The Stranger You Know (34 page)

‘And you weren’t suspicious when he asked you to provide him with a fake alibi?’

‘Absolutely not. He was a very scary guy, that police officer. None of us trusted him.’

Fine work, Orpen
. It was no wonder the case had never been solved.

‘And you don’t know who Shane was actually with.’

‘You’d have to ask him.’

‘I will.’

‘And don’t call me again, please. I don’t want to be bothered about Angela’s death any more.’ Her voice was vibrating with tension.

‘I’m sorry. It’s just—’

‘Just leave me alone.’ The phone went dead.

I frowned. It was a bit of an overreaction to a phone call. Again, I had the feeling that I’d missed something. Something Claire was trying, quite desperately, to hide.

Shane was the next person I rang, naturally enough, but his phone went straight to voicemail. I doodled a star next to his name to remind me to call him back and went on to dial Stuart Sinclair’s number. The same impersonal voice instructed me to leave a message and I did, hoping he’d get back to me as quickly as he had the previous time. I added another star beside his name as I left a message. He seemed to be the kind of person who never took the risk of answering his phone, preferring to know who was calling him, and why, before he actually engaged with them.

I checked the time. Twenty minutes left. Maitland was unlikely to hold me to a strict sixty minutes but there was no doubt I was up against it. No Shane. No Stuart. I dearly wanted to ring Derwent and ask him if he’d ever prowled the streets of Walthamstow looking for women to rescue, but I knew better than to try to contact him. They would be watching everything he did already. They would be checking the calls in and out of his hospital room. It would be useless to say I hadn’t told him anything about the case, and it would have been a lie, because Derwent would have known why I was asking straight away. I put out my hand to the phone and took it back again, irresolute.

Better to play it safe.
Sorry, Derwent
.

I filled in the remaining minutes by going through my notes from the various interviews, making sure there was nothing else I’d meant to follow up. I even checked that Claire’s son really was at Cambridge, scouting around the Internet for references to him. Whatever else she was lying about, it wasn’t that. I found his college, his Twitter account and a Facebook page in seconds. The college was large and prestigious, with extensive grounds and a rowing tradition, and I thought he was lucky. Wondering if Luke had any pictures of Claire, or Vinny, I had a look at Facebook. No privacy settings: perfect. His profile picture was a bottle of beer. I clicked through to his albums and was two pictures in before I’d identified him, and identified a whole new set of problems. I sat and stared at his face, and the sound of things falling into place in my head was deafening.

Oh,
fuck
.

‘Your last few words on the subject, then, Kerrigan? Get anywhere with your calls?’ Maitland, trying to be amiable and missing by a nervous mile. He started to lean around my computer, looking at what I had in front of me. The only clear thought in my head was that he shouldn’t see it until I’d worked out what I was going to do about it. I closed the window and told him I hadn’t got very far.

‘What about this?’ One fat finger descended and pointed at the star beside Shane’s name.

‘A reminder to try him again. There was no answer from his phone.’

‘Who’s he again?’

‘Angela’s brother. He gave a false alibi in the original investigation. The SIO missed it at the time. Apparently he was afraid of getting into trouble for smoking marijuana.’

‘Shocking.’

‘Well, he was only a teenager. And not outstandingly clever.’ Unlike Derwent, apparently. The mind boggled. I made myself think about the case again. ‘You know, he was out that night with some people who’ve never been traced. It would be worth talking to him to find out who they were and whether they might have seen anything.’

‘Fine by me,’ Maitland said. ‘Anything else?’

‘Stuart Sinclair. He was the only witness. Except …’

‘Except what?’

‘He lied.’

Maitland shrugged. ‘Didn’t everybody?’

‘Pretty much. But Sinclair lied about what he’d seen. Or maybe he lied about where he was when he saw it. Either way, I think he needs to come clean.’

‘You wouldn’t think, twenty years on, that they’d even remember to lie, would you?’

‘Depends on why they did in the first place, I suppose. If they had a good enough reason – or thought they did – maybe they remember the lie first and the truth second.’

‘Well, it’s time to jog some memories.’ Maitland ran a finger along the desk, looking down. ‘Where can I find this Shane Poole?’

‘He lives above his bar near Brick Lane.’ I wrote down the name and contact details on a loose sheet of paper and handed it to him. ‘Go easy with him. He’s a bit edgy.’

Instead of going away as I’d expected, Maitland turned my phone around and began to dial. I appreciated the gesture. It meant that I could hear enough of both sides of the conversation to follow it. He was a good DS and he loved Godley but that didn’t mean he thought the boss was right to punish me, and I liked him for that.

‘Can I speak to Shane Poole, please.’

‘… not here.’

‘Do you know where he is?’

‘… wish I did. He was supposed to open up, but … an hour late …
still
hasn’t come.’

‘Is that unusual for him?’

‘First time in six years … always reliable.’

‘Have you tried ringing his phone?’

‘… doesn’t have it with him.’

‘How do you know?’ Maitland asked.

‘I can hear it ringing upstairs.’ The voice had suddenly got a lot louder and more distinct. The fringe benefits of irritating someone.

‘Are you sure he’s not upstairs too?’

‘Well, I haven’t seen him.’

Maitland put a hand over the mouthpiece of the receiver. ‘Did you get that?’

‘Not there but his phone is.’

‘That’s odd, isn’t it?’

‘Exceptionally. I’m concerned he may be there and unable to answer his phone. I’m concerned he may be in danger.’ I raised my eyebrows. ‘Aren’t you?’

‘Very much so.’ It was our passkey to get into the flat without going to the bother and delay of getting a court order. He returned to the call. ‘Right. I’ll be with you in half an hour. Do you have a key to get into the flat?’

A squawk that I interpreted as a ‘yes’.

‘Well, don’t do it until I get there. And try not to worry.’ He hung up. ‘Looks as if I’m off to Brick Lane.’

‘Good luck.’

He turned around, then turned back. ‘You could come. You’ve met him. You know what to ask him when we find him.’

‘I’m not supposed to—’

‘It’s part of the handover. You’d be helping me.’

‘You’re being very kind, but I don’t want to get you in trouble.’

‘What trouble?’ Maitland spread his hands wide. ‘Who could possibly object?’

I hadn’t the heart to list the names but they started with Charles Godley and ended with Una Burt, and I didn’t feel like getting shouted at any more that day. I was about to say as much when I checked myself. It was pathetic to ignore the old familiar pull of curiosity that made me a good police officer just because I was scared of getting in trouble. Derwent would have wasted no time even considering saying no, and while his career trajectory was levelling out drastically there were still things he could teach me. And one was being single-minded despite the possible consequences.

‘All right. If you insist.’

‘I do insist,’ Maitland said firmly, hauling his trousers up to rest just under his paunch and setting off. I shut down my computer and followed, shelving all thoughts of Luke Naylor for the moment.
One problem at a time …

Chapter 27

The bar was open already and a few tables were occupied with people having an early lunch. Behind the bar, a woman was serving drinks. She was a bit older than the rest of the staff – mid-forties, I guessed – and something about the set of her shoulders and the droop of her mouth conveyed that she was upset even before she looked up and spotted us. With a mutter to the barman she came out from behind the bar and hurried towards us.

‘Are you the man who phoned about Shane?’

Maitland nodded. ‘And you are?’

‘Ginny Miles. I’m the assistant manager here.’

‘No sign of him, I take it?’

‘Nothing. I called his phone again, just in case.’ Her breathing was shallow and I wondered if she was asthmatic.

‘It might be a false alarm,’ I said. ‘He might have gone out and forgotten it. But we’d still like to check.’

‘When was the last time you saw him, again?’

‘Yesterday afternoon. He went off for a break before the evening rush. He does lunch and then it goes quiet in the afternoon so he goes upstairs for a lie-down or does some errands then. This place is open until one and he needs to be wide awake.’

‘I’m sure.’ Maitland scanned the room, then turned back. ‘All right, Ginny. Lead the way.’

She took us out through the kitchen where I dodged a rubber-aproned man lifting a huge tray of glasses out of a dishwasher, enveloped in clouds of steam. Two chefs were working, heads down, barely aware of our presence as we passed through to an alley behind the pub where there was a blue door. Her hands were shaking when she produced the key that unlocked it.

‘He has a separate entrance to his flat because it’s easier when the place is shut up and the alarm is on. And he can come and go as he pleases without getting caught up in work stuff.’

‘But you said it was out of character for him not to be there,’ Maitland objected.

‘It is. He still comes and goes a fair bit. It was strange he didn’t come in at all today. I can’t remember him doing that before. Ever.’

‘Go ahead,’ I said, and watched her struggle with the lock. ‘Have you been in the flat before?’

‘A couple of times.’

‘Would you know if anything was missing?’

‘I couldn’t swear to it.’ She held the door open for us, revealing a grey-carpeted flight of stairs rising steeply from just inside the door. It was narrow and claustrophobic and I went up as quickly as I could without stepping on Maitland’s heels. In deference to seniority, I let him go first and he checked for signs of life – or death – before coming back to Ginny and me at the top of the stairs.

‘Nothing. I found his phone, though, in the kitchen area.’ To Ginny, he said, ‘I think we should walk through and make sure we’re not missing a clue to where he might be.’

She nodded, her arms folded tightly, her expression pure misery. ‘It’s not to do with those girls, is it? He showed us the pictures. The Gentleman Killer. You don’t think it’s him, do you?’

‘Don’t worry about it,’ Maitland said easily. ‘We’re just having a look around.’

I was already getting a feel for the layout. The main room was at the top of the stairs, open plan, with a leather suite of furniture and a table taking up most of the room and the kitchen filling the space on the opposite wall. There was a large bedroom on the left, with a wall of built-in cupboards and an en suite, and a smaller bedroom on the right with a sofa bed and a desk. The furniture was functional but not cheap, and the kitchen looked as if it had been quite expensive to put in, all high-gloss units and granite work surfaces. The overall effect, though, was impersonal and it was cold, as if the heating had been off for a while. I was shivering. It wasn’t the kind of place I felt at home. Nor did it tell me a lot about Shane, except that he hadn’t stinted on money. There were no personal items on display in the main room, and the smaller bedroom was fitted out as an office. I flicked through the material on the desk, seeing invoices for the bar and accounts. A folder full of bank statements caught my attention but there was nothing particularly exciting about it – bill payments by direct debit, and large sums of cash withdrawn regularly. There were people who preferred to use cash rather than cards to avoid fraud – a lot of police did it, I happened to know – but it was a bugger from an investigative point of view. I circled back to the living room where Ginny was still waiting.

‘Was this here? Before?’

‘He had it gutted and redesigned,’ Ginny said. ‘When he had the bar refurbished. He thought this was a good investment but I dunno. Who wants to live above a pub?’

‘Handy for last orders,’ Maitland said, coming back from the bedroom. ‘I’ve found his passport.’

I held up a card wallet I’d just come across between two stacks of magazines on the coffee table. ‘Is this the one he usually carries?’

‘Yeah,’ Ginny confirmed. I’d thought it was familiar myself. I opened it and checked, finding bank cards and the picture of Vinny he’d shown me but no cash.

‘Who’s that?’ Maitland asked.

‘His friend. He’s dead.’

‘There’s a few pictures of him in the bedroom.’

I went in and looked where Maitland was pointing, at a small collection framed on one wall. His parents on their wedding day, an unposed shot that was a little out of focus. Angela at eight or nine, eating ice cream, her brother’s arm around her neck. Claire and Vinny, teenagers, sneering and giving the finger to the camera. And the one Derwent had – all of them together – except that Derwent’s face had been coloured in with black marker. I took it down off the wall and stared at it, at the friends together, before the fall, wondering if they had really been as happy as all that, despite the sunshine and the wide smiles.

Behind me, Maitland was getting rid of Ginny, promising to lock up and assuring her he’d call if we found anything that might locate her boss. It took some doing, but she left eventually and he came to find me.

‘So he hasn’t done a runner. He’s just disappeared from one minute to the next. What do you think? Kidnap? Wandered off?’

‘No sign of violence if it was a kidnapping. This place is immaculate.’ I looked around. ‘My hunch is he planned it so carefully he didn’t need this stuff. Leave the phone because it acts like a transmitter so we can pinpoint where you are. Leave the bank cards so there are no recorded transactions – he runs a cash business so it’s not all that hard to get hold of a lot of money in a hurry. He’s probably got a safe full of cash around here somewhere. Leave the passport because you want to come back once you’ve done what you left to do.’