Читать книгу A Bad Bad Thing - Elena Forbes - Страница 12

Eve pulled up in a space outside the house where she lived in Hazel Avenue, just off the Uxbridge Road. She switched off the engine, gathered up her things and hurried up the steps to her front door. The building was four storeys high, in the middle of a terrace of almost identical late-Victorian houses, almost all of which were divided into flats. Inside, the common parts had recently been redecorated and the hall smelled strongly of fresh paint and new carpet, which blotted out the dank odour from the street. She collected a couple of pieces of post from the mat, put the rest on the small shelf above the radiator and climbed the several steep flights of stairs to her flat at the top. She didn’t mind the walk up and had chosen the flat because it was more private, with nobody clattering around above her, no footsteps thudding past on the stairs. The tenant immediately below was often away and the only noise to disturb her was the occasional pigeon up on the roof, its cooing carried loudly down the chimney.

As she reached the top landing, she bent down and checked the small strip of invisible tape that she had stuck across the bottom of the door and the frame on her way out. It was still in place. It was something she had been doing for years and it had become automatic. She often told herself she was being irrational, that she had no need to worry any longer, but at the back of her mind was still the idea that one day it might save her life. Reassured that it hadn’t been touched, she peeled it off and let herself into the flat. It was light and airy, with a sitting room and galley kitchen at the front, and a bedroom and bathroom at the back, overlooking a drab patchwork of concrete yards and muddy gardens. She kept the blinds drawn most days, as much for privacy from the houses opposite as to shut out the view of other people’s lives. The flat was rented and had come fully furnished in a bland, functional way, with inoffensive carpets and neutral colours and furnishings. She had added a few touches here and there: some olive-coloured silk cushions to soften the hard, angular sofa, a large glass vase for fresh flowers, which sat in the centre of the round dining table and a new, very expensive coffee maker after her old one had broken. There was nothing characterful, or memorable, or even particularly pleasing about the space, but it didn’t bother her. It was comfortable and she had everything she needed, although even after ten months, she still had the feeling of being in transit. Nowhere had ever really felt like home. The solitude was what was important, the ordered predictability of living on her own. She hated sharing it with anyone, even for a short time. She didn’t need someone to come home to, to worry about where she was, to question her about her day, or even just fill the space with the basic warmth of another human presence. It felt just fine as it was. Jason had commented on several occasions about the lack of personal things. He wanted to know more about her and he said the place gave nothing away. It was ‘like a hotel’; she didn’t see anything wrong in that. It wasn’t ‘homey’ he said, by which she gathered he meant it lacked colour and clutter and endless useless possessions. She had tried to explain that she didn’t like bright colours and that objects, knick-knacks, meant nothing to her. She didn’t need any mementos either, anything with a connection to the past, that would twang her heartstrings each time she saw it and make her want to curl up inside. It was one of the many things he hadn’t understood.

She turned on the overhead lights and carefully unlaced her muddy boots, putting them in the kitchen sink to clean later. She stripped off her wet clothes down to her underwear and hung them over a couple of chairs next to the radiator in the sitting room. For a moment, Jason’s presence filled the room. She pictured him sprawled on the sofa just ten days before, a glass of red wine warming in his hand as he discussed the ins and outs of the case they had been working on. Work was the main thing they had in common, as far as she could tell, although maybe that was unfair. What had started as just a bit of fun had somehow morphed into something more, at least on his side. In the short space of time they had been together, she had gone out of her way not to know him, to keep him at arms-length, and yet somehow a small part of him had wriggled its way in and was still there. Death played tricks with the mind. She hadn’t loved him and yet the shock of what had happened, losing him so suddenly, so violently, had awakened all sorts of uncomfortable thoughts. For no reason, she would hear his voice, little snippets of conversation burbling away and odd images kept popping unexpectedly into her head, catching her unawares, making her wish he were still there. The framed photograph of him, which he had presented her with one evening, stared down at her from the top of the small bookcase where he had put it. All the things that had so attracted her to him – his youth, his warmth, his energy and his easy-going smile – were so plain to see. It pained her to look at it.

He had been keen to have one taken of the two of them together, but she repeatedly refused and he had become angry. ‘You’re so bloody secretive, Eve. I want to know everything about you. Everything.’ He had pulled her towards him, almost shaking her. ‘Don’t you want pictures of the people you care about?’ No. She wanted to say, They’re in my head, they’re wrapped tightly around my heart, they’re with me all the time.

He had made very little physical impression on the flat and she was glad of it. She had disposed of the few personal things he had left behind: a couple of work shirts, a pullover, a toothbrush and a razor. She had also deleted every contact with him on her phone. It was easier that way, nothing to snag uncomfortably on the order of her day and give a stab of regret. She crossed the room to the bookcase and picked up the photograph. With one last glance, she put it away face down in the bottom drawer of her desk.

It was too late in the day for coffee, not that she expected to sleep well that night. Instead, she made herself a strong cup of tea with milk and took it over to the large window, which overlooked the street. As she did most nights, she opened the blinds and stared out at the darkening skyline, with its roofs and chimneys and glittering lights, the white glow of Wembley Stadium just visible on the foggy horizon. But the sense of peace she usually felt was absent. Everything had been turned upside down by what had happened in Park Grove. Somehow, she had to find out how Jason had heard that Liam Betts was supposedly staying at the house. Had he made a mistake? Or had somebody given him false information? Before joining the murder investigation team, he had worked for several years in one of the Met’s organized crime squads. It seemed likely that that had been the connection. But so far, her contacts had drawn a blank. She had also tried speaking to Jason’s close friend, Paul Dent, a few days before the funeral. He still worked in the same unit, but he had been particularly defensive when she asked him if he knew where Jason’s information had come from. It wasn’t from anyone there, he had said categorically. It was clear from the way he spoke that he blamed her for the problems in Jason’s marriage, as well as his death. Having seen him at the funeral at Tasha’s side, she realized it was pointless pursuing it any further.

She was about to pull down the blinds when she saw a large, dark-coloured saloon car pull up in the street outside her house. A similar-looking car had been on her tail all day, taking little trouble to conceal itself. She had assumed it was press-related, although it looked far too up-market to be anything to do with Nick Walsh. A moment later, a man got out from the back, glanced up at her window, then climbed the stairs to the front door and rang her bell. She closed the blinds and turned away. She didn’t want to speak to anybody. He rang the bell again, this time leaning on it for several seconds. He must have seen her from the street and wasn’t going to give up. She went into the hall and picked up the intercom receiver.

‘Yes?’

‘Miss West? I’d like to speak to you please.’ His voice was crackly and distant over the intercom, the thick London accent still audible.

‘Who is it?’

‘My name’s Alan Peters. I have a message for you.’

‘Who from?’

‘I can explain. May I come up?’

‘No. I’m busy.’

‘I’d rather not talk to you about this out here in the street.’

‘Then you’ll have to come back another time.’

‘You received some text messages today from my client …’

Texts? She hesitated. ‘Is this someone called John?’

‘That’s right. He wants to get in touch with you. He wants you to know that he can help you.’

‘I don’t need anybody’s help.’

‘I think you do, Miss West. It really would be easier to speak face to face.’

She stood for a moment in silence, wondering what to do. You were set up. The words in the text had hooked her, playing on her own suspicions. Was it possible he knew something?

‘Give me a few minutes,’ she said.

She hurriedly threw on a pair of jeans and a pullover, then went downstairs. She opened the front door a few inches, wedging her bare foot behind it, her hand on the edge ready to slam it shut. A small middle-aged man, with glasses and thinning silver hair stood on the step below. He was smartly dressed in a beige mackintosh, with a dark suit and tie just visible beneath.

‘You may remember me from a couple of years ago, Miss West. As I said, my name’s Alan Peters.’ He enunciated each word clearly, as though trying to make a point. He held out a card, which she took. Alan Peters. Associate. Mercantile Partners LLP. A City of London address. She stared at him, but couldn’t place him.

‘Who’s John?’

‘John Duran.’ He gave a tight, little smile, as though she should have known all along.

The mention of the name almost made her start. She had hoped never to hear it again. She opened the door a little wider to get a better look at Peters. His eyes were sharp and alive behind his steel-rimmed spectacles, his mouth still puckered by some inner joke. Perhaps he was amused by her bewilderment, enjoying the impact that Duran’s name still had on her. She saw a huge number of people on a day-to-day basis and there was nothing particularly memorable about Peters, but she suddenly placed him. He was John Duran’s solicitor, an unpleasant, little terrier of a man, who had been involved from day one of Duran’s arrest for murder right up until his subsequent conviction.

Duran, however, was someone she would never forget. He ran a small off-shore investment bank, with a London office close to Fleet Street. It was the legitimate front for some well-known Eastern European crime families. According to the Met’s Organized Crime Command, he was the real criminal mastermind, the facilitator and fixer, managing their affairs and investments and laundering their money. He had been under long-term surveillance for well over a decade but no charges had ever stuck. Then a couple of years before, the body of one of his known associates, Stanco Rupec, had been found dumped on a stretch of grassland opposite the Old Bull and Bush pub, near Hampstead Heath. Rupec had been bludgeoned to death, his head and face beaten to a pulp. The crime scene photos had been some of the worst she had ever seen. CCTV footage recovered from two days previously, timed at around one in the morning, had captured Rupec’s blue Mercedes driving at speed along Haverstock Hill, pursued by a black Jaguar belonging to another of Duran’s entourage. The Mercedes was later found abandoned a little further along, just after Belsize Park Tube station. Neighbours had also reported hearing shouting around the same time, and some sort of a scuffle going on outside some nearby garages, but it had been a Saturday night and when the local police finally turned up, there was no sign of anybody. Appeals for witnesses finally produced a minicab driver who claimed to have seen a man being attacked in a street just off Rosslyn Hill, not far away. As luck would have it, the minicab had been fitted with both a dashcam and a rear-view camera, which together had captured a good part of the assault. Stanco Rupec could be seen running, then tripping over something. He held up his hands as he fell backwards. Even though there was no sound on the recording, it was clear he was screaming and begging for his life as Duran caught up with him. The blows rained down without even a momentary pause as the taxi drove past and accelerated away. Duran, himself, was clearly identifiable as the man wielding the crow bar and he was arrested and charged with murder.

Eve had been the senior investigating officer on the case. It was unclear why Duran had risked so much to attack Rupec out on the street, in plain view. Why he had done it himself, rather than leave the job to one of his many associates, was also a mystery. She had watched the video footage several times and had been struck by the degree of violence. The repeated blows were far more than would have been necessary to kill Rupec. It looked like an act of rage. Yet the emotion and lack of self-control were wholly inconsistent with everything that was known about Duran. He had never got his hands dirty before, certainly never been caught with blood on them. It had to be something very personal. But despite repeated questioning, no matter what interview tactics were thrown at him, he remained extraordinarily calm and inscrutable, steadfastly refusing to comment on his motivation. She could still vividly remember the hours spent either watching from a distance or locked away with him in a series of windowless, stiflingly hot interview rooms. The closeness and intensity of the experience had been characterized by the overpowering smell of the Paco Rabanne cologne, which he habitually wore. One of her mother’s classier boyfriends used to drench himself in it, but the smell was now indelibly associated in her mind with Duran.

Nor could she forget the sight of him later at his trial, at the Old Bailey, where he had sat almost motionless and upright in the dock for hours, his face an impenetrable mask. He was over fifty, but his natural hair colour was still black and his sallow skin almost unlined. He had taken to shaving his head shortly before Rupec’s murder and the five o’clock shadow of hair, with its pronounced widow’s peak, covered his scalp like a dark cap. Most defendants adopted some sort of a pose, whether defiant, shell-shocked, sorrowful, scared, or simply bored. Duran’s eyes never left her as she gave evidence, but no flicker of emotion crossed his face at any point. It was as though he were just an observer, listening to somebody else’s trial. She would have given a lot to know what was going through his mind, what he really felt and, in particular, what had driven him to kill Stanco Rupec.

‘John Duran’s still safely behind bars at Bellevue,’ she said. ‘Hopefully for the next twenty years or so.’

‘Mr Duran is still at Bellevue …’

‘Why’s he texting me?’

The fact that, locked away in a category ‘A’ high security prison, he had access to a mobile phone was not much of a surprise. There had been much in the media about drones being used to deliver all manner of contraband over prison walls, including drugs, phones and weapons, in some cases, directly to a prisoner’s cell. Even without the help of new technology, old-fashioned corruption of prison staff could still buy you most things, particularly when you were as rich and powerful as Duran.

‘He wants you to know that he doesn’t bear you any ill will. He’s been following recent events and is aware of your situation …’

‘It’s got nothing to do with him.’

‘Mr Duran has some information that might be of interest to you.’

‘I don’t need anything from him.’

‘He has evidence that you were set up. You can do what you like with it, but you’d be wise to listen to what he’s got to say.’

She stared at him. ‘What’s the price of this information?’

‘Mr Duran doesn’t want any money.’

‘But he wants something.’

‘He just hopes that in return, you may be able to do him a favour.’

‘A favour? For John Duran? I might as well kiss my career goodbye, or what’s left of it.’

‘It’s nothing illegal. You have my word.’

‘And that’s worth something, is it?’

‘Don’t shoot the messenger, Miss West. You have the disciplinary hearing coming up. From what I hear, you’re likely to be sacked, or at best forced to resign. Don’t you at least want to find out who sent you and your dead lover to that house in Wood Green?’

His bluntness didn’t shock her, even though it wasn’t pleasant hearing it from him. In the days following the shooting, she had more or less accepted that the likely outcome would be that she would have to leave the Met. Whatever she felt about being thrown out, there was little she could do about it. But maybe if she could prove she was set up, they might take a more lenient line. If nothing else, she needed to find out for herself and make sure that whoever had done it was made to pay. Given Duran’s connections in the Eastern European criminal world and what Kershaw had said about the Ukrainians in the flat at Park Grove and the broader Eastern European connection, it was easily possible that Duran might know, or could find out, something about what had happened. Why he wanted to help her, after she had been instrumental in putting him away, was another question. But it didn’t matter for the moment. She needed to find out more.

‘What sort of favour are you talking about?’ she asked, still watching Peters closely.

His expression gave nothing away. ‘You should speak to Mr Duran directly. He can tell you a lot more than I can.’

‘Speak to him? What, at Bellevue?’

‘Yes. If you’d like to go ahead, I’ll sort out the visiting order straight away. Visiting hours are from two until four. The car can collect you tomorrow at midday, if that’s convenient.’