Post Mortem (9 page)

Collins prompted. ‘Yes?'

‘Well . . .'

She waited for him to elaborate, but he didn't.

‘So?'

‘So anyway, Lizzie raised her hand and repeated the comment, and made a complaint. Right thing to do, of course. She said she didn't want her objection to go any further. She just felt that what he'd said wasn't right and she didn't want it to pass without saying something.' Hill shook his head. ‘Naïve.'

‘Naïve?'

‘You know: things said in public always go further, particularly if someone objects to them. That's the way it is in the job. She didn't understand that.'

Aware of Collins' eyes upon him, he covered his ground. The student who made the comment got a letter on his record and – he spoke with careful emphasis – that was a good thing, of course. The boy had to learn.

Collins said, ‘But this student with the . . . the off comment. He wasn't the only one who needed to learn?'

Hill's face was exactly like the shine on his shoes: impenetrable. ‘Things have changed a lot since I joined.'

‘So . . .' Collins paused before finding the phrase. ‘So Lizzie was as green as grass.'

‘Idealistic.' She noted his repetition of the word. He must have been pleased with it. She wondered if he had found its ambivalence useful on many occasions since being posted to training school.

Hill had stopped speaking. It was as if he was observing whether she was getting the measure of his evidence.

Collins said, ‘Thanks very much. You've been very helpful.'

He opened the door to see her out. ‘Don't get me wrong, Sarah. I thought Lizzie Griffiths had the makings of a good officer. She just needed to go out there and get stuck in. Go into the real world
and stop worrying about stuff that didn't really matter. Well, good luck with it all. I'll be interested to hear how you get on. I'll look out for it on the news.'

On the way back, Collins decided to make a detour.

Kilsby High Street held no surprises. The rolled-up sleeping bag in the doorway of a charity shop, the lines of chain shopfronts – Boots, Starbucks, Tesco – the queues of coated people waiting for buses.

Collins followed the route that Steve had told her CCTV showed Lizzie taking, walking north towards the Underground. Lizzie hadn't been shown on the camera that covered the entrance to the tube station and she hadn't reached the camera at the far end of the street. The camera covering the middle section wasn't working, but she had disappeared from somewhere on this road. Collins went into a minicab office.

The man behind the counter wore a dirty silk waistcoat over a frayed shirt. He had a long beard and frizzy hair pulled back in a ponytail. His teeth were yellow.

‘I can't remember anyone like that, but then there's people in and out all day,' he said. ‘You're welcome to inspect the bookings.'

He had an old-fashioned ledger written out in ink. His handwriting was italic. Probably plays Dungeons and Dragons, Collins thought as she ran her finger down the entries and scribbled in her notebook the names and journeys of the single females who had used the service since the incident.

‘Lisa Gardener?' she asked. ‘Do you remember her?'

‘Oh, she's a regular. Not your lady, for sure. Must be sixty if she's a day. Uses a cab because her legs are bad.'

‘And Helen Thompson?'

‘Can't remember. Oh no, hang on a minute. I think she had two kids with her. This lady got children?'

Collins went into Greggs and bought a cheese and pickle sandwich. Eating as she drove, with one hand on the wheel, she turned down a side street past the cab office that went towards the viaduct. After about a mile and a half, the street was lined with VWs and BMWs. Obscuring the Victorian brickwork was a large orange plastic sign:
Quick Car
.

The man behind the counter – a lean Asian man in a sharply cut suit – leaned away from Collins as if to get a better look. Collins got out her warrant card. ‘Detective Sergeant Sarah Collins. Met Police.'

He took in the fact of it with evident pleasure. ‘You lot are like buses,' he said.

‘Oh yes?'

‘Yes. Wearing an orange jacket. Paid cash. Said she couldn't remember her credit card PIN.'

Collins rang Steve.

‘She leased a vehicle last night. I've checked the camera at the car hire office here and it's definitely her. Can you run the registration through ANPR?'

16

S
teps led up from the beach. A hotchpotch of buildings – fluted columns, Doric pilasters, castellated and gabled – rose away from the sea and sheltered a Victorian park. Lizzie sat on a bench. A duck and a drake were floating, asleep on a cold pond. The birds' necks were curved round, their heads nestling improbably into their backs, tucked between the blades of their wings. Like a model of domesticity the sleeping birds rose and fell with their breaths.

Lizzie took a roll from her pocket that she had buttered and wrapped in a paper napkin at breakfast. She just needed time, she told herself, time to think it through, to work it out.

She would sleep in the hire car tonight – pick it up later from the hotel car park and drive it up the coast. She still had plenty of petrol. She could run the engine to keep warm. She would be sure to find some off-road parking where no one would bother her. She shuddered. Pressure; there was always pressure. Pressure to decide, pressure to resolve, pressure to act.

Inspector Shaw had stood by the terminal flicking through the morning briefing – slides of burglars, boys on pushbikes snatching phones, a vehicle linked to drug dealing, a known gang member believed to be carrying a weapon. The newer officers, including Lizzie, had made notes in their pocket books. Hadley had sat back in his chair and watched the screen, interested but not sufficiently
so to put pen to paper. At the end of the PowerPoint, Shaw asked Hadley and Lizzie to stay behind.

As the others filed off to breakfast, Hadley said quietly to Lizzie, ‘Looks like we're on the naughty step. What have you done?'

She looked at him and he winked.

Shaw sat on the table. ‘Carrie Stewart,' he said. ‘Ring a bell, anyone?' Lizzie drew breath to answer but a slight pat on her knee and a smile from Hadley told her not to bother. Shaw was continuing. ‘So, Mrs Stewart has been in to see the Chief Superintendent in person. Apparently Younes Mehenni rang her up last night and told her to back off or else.'

Hadley interrupted with a not-bad imitation of curiosity. ‘Or else what, guv?'

In spite of himself Shaw smiled. ‘Oh, you know, the usual nonsense. It's gone on as a malicious communications. At least we've managed not to record it as a threat to kill.'

Hadley said, ‘OK, well that's something.'

‘Mrs Stewart doesn't see it like that. She asked the boss what on earth we are doing and why Mr Mehenni hasn't been arrested. She was quite upset, apparently, and now the Chief Superintendent is also quite upset.' Shaw pressed his fingers together. ‘Now, starter for ten, anyone. The qualities of shit are?'

Hadley lifted his hand slowly. ‘Oh, guv, pick me. I know that one.'

‘Yes, Hadley then.'

‘Shit rolls downhill, guv.'

‘That's right. So, bearing that law of physics in mind, can you please make sure that Mr Mehenni is nicked as soon as possible.'

Hadley had pulled up and parked the car directly outside number 7 Kenley Villas.

‘We're not hiding up the street today?' Lizzie asked.

‘No, today we are not hiding because today our purpose is different. Today we are rattling cages. I am going to sit inside this nice warm identifiable police car and you are going to knock on the door and try your hand at rattling. If you are successful and Mehenni hands himself in during the next couple of days, I will be buying you a drink at Sergeant Thompson's leaving do. And vice versa, of course, so mine's a pint of London Pride. Should chummy, however, surprise us by being at home, I will be here waiting for him. I shall wedge myself into the gate. He will not be able to leave and you will be able to slip the cuffs on.'

Farah opened the door before Lizzie had even knocked. She was wearing the same shapeless green uniform of the local academy school and her bag was already slung over her shoulder. It was pink, polka-dotted and heavy – bulky and sharp with the corners of her school books. She had white headphones in and she left them in place.

‘Come in.'

‘No, that's OK. I don't want to make you late for school.'

‘No, come in.'

She moved sideways to let Lizzie enter and began walking down the hallway. Lizzie turned briefly and gave Hadley the thumbs-up. She left the door on the latch and followed.

Farah had thrown her school bag on to the kitchen table. The bag, Lizzie noticed, was not all polka dots after all. The back pocket was white, with a big line drawing of the face of the Japanese cat Hello Kitty with a bow by her left ear. Farah had pulled off her headscarf and taken the buds out of her ears. Her hair was long and dark, tied back in a ponytail. From the trailing headphones Lizzie could hear tinny beats and a female voice singing something strident in a distant place. Mrs Mehenni hovered in the doorway but Farah spoke to her in that other language and she disappeared quickly down the hallway.

Farah said angrily, ‘She's rung the housing officer again.'

‘I'm sorry?'

The girl seemed to be entirely involved in her own concerns; seemed even to assume that Lizzie understood and shared them. ‘That woman next door. She's rung the housing officer again. We've got a letter. They want to come round and see us. She won't be happy until she's got rid of us.'

Lizzie wasn't quite sure how to respond. She had the sensation of being pulled into something more entangled than a mere allegation of criminal damage, something that was beyond her powers to unravel. But it was simple, surely?

‘Farah, your father needs to come in and see me. It's the only way to sort this out.'

‘But we've only been here a few months. That woman won't ever leave us alone.'

Lizzie felt she had been given a sudden glimpse inside a desperate room. She said, ‘Yes, I understand that . . .' But she wasn't sure she really did understand. ‘Look, I can see you're upset . . .' Again she sensed that she was being pulled off course. She heard Hadley's rebuke.
We are police, not bloody social workers
. She tried to get back on track. ‘This isn't going to go away, Farah, not until your father's spoken to police. Your dad won't be able to come home, not until it's sorted. But it's . . . how can I put it . . . it is serious but it's not the end of the world. If he comes in, that's the best thing. Then we can sort it out. I can talk to your housing officer. Explain the situation. Perhaps your father's suitable for a caution.'

There she was. It had felt like dry land.

‘A caution, what's that?'

‘A caution, that's like a warning.' Lizzie felt in her stab vest pockets but she knew without searching that she had forgotten to bring a memo pad with her. ‘Look, give me a piece of paper and I'll scribble my number down for you. If your dad's prepared to come in, you can call me and I'll be sure to be there to deal.'

17

C
ollins knocked at the glass door. Caroline Wilson was standing on a table, reaching up to stick a drawing pin into a Mollweide projection of the earth. Her jeans were too tight and her raised arms exposed her plump tanned bottom. She turned and smiled, embarrassed to be caught in this awkward position. She had curly dark hair and a round kind face; a face clearly moulded by years of giving encouraging smiles.

Collins showed her warrant card. ‘Sarah Collins, Met Police. Thanks for making the time.'

Miss Wilson's smile contracted into something less welcoming. She reached out a hand to be helped down from the table. ‘Yes, the office said you were coming.' She brushed herself down and went over to her computer, where something was printing off. With her back turned she said, ‘I can't spare much time, I'm afraid. I'm going out.'

Collins glanced around the classroom. A poster proclaimed bravely:
Maths makes a difference to your future career
. Miss Wilson put a collection of papers on the table in front of Collins.

‘A copy of her last report. Farah was particularly talented at maths. I'm head of maths. I would have been expecting her to get an A star at GCSE. Of course that sounds ridiculous now.' She paused and briefly put her hand to her right eyebrow. Her tone was more constrained when she spoke again. ‘That is, in the light of what's happened. Totally ridiculous.' She unexpectedly smiled self-effacingly. ‘Do you think I'm a monster?'

Collins shook her head. ‘A monster? Why on earth would I think that?' She looked at the teacher's kind face again. ‘Certainly not.'

She sat down at one of the tables and began reading the report.
Farah is operating well above average. She has a desire to improve and succeed . . . Farah sits at the back of the class and is shy about contributing but her written work is of a high standard and she shows a good grasp of ideas and argument . . .
She put the paper down on the table and looked up. Miss Wilson had been studying her.