Читать книгу A Bad Bad Thing - Elena Forbes - Страница 13

Duran’s driver dropped Eve outside Bellevue Prison, near Reading, just after one p.m. the following day. Built in the 1990s, surrounded by a series of high, faceless perimeter walls, it was a brutal, modern building, which stood out uncomfortably in the otherwise semi-rural landscape. She checked in at the visitor centre, which was next to the entrance, leaving her bag and personal belongings in a locker, then made her way to the main building, where she joined the shuffling, fidgeting queue of other visitors. The majority were women, either on their own or with children, the odd suited lawyer or other official visitor sticking out like a sore thumb in their sober work clothes amongst the colourful, noisy melee. The process was very slow and thorough and it was well over half an hour before she was shown into a small, brightly lit interview room. It was divided down the middle by a low wall and a glass partition, with a table and chairs on either side. She was pleased not to be in the main visitors’ hall down the corridor. She had no desire to be seen by anybody visiting Duran.

She had just sat down when the door on the opposite side of the room opened and Duran entered, followed by a prison guard. His appearance shocked her. When she had last seen him at the Old Bailey, he had been a tall, very striking-looking man, but she barely recognized him. His face was gaunt, with deep shadows under his eyes, and his skin had an unhealthy yellow tinge. He had lost a lot of weight and his shirt hung from his broad shoulders, his trousers also very loose. Instead of the brisk, forward thrusting walk she remembered, he stooped, moving slowly and uncertainly, almost shuffling, like an old man. For someone who had previously taken so much trouble with his appearance, who cared so much about every detail, it was particularly striking.

He sat down stiffly opposite her and folded his hands on the table in front of him. As her eyes met his, she felt the familiar chill. ‘Nice to see you, Eve. I’m glad you decided to come.’

The words came over clearly via the microphone, as though the glass partition wasn’t there, his voice deep and a little hoarse, the tone flat and measured and without accent, just as she remembered it. There was no smile, or change in his facial expression.

‘Forget the pleasantries,’ she said, suddenly impatient. ‘Let’s get to the point. You say I was set up.’

Duran gave a slight nod. ‘I can give you the evidence. It wasn’t hard to get …’

‘But I hear you want something from me in return.’

‘Always so direct.’ There was a pause while he unashamedly studied her. ‘You’re looking very well, Eve.’ There was a flicker of a smile, which felt like an insult.

‘That’s more than I can say for you.’

‘Prison life doesn’t suit me. But that’s not why I wanted to see you. Do you believe in justice?’

‘What sort of a question’s that?’

‘Humour me.’

‘Yes, of course I do.’

‘But you accept that the justice system is fallible?’

‘Are you trying to tell me now that you didn’t murder Stanco Rupec?’

Duran stared at her for a moment, his black eyes glassy, the dull glimmer of light behind them unreadable as always.

He gave a faint, weary sigh. ‘No. This is not about me. There’s a man here at Bellevue, who’s in for a crime he didn’t commit …’

‘That’s what they all say.’

Duran held up his hands and she noticed that even his palms had a yellowy tinge. ‘Not me. You need to hear me out. I did what I did and I’m prepared to pay the price, which is why I’m not bitter, at least not as far as you’re concerned. You were just doing your job. But Sean Farrell is not a murderer. He was stitched up, and the real killer’s walking around a free man.’

‘What’s any of this got to do with me?’

‘His case is being reviewed in a few weeks. He’s been through ten years of hell in this dump just to get this far. This is his one final shot to prove he’s innocent, or at least show that the investigation was flawed. He’s got some people working on his behalf, but they’re just skimming the surface. They need help. Unless something else comes to light very soon, his application will be turned down. And then that’s it for Sean. All hope gone. That’s not justice.’

His words spoke of passion but the delivery was flat and without energy. As far as she knew, he didn’t have an altruistic bone in his body and she couldn’t fathom why he was interested in somebody else’s cause.

‘Why do you care?’

‘Because I believe he’s innocent. I’ve talked to him at length in here, made some preliminary enquiries myself, and I’m convinced he didn’t do it. The police cocked up. This wasn’t the Met, I hasten to add, so you don’t need to defend them. It was somewhere out of London, in the Home Counties. They had him in the frame and they tried to make the evidence fit. They were just plain lazy and his lawyers were no better. They just wanted a quick fix, tick the box and move on. Problem is, they got the wrong man.’

‘Shit happens. It’s tough. More to the point, why are you bothering to get involved?’

He shifted in his seat and took a deep, rasping breath. ‘Because it interests me.’

‘Are you saying the justice system’s corrupt? Is that your angle?’

Duran inclined his head. ‘In some cases, without a doubt. In this instance, I suspect it was incompetence more than anything else, but they don’t give a flying fuck. Their necks aren’t on the line. They can go home at night to their families and their cosy little beds and put it all behind them. The only one who pays for their shoddiness, day in and day out, is Sean.’

She almost smiled. It was ironic hearing him take the moral high ground about the justice system, or its failings. He had been successfully dodging around it for years, but she let it go. He had a point, not that she would dream of saying so. Occasionally, she had seen at first hand fellow officers taking short cuts with cases. It was usually due to laziness, or over-work, or occasionally, as he said, incompetence. If it was true for the Met, who had the greatest number of murder cases to solve each year, it was even more so for a smaller, more rural police force, where murder was a much rarer occurrence. A murder investigation was always high profile and hampered by all the usual media focus and hype. Under the constant pressure to get a result as quickly as possible, errors might be made. Sometimes, it made even the best officers blind to what was in front of them. Although there was no excuse, it happened. But she reminded herself she was there to find out what he knew about her case. That was all.

‘As I said before, what’s any of this got to do with me?’

Duran inclined his head a little towards her, holding her gaze unblinking. The room was overheated and airless and she suddenly felt a little giddy. His dark scalp and forehead gleamed with perspiration and the whites of his eyes were bright yellow. He looked very ill. Maybe he was in pain, which would explain his stiffness. She couldn’t smell him through the glass but she wondered if he still wore Paco Rabanne, if he was allowed such luxuries in prison, then decided that, like access to a mobile phone, it was something he would make sure of.

‘I like the way you handle things,’ he said quietly. ‘You treated me with respect and courtesy, unlike many of your colleagues. I don’t forget these things. What happened to you wasn’t right. I’ll help you sort it, so you come out on top. But I’d like you to do something for me in return. You’ve got time on your hands until your hearing. Maybe you can use that time to help Sean, see if you can turn up anything new that the others have missed. That’s all I ask.’

His request took her by surprise. It was the last thing she had been expecting. She shook her head. ‘Why don’t you just hire a PI?’

‘I could do, of course. Anything’s possible, even from in here. But you’ll do a much better job. You’re top-notch, Eve. You’ve got all the necessary experience and you understand the system from the inside out. If anyone can spot a flaw in the process, you will. I’ll pay you generously for your time …’

She felt the colour rise to her cheeks. ‘I don’t want your money.’

‘I’d forgotten how proud you are. I didn’t mean to insult you, but your reputation is trashed and you’re likely to lose your job, from what I hear. Money aside, that must matter a lot to you.’ He let the sentence hang. ‘That’s why, like it or not, you need my help. I can give you the proof you were set up, who did it, and why. It will stand up in any internal proceedings, or court of law, if you decide to take it that far, and if you still don’t get what you want, the newspapers will love it, if you sell your story. You can also have the satisfaction of helping an innocent man.’

She stared at him for a moment. Much that she’d like to believe him, it all sounded hollow.

‘Have you got religion, or something?’

The faintest of smiles appeared on his thin lips. ‘What, me? Of course not. I’m an atheist and proud of it.’

‘What’s your angle, then? Is it personal?’

He had no wife, children or other dependents, from what she could recall, no significant other, male or female, to share the huge, gated house in North London, with its indoor and outdoor swimming pools, sterile works of art and expensive furnishings. She remembered from her visit, when they had searched his house, how it all felt like a film set, not somewhere actually lived in. She had wanted to see his home to get a better feel for the man, but she had been disappointed. Even the most personal of spaces, his bedroom, his bathroom and his huge, mirrored dressing-room, with its walnut panelled wardrobes, filled with tailor-made suits and sober, top of the range classic clothing, lacked personality.

Duran leaned back in his chair, stretched his shoulders and sighed. ‘You’re so incredibly suspicious, Eve. Although I guess I don’t blame you. I met Sean for the first time here in Bellevue. Other than that, I can honestly say I have no personal connection, either to him or to Jane McNeil, the murder victim. You know, she’d have been just a few years older than you are now, if somebody hadn’t stolen her future from her. Think about that.’

‘Why, then? Why are you bothering yourself with someone else’s problem? It’s not like you and it doesn’t add up.’

‘Curious, lovely Eve. You just can’t let things drop, can you? They keep worrying away at you, all these little mysteries, all these little inconsistencies. Like why I killed Stanco. I remember how you went on and on about it. It was so important to you. I understand you so well, you know. I’m just like you. I hate mysteries too. We both need to understand, put everything neatly away in its box, have everything explained to our satisfaction, so we can sleep at night. Do you have problems sleeping at night? I bet you do …’

He was taunting her now, closer to the truth than he could imagine. ‘Don’t try and analyse me,’ she said sharply and stood up. ‘If you’re not going to explain yourself, I’m off.’

He held up his hand. ‘Wait. Don’t go, Eve.’ His voice was suddenly loud and rasping. It woke up the guard, who had been standing motionless with his back to the wall, arms folded, in some sort of reverie throughout the interview.

‘Are you done, Mr Duran?’ the guard asked, the ‘Mr’ said without any hint of irony, the tone full of respect.

Duran looked around. ‘It’s alright, Dave. Just a few more minutes.’ It was as though he were talking to his manservant. Duran looked back at her and leaned forward across the table. ‘Please.’ He spoke quietly, almost mouthing the word as though ashamed of it. There was an unusual light and eagerness in his black eyes. She had never heard him say ‘please’ before. It struck her forcibly that, in spite of his apparently uninterested manner, it mattered a lot to him, for some reason. Intrigued, still holding his gaze, she sat down again.

‘If you really need an explanation, I’ll give you one,’ he said. ‘I’m ill. Very ill indeed, as you can see.’ He gestured vaguely towards his skeletal frame. ‘The doctors have given me just a matter of months at most. I’ve been thinking about things a lot in here and I’d like to help some people, while I still can. Sean’s one of them. You’re another.’

Was he really dying, she wondered. Was that what this was all about? Based on the strange colour of his skin, it had to be his liver, or possibly his pancreas. Either way, from the little she knew, the prognosis wasn’t good. Would somebody like him ever have regrets and want to make amends for the terrible things he’d done and the lives he’d ruined? Part of her wanted to believe that he could help her, but part of her, an important part, still mistrusted him. There had to be a catch.

‘Say I agree to help. What if I can’t find out anything? Or what if I find out for sure he’s guilty?’

Duran sat back in his chair and spread his hands. ‘All I ask is that you just take a look. Follow the evidence wherever it leads. If he’s guilty, so be it. I’ll let you have everything I’ve got on the case. Alan Peters can get the files over to you. You can then talk to Sean and take it from there. If you find out something that helps his case, great. If not, it’s OK. And if he’s guilty, that’s OK too. All I care about is the truth. I want justice to be served. You do your best and I’ll honour my side of the bargain.’

It was as though they were having an ordinary, everyday conversation and it struck her how surreal it all was.

‘Will you, though?’ She studied his face, trying to read something – anything – from his expression, but it was hopeless. ‘Maybe you’re just spinning me a line.’

He gave an almost imperceptible shrug and sighed, like a teacher confronted with a slow-to-learn pupil. ‘What have you got to lose, Eve? You’re up shit creek without a paddle, as I see it.’

It was galling hearing it from him, of all people, but she couldn’t disagree, not that she would let it show. The doubts still lingered. ‘You’re asking me to take a lot on trust. How do I know that your information’s any good?’

His face hardened. It pleased her to see that at last she had touched a nerve, even if it was only his pride. ‘Do you really think my intelligence would be bad? Information is power in both our worlds. I’m not only well connected, I’m very, very thorough. My contacts are excellent and I do in-depth research on people who interest me. Sometimes it throws up something useful.’ He moistened his dry lips with his tongue and she caught a glimpse of glistening white teeth. ‘Take you, for example.’

‘Me?’

‘Yes. I know a lot about you, about your hippy foster parents down in Lymington. They were most forthcoming.’

The words shocked her. There was nothing about her background in the police HR records, as far as she knew. She wondered what lies, what shameful pretext Duran had used to get the information. Had he sent somebody down to Lymington to talk to her foster parents, Robin and Clem Jackson, maybe pretending to be a journalist, or somebody doing research? She had last spoken to them immediately after the shooting, to let them know that she was alright. They hadn’t mentioned anything at all suspicious.

‘What the hell are you talking about?’

‘You certainly struck gold with them; they’re decent people. I wasn’t so lucky with mine, I can tell you, although that’s another story, for another time. But as I said, we have a few things in common, you and I.’

‘How dare you speak to them. When was this?’

‘When you first arrested me, of course. I wanted to find out everything I could about you.’

She pictured the cheerful, orderly little house in Lymington where she had lived for five years. She had indeed been lucky to be placed with Robin and Clem, the last in the very fortunate line of children to be fostered by them once their own brood of four had grown up and left home. The thought of such an intrusion on them, as well as on her private world, filled her with anger, as well as the idea that somebody had tricked them. They were too good, and kind, and trusting to be treated that way. Nothing, nobody, seemed to be beyond Duran’s reach. Who else had he spoken to? What else did he know?

She remembered a little of his background from the thick file that had been sent over from Organized Crime when he was arrested. Half Dutch, half Serbian, he had been born and brought up in the UK by his mother, who had been working in London as an au pair. Nobody knew what had happened to the father, but the mother had been killed in a hit-and-run accident when he was five, and Duran had been put into a series of foster homes. Somehow, he had later emerged with a top law degree, then qualified as an accountant, and had anglicized his surname from Duranovic to Duran. He had wanted to conform to some self-imposed ideal, even to the point of taking elocution lessons from a well-known stage voice-coach to remove any trace of his South London accent. In some ways, Eve understood. She had spent most of her life trying to blend in. When she moved down south to Lymington, she had worked very hard to eliminate any trace of her northern accent, a peculiar amalgam of the various places she had lived before. She couldn’t afford to stand out. After so many years, she had forgotten what her real voice had sounded like. But Duran’s need to transform himself was based on insecurity, as well as vanity. She refused to accept that there were meaningful parallels.

‘So you’ve been spying on me. You must be desperate.’

‘I like to know who I’m dealing with, that’s all. The devil’s always in the detail. I know what you did at uni, where you lived, what sort of student you were, what you liked to eat, the friends you made, the boys you shagged, and the same goes for your career with the Met and poor Detective Sergeant Jason Scott.’

‘That’s enough.’

He held up his hand. ‘I’m just telling you this because I want you to understand that finding out who set you up, and why, was a piece of piss. I want you to have faith in me.’

Anger and humiliation hit her in waves. If the glass hadn’t separated them, she would have hit him. Again she sensed his ego, what he said full of bravura and possibly exaggeration. She pushed the chair away and got to her feet.

‘Faith in you? How dare you pry into my life like this. You know nothing about me.’ She turned to go.

‘Not nearly as much as I’d like, it’s true. Your middle name’s Charlotte, isn’t it?’ he shouted after her. ‘Eve Charlotte West. Funny that a three-day-old baby by the same name died on 25th August 1984, in Selly Oak Hospital, Birmingham.’

The words struck her like a blow. Her stomach lurched, the heat rose to her cheeks and it was all she could do not to make a sound or movement that would give herself away. Thank God her back was to him. It was a moment she had been dreading for years, the sharp, vicious tug at the thread that held her whole life together. She had prepared for it over and over again until she was sure she was pitch perfect, but nothing could quiet the thumping of her heart. At least he couldn’t see or feel it.

She turned to look at him. ‘It’s a common enough name.’ She heard her voice clear and steady.

A flicker of doubt crossed his face. ‘Not that common,’ he said, narrowing his eyes, still studying her intently. ‘Anyway, you also share the same birth date. If I didn’t like you so much, I’d say you’d stolen her ID. The key question is why. Who are you, Eve? I mean, who are you really?’

The blood was deafening in her head, but she held his gaze. ‘What’s the point of all of this?’

He sucked in his breath and nodded. ‘You’re class, Eve. You’re wasted on the police.’ He pushed his chair back and slowly stood up, holding out his hand towards the glass, as though he were asking for hers. His eyes glittered. ‘I want you to know you can trust me, that’s all. If you do me this one favour, your little secret’s safe with me.’