking floor. Right now.’

  ‘She’s not in the business. I told you she’s just a mate who’s visiting.’

  A leer spread across the young man’s face. ‘She’s in my father’s whorehouse. That makes her my father’s whore. And you don’t wanna upset the boss, do you, Yas? So get me another drink and let’s see you get naked.’

  He licked his lips. Yasmin shot a nervous glance at Kaz.

  Kaz read the shame and embarrassment in her look. All this talk of being a businesswoman, being her own boss – it had all sounded a bit too good to be true. She was still a prostitute, controlled by a pimp; nothing had really changed. Still, Kaz felt for her friend, didn’t want to see her humiliated in front of this tosser.

  ‘Okay, you want a show, you wanna fuck us . . . let’s see if you’ve even got the tackle to manage it.’

  The young man spluttered. ‘What you talking about, you stupid bitch?’

  ‘Your dick. I wanna see it. Inspect it. Get it out. Show us.’

  ‘Fuck off. You’ll see it soon enough.’

  ‘See, that’s what I thought.’ Kaz nodded sagely. ‘Girls do like to gossip. Know what they say about you, Tevfik? They’ve seen a lot of dicks in this place, but yours is undoubtedly the smallest.’ Kaz crooked her little finger. ‘Bit bent too. Got a kink in it, like old whatsit – Bill what’s-his-face, the American president.’

  Tevfik was out of his chair with remarkable speed considering how drunk he was. He bunched his fist and threw an impressive right hook, which passed within a whisker of Kaz’s chin. Having stepped dextrously aside to dodge the blow, she kneed him hard in the groin, grabbed a china figurine from the table and cracked him over the head. He went down in a heap at Yasmin’s feet. His friend opened one eye, farted and returned to his drunken stupor.

  Yasmin stared down in horror at Tevfik’s inert form. ‘Babes! Aww, you’ve fucking done it now! You think he’s dead?’

  ‘No. Though I wish he was.’

  A look of panic spread across Yasmin’s face. ‘You gotta grab your stuff and get out of here. Mr Kemal’s gonna go apeshit.’

  ‘So all this businesswoman stuff is just window-dressing, is it?’ Kaz shook her head sorrowfully.

  Yasmin turned on her, furious. ‘You don’t fucking judge me! It’s all right for you – you get out the nick, you got family waiting. You’re all set up. Me, I come out to fucking nothing! If it weren’t for Mr Kemal, I’d be living on benefits and turning tricks on the street.’

  ‘I don’t judge you, Yas.’ Kaz threw up her hands in surrender. ‘What was I supposed to do – stand by and let this little turd beat you up? I don’t care whose fucking son he is.’

  Yasmin’s shoulders were hunched with tension as she turned away. ‘I had it under control. You shouldn’t have interfered.’

  ‘Well, I’m sorry.’

  Taking out her phone, Yasmin clicked it on to check the time. ‘Awww, fuck me! They’re gonna be here any minute.’

  ‘Who is?’

  ‘I phoned Mr Kemal’s office fifteen minutes ago. He knows what Tevfik’s like when he’s had a skinful. They’re sending someone over to sort him out.’

  ‘Then he’ll understand.’

  ‘No, he won’t understand. He can smack the boy about all he wants, but no one else lays a hand on his precious son. It’s a question of honour with this lot. Don’t you know nothing?’

  Kaz glanced around for inspiration. ‘We could say there was some other punters here and a fight broke out. He ain’t gonna want to admit to being dropped by a woman.’

  A low moan rose from the body at their feet and Tevfik rolled onto his back.

  ‘Not dead then,’ Kaz sniffed.

  Yasmin scowled. ‘Help me sit him up.’

  The two women leant over him, took an arm each and heaved him into a sitting position. He started to splutter and choke; Yasmin pushed his head forward as he vomited down the front of himself and over Kaz’s bare feet. The stench of bile and booze rose up fiercely and hit Kaz.

  She let go of his shoulder. ‘Fucking hell!’

  He flopped sideways against Yasmin’s leg. The doorbell rang. A look of pain and resignation spread across Yasmin’s face.

  Seeing the panic in her friend’s eyes, Kaz grabbed her arm. ‘Listen, I’m gonna take the rap for this. He came at me, I hit him, it’s my fault. I’ll tell them the truth.’

  Yasmin stared at her with a mixture of admiration and anguish. ‘Babes, they gonna kill you.’

  9

  Nicci took the tube to St James’s Park and found herself facing the austere steel-and-glass tower that was New Scotland Yard. As a young cop this had been it, this was where she’d aspired t
o be. Now, according to the media, the Yard was going to be sold off – cuts dressed up as reorganization and reform. The bean counters and the politicians had won. The job had changed. Maybe she shouldn’t be sorry any more that they’d booted her out.

  She wondered how Fiona Calder viewed the ‘reforms’. Knowing Calder, she’d emerge unscathed. She’d always been a survivor, blessed with friends in the right places. Calder was one of the few senior women officers who seemed able to surf the macho culture and remain unaffected by it. She would never have called herself a feminist – that was far too radical a term for a woman like Calder – but Nicci couldn’t imagine that she’d ever been bullied. She had a natural authority despite her small stature; exuding charm she remained slightly mysterious. All that was known of her private life was that she had a husband who did something in Whitehall and no children.

  The young officer sent to escort Nicci wore an immaculately laundered blue shirt and a silk tie; he looked expensive and ambitious. There was no small talk. He led her briskly to the Assistant Commissioner’s office suite, offered her a chair and disappeared. Nicci sat for nearly fifteen minutes, resting her gaze on the scudding cirrocumulus clouds passing the broad eighth-floor window. The day had turned out finer than expected. Shafts of sunshine were even breaking through.

  It was almost four o’clock when the door to the inner office opened and two burly men in badly fitting suits emerged, clutching briefcases and files. Nicci realized how out of touch she was with the place. Back in the day, they would’ve been from the Home Office, but these two didn’t look polished enough. Now the power was with City Hall and MOPAC. Whoever they were, they seemed extremely pleased with themselves.

  The younger of the two had a huge neck bulging over a tight shirt collar. He turned to Calder with a smug smile. ‘The main thing is, we don’t want the media getting wind of it yet.’