Post Mortem (5 page)

A woman who had knocked on her parents' door a lifetime ago came to mind. Lizzie remembered her standing in the frame of the doorway with a tightly pursed smile.

‘Can I speak to your mummy or daddy?'

They had lived in a new-build semi with a view over former farmland that had been converted into a municipal park and playing fields. Buying the house had been a move up in the world. As her father had contemplated the woman, an expression of satisfied fury had settled on his features.

‘The gypsies have been there far longer than these houses,' he said.

The woman wriggled uncomfortably, as though her underwear was too tight but she did not feel free to adjust it. ‘But why can't
they be
clean
?' she protested, in an outraged rejection of having been put so firmly and so unexpectedly in the wrong.

‘I'm sorry,' said her father, already shutting the door. ‘You've come to the wrong house with your petition.'

Lizzie gazed at the boy in his bear suit standing in the hallway. What did any of that have to do with him? He suddenly said, ‘Mummy,' and raised his arms. As Carrie scooped up her hot little bear, like the sun being revealed by a gusting cloud Lizzie suddenly saw it differently and was ashamed. How frightened this woman was by the random and unexplained hatred of her neighbour. It turned out it wasn't complicated. The man lived next door. Carrie Stewart was at home with a young child: an easy target. And she was no settler – she was more likely to have been born in London than the man who was persecuting her. She wanted only to protect her family – this soft boy in his bear suit – from a mysterious hatred. It was her home and she had every right to live in it without fear.

‘You've called the police,' Lizzie said. ‘You don't really want mediation. What you want is for this to stop. You don't want to be sitting down talking to this person: you don't want any more to do with him. You want him to leave you and your family alone. That's why you've called the police and that's what we're here for. We'll make some inquiries and be looking to arrest him. I'll keep you informed.'

Carrie smiled with relief. It was a smile that promised trust and confidence. ‘Yes, you're right. Of course you are. Thank you so much.'

‘Mediation,' Hadley had muttered contemptuously, as he slid behind the wheel and turned over the engine. ‘She could have tried talking to her neighbour before she went to the bloody housing officer. Doesn't she know anything?'

‘Yes, but I think she said she did try talking to him . . .'

‘Do you know what, Lizzie, at the end of the day, who bloody cares? Let's keep it simple – criminal damage, arrest and charge.' He paused, and then laughed out loud. ‘Mediation! You'll see. By the end, Carrie Stewart will not only want him hanged. She'll be quite happy to be the one to kick the stool away.'

9

T
he twilight was a stained urban orange. Collins clipped the blue light on to the roof of her vehicle and pulled out of the yard. Headlights flared at her as she made steady progress across London.

The disappearance of PC Griffiths was perhaps the opportunity Baillie had been hoping for. It gave him the edge.

‘For Chrissakes, Sarah, couldn't you have held on to her? What were you thinking?'

And although Collins knew she could have argued in her own defence – after all, it was Shaw, not her, who had sent Lizzie home – a quiet place inside her accepted that Baillie had a point. Every cop she knew would agree that she had taken her eye off the ball. She hadn't held on to Lizzie Griffiths, which – looking back – seemed now to have been the single most important thing to do. That was Baillie's brief: find the bloody PC before anything else went wrong. He had allowed himself to lose his rag a bit. Perhaps it had been a show, perhaps not.

‘And while you're at it, find out what that fat PC, poor bastard, was doing up on the roof. Don't get me wrong, Sarah. Do a good job. But I'd still appreciate you getting a bit of a fucking move on. We're going to have to organize a funeral soon enough and everyone will be anxious to know whether Old Bill will be wearing white gloves. For my part, I'd like to be able to stand in front of that revolving sign and say something nice and bulletproof. In case it's slipped your
attention, the journos are also very keen to know what's going on. Just doing their job, I'm sure. But I don't think your press strategy of not telling them anything is going to wash for very long, to be honest. The only press release I can offer them right now is that following today's tragic events at Portland Tower, we've now mislaid the only witness, who is also, by the way, a serving police officer. It doesn't look good, Sarah. It doesn't look good.'

The street outside Lizzie Griffiths' flat was jammed with unmarked cars. The door was on the latch and Collins made her way in unannounced.

Inside, all the lights were on. It was a small flat, but neatly done. The warrant and the premises search book were on the sofa. Everyone was working in silence, the officers, all in forensic suits, searching systematically. Drawers and cupboards were being turned out. Lizzie's laptop had been placed on a pull-out desk and a technician was in front of it. One of the DCs was going through her correspondence. Another held up an apricot silk cami and matching knickers.

‘Nice,' he said.

Somebody coughed. The detective constable's face froze: he hadn't realized Collins was in the flat.

She spoke as if to a child. ‘No, Jez, they wouldn't suit you. Now put them back.'

There was a short laugh from one of the other officers.

Steve said, ‘I'm going outside for a smoke.'

Collins followed him out. She lit two cigarettes and passed him one.

‘Filthy habit,' Steve commented as he inhaled with satisfaction.

‘It is,' Collins agreed as she too inhaled.

In the tungsten light of the street lamp, Steve's face had something of a used paper bag about it. He reeked of tobacco. The middle
finger of his right hand was stained yellow. The man was a ruin, emotionally and physically: a divorce behind him and duly signed up for child maintenance payments. He had given up on any form of optimism about the human race a long time ago. And in a funny way, Collins recognized that she loved him. Not the kind of love that ended up in bed or holding hands walking along a beach. No, it was pure detective love. A variation on the kind of recognition that Volkswagen beetle drivers experienced when they flashed their headlights at each other.

‘There was no reply at the door,' he said. ‘I checked the letter box. When I saw her making off, I put the door in. Figured I could justify it one way or another. Genuine fear for her safety, something like that. Better than losing her, anyway. When I finally got in, she'd gone. The doors to the garden were open. I did a drive around but I couldn't spot her.' He tipped his head towards the high wooden fence that blocked the side entrance to the garden. ‘A few years ago I could have climbed that but now the damn thing's too tall for me. I'm getting old. I just wasn't quick enough.'

‘It's OK.'

‘No, it isn't. I'm sorry, Sarah.'

Baillie's words were still ringing in Collins' ears. ‘Don't worry,' she said. ‘It's my fault.'

There was silence for a moment.

‘Her car's over there,' Steve said, pointing to a neat little Golf, five years old but in good condition.

‘So she's left her vehicle. That's something, I suppose. Perhaps she's not planning to leave London. You've tried calling her, of course?'

‘A couple of times before I went round. The phone's switched off now. Goes straight to voicemail.'

Collins sighed. ‘Fuck.'

‘Fuck indeed. How was Baillie?'

‘As well as can be expected.'

Steve took another drag. ‘That figures.' The cigarette crinkled red. It was burned almost to the filter. ‘It could be nothing, Sarah. She could be shopping.'

‘Shopping?'

He laughed. ‘OK, that's unlikely—'

‘But it could be a temporary disappearance, yes. Maybe she's just gone for a long walk to clear her head. But if it's not temporary, do we know what sort of risk she is? Why has she gone? Any chance she's going to kill herself? How much do we know about her?'

‘Not much yet. She's young in service: only just out of probation.'

‘Any issues around her?'

‘Not at work. Top of the class. Nothing on her record except a borough commendation for her actions as first on scene for a sexual assault by touching. That was when she'd only been operational for six months. There's another one pending too, apparently. Domestic murder.'

Collins exhaled. ‘OK. What about her family?'

‘County officers have gone over to Mum. Mum's not heard from her. She's tried to ring her but no reply. Says Lizzie is bad at keeping in touch at the best of times. Sounds like they're not close.'

‘Dad?'

‘Dead.'

Collins found herself unaccountably furious. Only a few hours and somehow one of the lead subjects of the investigation had gone missing. ‘Do we have her bank details? Can we run her credit card?'

‘Financial are working on that. We'll have a full intelligence pack first thing in the morning.'

‘Is it too late to start checking CCTV? Has anyone tried?'

‘Yes, Carl drove over there. They've already closed. This borough's not twenty-four hours.'

‘OK, we need to work out who stays and who goes. You should get off yourself. No point in running on empty. Boss wants us in bright-eyed and bushy-tailed at eight for a briefing.'

‘I'll be all right. I was going to sleep at Victoria House, but if you're running the search, I'll go home.'

Steve offered another cigarette. Collins shook her head.

‘They're no substitute for food, you know,' she said.

Steve lit up. ‘I could actually
see
her through the letter box. I can't fucking believe it.'

‘Get over it. Listen, I'll stay and supervise the search. But could you have a quick word with Jez before you go. Tell him not to behave like a cock.'

10

D
riving had become a consolation in itself. Lizzie followed signs towards the motorway. She was headed to no particular destination but still she wanted to drive fast, as though she could escape her own mind. She briefly considered making for Dover and crossing the Channel, where there would be no limit to her journey, no sea to hem her in. But passport control, with its possibilities of identification, deterred her. She wondered how it worked. Would they put a flag on her name? For now it seemed most important to get some distance between herself and the people who, she knew, were already seeking a quick resolution. The matter pressed inside her uncomfortably. It shifted its shape, appearing now one way and now another but mainly condensed in images – a face, a shadow in a hallway. And that terrible, stupid, catastrophic quote that rang in her ears.

Isn't that just like a wop – brings a knife to a gun fight
.

She took the slip road and pushed her foot flat. The car roared forward. Fields and woods flashed by. She wanted to close her eyes. After about an hour she took an exit on to an A road. Roundabouts. A vehicle showroom. Horses, dark shapes moving through a field's darkness. She had found her way into a seaside town and wove through its traffic system. She parked parallel to the shoreline. The sea lapped blackly against the shingle. A woman was pushing a shopping trolley full of plastic bags along the concrete path. Lizzie let her pass and then walked down over the crunching pebbles
towards the restless sea. A single running shoe sluiced back and forth in the tide's frothy edge.

She closed her eyes and saw, as if on a loop, a repeating backdrop of square windows, blue sky and concrete, spinning and passing, passing, passing. She could not escape the horror of it: falling unstoppably, irretrievably, until the hard concrete reached up.

That last glimpse of them at the edge.

She opened her eyes and let the wind blow cold into them. She saw the glinting dark sea. She swallowed and wished that it was the usual dream; the one that ended with a bump and an awakening.

There was loss, of course, but anger there too. She admitted that to herself. An overwhelming, pointless anger searching for something to fasten itself to. A bitter anger in the end, mainly with herself, as though she could easily have avoided the thing that had undone her. It felt like some monster species of the inattention that let a glass slip between the fingers and watched it shatter on a stone floor. The memory of the roof came to her again unbidden and she shied away, unable to bear it. Not inattention; that wasn't entirely accurate, no.

Well, people's lives went astray. Actions had unintended consequences.

A fatal road collision she'd attended came to mind. The car hadn't even been moving. The driver had been a bleary mother, distracted by extended sleep deprivation. She had just strapped her one-year-old into the car seat behind her and had thought to give him some milk for the journey. She'd opened the driver's door. Just – like – that. The cyclist had been a young woman. A student on a sit-up-and-beg with books in the wicker basket strapped under the handlebars. She had been dressed in a blue polka-dot dress: flared skirt, a broad brown leather belt around her narrow waist.
Dressed
had been the right verb, as though she were already prepared for the coffin. Apart from the head wound,
she was unmarked by the collision. She had freckles across her snub nose and down her pale arms.

Lizzie could still see those symbols of the cyclist's bright future spread across the road. Kant's
Critique of Pure Reason
had been one of them. She remembered too the face of the driver, a young mother standing in the road with a look as blank as November. Fatal distraction: that was how she had tagged it in her internal list of unforgettable things already encountered in her brief service as a uniformed constable. Would she cover her own conduct with such pithiness? The thought of it hurt her. She shied away from the fact of what had happened, struggling to contain it within herself. It was absurd. She had joined the legions of people who could not put the clock back.