No Place to Die (29 page)

‘Wait.’

They both turned and looked at Mort. ‘Yes,’ Lockyer said, his face impassive.

‘Okay, there is something. I’m not saying it’s important, or even relevant. I don’t know . . . But I want written assurance that my PhD will not be affected,’ Mort said.

Lockyer walked back over to the table. Jane followed, giving him a triumphant shove as they sat down. He could feel her looking at him. ‘Let’s hear it,’ he said as Jane reopened her notepad. He didn’t need to look at her to know she was smiling.

3rd May – Saturday

Jane pulled into Sue’s driveway, took off her sunglasses and turned off the ignition. Her mouth felt dry, as the bottle of wine from the previous night caught up with her.

The information she and Lockyer had managed to drag out of Mort was good, but it wasn’t enough to rearrest Lebowski. She needed proof. ‘Circumstantial’ seemed to be the word of choice for this case. She was fed up with hearing it. As she sat looking at Sue and Mark’s suburban home, she thought about Mark and how he must have felt when Amelia was murdered. To run an investigation into the death of a friend’s daughter was one thing. But to know who killed her and not be able to do anything about it must have been torture. Jane could sympathize with that. She had read over the Amelia Reynolds file until her eyes hurt. If she swapped a few details, changed the names and dates, she could have been looking at Maggie’s file. The differences between Maggie and the John Doe had given Jane a new avenue to explore. However, she couldn’t say the same for the differences between Maggie’s and Amelia’s murders.

Maggie’s death had been cruel, quiet. Amelia’s, on the other hand was very different. Her young body had been bruised and battered. The man who had raped and then strangled her over in Deptford had left evidence of his rage over every inch of her. Jane had asked Phil to have a look at the two files side by side, to see if he could find anything to suggest that the same man, Lebowski, had committed both crimes. She was waiting to hear back.

‘Jane?’

She looked up to see Sue standing by her driver’s door. ‘Sorry, Sue,’ she said, taking her keys out of the ignition as she opened the door. ‘It’s been a busy morning. I was just taking a second to . . . ’ She shrugged. ‘I’m sorry to disturb you at the weekend.’

‘Don’t be silly,’ Sue said. ‘It’s fine. Come in. You look like you could do with a coffee.’

‘Is it that obvious?’ she asked, feeling as if giant boulders were crashing around inside her skull.

She followed Sue up the front path, squinting against the sun. She hated people who complained about the weather, especially when it was good, but she could do without the sunshine today. The news was full of stories about potential droughts which would result in lengthy hosepipe bans in the coming months. Londoners, it seemed, were never happy. It was always too wet, too cold or too hot. The Tube was overcrowded and badly ventilated. People were fainting on train platforms. An old woman over in Ealing had collapsed on a bus, after witnessing another motorist beating the driver of said bus unconscious: road rage. It was ridiculous. Jane was dealing with three, possibly four murders and all everyone was talking about was how heat did funny things to people. She realized Sue was talking to her.

‘Sorry, Sue. I missed that.’

‘I was just saying that Mark used to be just the same. A difficult case – a couple or three whiskies in the evening. He walked around like a wraith when things were tough at work.’ Sue turned and took Jane’s bag from her. ‘You need to get your rest. The job’s a marathon, not a sprint.’

‘I’m okay,’ Jane replied, feeling guilty that Sue was counselling her when it should be the other way round. ‘How are the boys coping?’

‘Not so good,’ Sue said, pausing for a second at the front door. ‘I’m trying to keep things as normal as possible, but it’s hard.’

‘I wish I could do more.’

‘You’re going to find him,’ Sue said. ‘I know you are. You’ll bring him home and everything will be fine.’

Jane didn’t answer. She followed Sue into the kitchen, sat down and pulled out her notepad. She pushed a stack of papers to one side in order to clear a space. A glass paperweight was balanced on top of the pile. She steadied it as it bounced, pushed upwards by the mound of paperwork Sue was yet to deal with. It was obvious that holding herself together was as much as Sue could manage. The sink was full of dirty dishes and the surfaces were covered in crumbs and cereal boxes. She needed help – someone to come in and deal with the mundane aspects of life, so that she could concentrate on herself and her sons. Jane watched as Sue made coffee and cut up a piece of dry-looking fruitcake, folding two napkins into triangles and putting them onto pretty china plates. There was an echo of the home-maker Sue used to be, but it was clear that everything had changed. As her friend, Jane should do something, but as a police officer she didn’t have time.

‘I need to ask you some questions about one of Mark’s old cases,’ she said, deciding it was better to get started. Maintaining the small talk felt like an insult to Mark.

‘Of course,’ Sue replied, bringing the plates and coffees to the table. ‘My memory isn’t up to much these days, but I’ll do my best.’

‘I know you will,’ Jane said, putting her hand on Sue’s arm. ‘Sit down.’ She looked down at her notepad. ‘You mentioned before that Mark struggled with one of his last cases, Amelia Reynolds?’

Sue broke off a corner of cake and held it between her fingers. ‘Mark was distraught. It’s the worst I’ve ever seen him. We all feel responsible, whatever the case, but with Amelia it was different.’

‘I’ve read the file. You knew the family?’

‘Yes. We met Gary and Liz when we moved here,’ Sue said. ‘Mark met Gary in the pub. They really hit it off. Such a lovely family.’ It was like listening to a robot. Sue’s words were filled with regret, but her voice was empty. The pain of Mark’s disappearance had numbed her.

‘Were you surprised when Mark took on the case?’ she asked.

‘No,’ Sue said. ‘He had to fight hard, but he convinced the SIO that his personal relationship with Gary and Liz wouldn’t cloud his judgement.’

‘And did it?’ she asked, softening her voice.

Sue looked up at her, the piece of cake in her hand now crumbled into nothing. ‘I . . . Mark found it difficult, yes. It didn’t stop him doing his job, but the weight of the responsibility to Gary and Liz was too much.’

‘I can well imagine,’ Jane said, thinking that she herself was feeling something similar with Sue. It took experience to create emotional distance from a case. She had not slept well since the night Sue had called to say Mark had disappeared. ‘Did he talk much about it?’

Sue sighed. ‘Not as much as he should have. There were a lot of complications on the case – I know that much. Leaving the case open when he retired was torture for Mark.’

‘Were there ever any suspects?’

‘Yes,’ Sue said, ‘but no one was ever charged.’

‘Did Mark ever mention a man called Victor Lebowski?’ she asked.

Sue sat back in her chair, as if the name had been a physical blow. ‘Do you want another coffee?’ she asked.

Jane looked down at her still-full mug. ‘No. I’m fine.’

‘I’ll just top mine up with hot water. I need the caffeine to get me through the day.’ Sue pushed back her chair and went to the kettle, her back to Jane.

‘So did Mark ever mention Lebowski to you?’

Sue looked up at the ceiling while the kettle boiled. ‘Er, no. The name doesn’t ring any bells. Mark was careful to keep the details of the case to himself. It was too difficult for me. Liz and I were close. She was here most days; she needed support and Gary was falling apart. I couldn’t stand lying to her, keeping things from her. I told Mark it was easier if he didn’t tell me.’

She was lying. Jane would have known even without Sue’s reaction to Lebowski’s name. ‘Mark never told you about any of the suspects, never discussed them with you?’ She tried to keep the disbelief out of her voice, but it was difficult.

‘He talked about it, of course, but never any specifics. Gary and Liz were desperate for details, for anything to cling onto. It wouldn’t have been fair on them, or me, if I knew too much about the case.’ Sue’s reasoning sounded rehearsed.

‘I can understand that,’ Jane said, trying to think how to proceed. ‘Are you still friends with the Reynolds now?’

‘I hear from Liz at Christmas. She sends birthday cards to the boys. But Gary, no. He started drinking when Amelia was murdered. By the time Mark retired, Gary was pretty far gone. I know Mark tried, but it was no use. Gary was in a self-destructive pattern. I spoke to Liz. We tried to get him help, but he wouldn’t listen. In the end Liz had no choice. She left him.’

‘He lives in north London now, doesn’t he?’ she asked.

‘I’ve no idea,’ Sue said, taking her time, it seemed, with the kettle. ‘When Gary and Liz split up, Mark lost touch with Gary. I tried my best with Liz, but I was just a reminder of what she had lost, I think. Her Christmas card always has a little note in it. She got remarried two years ago, to an airline pilot.’

‘Do you know if Mark ever spoke to Gary, over the years?’

‘No. Not that I know of, and he would have said.’

‘Did you see them together much during the case?’ Jane asked.

‘Not really. Mark would take Gary to the pub. A bad idea, in hindsight, but Mark wasn’t to know that, was he?’ Sue turned and looked at Jane. ‘It wasn’t his fault. He did his best.’

‘Of course he did,’ Jane said, taking a sip of her lukewarm coffee. ‘Do you know if Mark ever discussed the case with Gary?’

Sue put her drink on the table with a bang. The paperweight finally lost its battle as the pile of papers fell, scattering everywhere. Sue didn’t even react, she just looked at Jane. ‘I can’t believe you would even ask me that, Jane. Mark was on the force for over thirty years. He would never do that.’

‘I’m sorry, but I have to ask, Sue. You know I do,’ Jane said, leaning down to gather up the pages that had fallen on the floor.

‘You don’t have to, Jane, but you are,’ Sue said. ‘What are you doing to find Mark? Where is he, for God’s sake? Here I am telling you everything, and you’re not telling me anything. But of course you can’t, can you? Even if you wanted to, you can’t tell me.’

Jane abandoned the papers, sat up and pinched the bridge of her nose. ‘Sue, I’m doing everything I can,’ she said.

‘You promised me,’ Sue said, her voice nothing more than a whisper.

‘I know,’ Jane said. ‘I know.’

‘Mark promised Gary he would find Amelia’s killer. He never did. How do you think that made him feel?’ Sue looked up, her eyes filled with tears. ‘Don’t make the same mistake, Jane.’

‘I will find him,’ she said as her mobile started ringing in her jacket pocket. She reached in to silence it, but then saw the call was from Chris. ‘Sorry, Sue. I have to take this. I won’t be a second.’ Sue waved away her apology. Jane walked into the hallway as she pressed ‘Answer’. ‘Chris,’ she said. As she listened her head thumped, blurring her vision for a second. ‘Okay. Thanks, Chris. I’ll speak to you when I’m back in the office.’ She hung up the phone and walked back into the kitchen. ‘I have to go,’ she said.

‘That’s fine,’ Sue replied, standing up and collecting the mugs and plates. ‘Keep in touch,’ she said, not looking at Jane. ‘Thanks for popping in.’

It broke Jane’s heart to hear her friend sound so defeated. The robot had returned and taken over Sue’s brain. There was no emotion left to give.

Two hours and a phone call later Jane and Lockyer pulled up to the address on the file. Lockyer had driven, and for that Jane was grateful. Her meeting with Sue was still fresh in her mind and so was the lie. Sue had recognized Lebowski’s name. There was no doubt in Jane’s mind. But why lie? Did she know about the phone calls?

‘You ready?’ Lockyer asked.

‘Yes,’ she said, unclipping her seatbelt. ‘Thanks for driving. I couldn’t have handled the traffic around the Leadenhall monster today.’

‘I think you’ll find it’s called the Cheesegrater,’ Lockyer said, smiling.

‘Whatever,’ Jane said, unamused, climbing out of the car. Her head wasn’t getting any better. As soon as the adrenaline from the Mort interview had abandoned her, she had been left with nothing but her wine headache. ‘What is it about London and construction? Ever since the Gherkin and the Eye went up, the planners have gone bonkers.’ She held up her hands counting off on her fingers. ‘We’ve got the Broadgate Tower . . . ’

‘Walkie-Talkie,’ Lockyer said.

‘The Strata in Southwark . . . ’

‘Electric Razor.’

‘The Shard . . . ’ she said.

‘I think that’s just called The Shard,’ he said, shrugging.

‘St George’s Wharf, the Heron Tower . . . ’

‘I give up,’ Lockyer said, shutting his car door.

‘It’s ridiculous. I never know where I am any more, other than the fact that I’m sitting in traffic as yet another behemoth goes up.’

‘You’re in a great mood.’ He looked as if he was going to say more – no doubt some comment about the saddlebags under her eyes – but whatever it was, he resisted.

They walked up to the block of flats. It was a four-storey building. Each flat had its own bay window. It seemed obvious which were owned and which were rented by the window hangings. The two ground-floor flats, either side of the main entrance, had dirty net curtains covering even dirtier windows. The first and second floors were much the same, except that one had a navy-blue bed sheet slung up over the window. The top-floor flats both had expensive-looking internal shutters, one white, the other natural pine.

‘Which is his?’ Lockyer asked.

‘Guess,’ Jane said.

Lockyer pointed up to the window with the blue sheet. ‘That one?’

‘That’s the one,’ she said, stepping up to the buzzers and pressing number five. There was no name in the space next to the button. She waited a few seconds before pressing the buzzer again. Lockyer stepped back and looked up at the window.

‘Can’t see any signs of life,’ he said. ‘Oh, hang on, there’s someone in. The sheet just moved. Press it again.’