Читать книгу The Unquiet Dead - Gay Longworth - Страница 6

Jessie turned into her street and saw the tell-tale desert boots sticking out from between the pillars that flanked the entrance to her flat.

‘Bill!’ she shouted, beginning to run. The boots retracted and moments later a tall, blond, bedraggled specimen emerged smiling through the iron gate and on to the pavement. ‘I am so sorry,’ she said and she hugged her brother.

‘Don’t tell me,’ he said. ‘Something came up.’

‘I’m sorry, did you wait at the airport for ages? I should have got a message to you, or called the airport police –’

‘Jessie, calm down, it doesn’t matter.’

‘I meant to be there.’

‘Would you believe me if I told you I didn’t even look for you in arrivals?’ Bill said laughingly.

‘I’d be furious, I took the fucking morning off.’

Jessie put her key in the lock.

‘So, no Maggie then?’

‘No, she’s gone. Why? You desperate?’

‘Yes, actually.’

They walked up the stairs dragging Bill’s ancient canvas kitbag and a plastic carrier bag holding cartons of duty-free cigarettes. ‘No stunning French female doctor to cavort with this time?’

‘My colleague was a fat Scottish doctor called Rob, who, though I love, I couldn’t bring myself to shag.’

‘Nurses?’

‘All nuns.’

Jessie winced. ‘Poor Bill. Well, for a little light porn, Maggie has a late-night chat show, and I still have her number – though I fear you may not be famous enough or rich enough for her now. Then again, she might like the look of your prescription pad.’

‘Bitchy.’

‘Maggie taught me everything I know.’ Jessie opened her front door and caught their reflections in the hall mirror. ‘You are so brown,’ she said, disgusted at her own pallid complexion.

Bill ran his fingers through his hair. ‘Even the equator has its plus points.’

‘I look like a ghost compared to you.’

Bill put his bag on the floor and pointed to Jessie’s hair. ‘You look like you’ve seen a ghost.’

Jessie tried to flatten it. ‘Piss off! I’m growing it out and it’s at a funny in-between stage.’

‘You’re telling me.’

Jessie took Bill to a small Italian basement restaurant that their elder brother Colin supplied wine to. As well as free wine and quick service, Jessie always got a flurry of compliments in hurried Italian that was often the perfect antidote to a bad day in CID. Today was no different once the waiters had established that Bill, six foot three and built like a rower, was family and not an over-protective boyfriend.

‘So tell me everything,’ said Bill after rapidly downing half a glass of red wine.

‘No. You first.’

‘Aids. Death. Aids. Poverty. Aids. Famine and flashes of extraordinary human courage. More Aids. Your turn.’

‘Didn’t you get my letter?’

‘There’s a glitch in the Médecins Sans Frontières’ postal system – everything keeps getting stuck in Paris.’

‘Well, I had my first big case. I made some good decisions and caught the guy, but I made some bad decisions too. Guess what everyone remembers?’

‘Would these bad decisions have anything to do with a well-known singer who happened to be married to the first victim?’

Jessie frowned.

‘Even in the wilds of the Sudan you can get your hands on a copy of a tabloid or two.’

Jessie bowed her head and groaned. ‘I can’t think about it, it’s too embarrassing.’

‘You don’t see him any more, then?’

A waiter arrived with warm bread and olive oil, and Bill was temporarily sidetracked. Jessie watched him eat. P. J. Dean had been like a destructive whirlwind; he’d spun her around and sent her flying off course. He believed they had a bond. A detective and a pop star. Not very likely. She’d made her mind up that it was a bad idea for all concerned. And most of the time she was sure she’d done the right thing.

‘So do you?’ asked Bill, tearing apart another piece of bread.

‘I try not to.’

‘What does that mean, Jess?’

‘It means I try not to.’

Brother and sister eyed one another knowingly. Bill backed down first.

‘And how’s work?’

‘Good. Things are better with the other DI, Mark Ward. We finally seem to have found a common ground.’ That common ground was a crypt in Woolwich cemetery where together they had watched a man bleed to death, but she wasn’t ready to tell her brother that story. ‘My boss is leaving. His replacement is a woman. Though I admire and like Jones enormously, I have to admit it will be a nice break to have another woman around. Better still, one who is higher ranking than me.’

‘It’ll take the heat off you, you mean?’

‘More than that, I’ll have someone on side, someone who understands what it’s like to be surrounded by a bunch of pricks.’

‘Literally or metaphorically?’

‘Both.’

‘Jessie, first signs of bitchiness and now what’s this? A whiff of bitterness in the air and you cut all your hair off. Please don’t become some wizened old man-hater, it’s so last century.’

‘I told you, I’m growing it out.’ Jessie poured out more wine. They were halfway down the bottle and hadn’t even looked at the menu. ‘I’m not a man-hater, but it’s hard, they are pricks … well, some of them. If they were more like my brothers –’

‘A commitment-phobe who likes to play god in a very small pond, be hero-worshipped by people who have no alternative and has the occasional disturbing fantasy about a nun? I hope not.’

‘One nun in particular?’

‘A flock of nuns.’

Jessie nodded. ‘I think we should order.’

Bill refilled their glasses, smiling conspiratorially. ‘You don’t really have to go back to work, do you?’

‘Yes.’

‘But I haven’t seen you for eight months. I’m not here for very long and what’s the point of being the youngest DI in the Force if you can’t play hooky occasionally?’

Jessie thought about this for a second. It was true, she didn’t really have that much on, she was owed masses of holiday time and many’s the time she’d covered for DI Mark Ward while he was in the pub. ‘I suppose I could call Mark and ask him to cover for me …’

‘Excellent. More wine.’

The following morning Jessie walked to work. She didn’t trust herself on the bike, suspecting that she might still be over the limit. She and Bill had ordered their food finally, but not until they had finished the first bottle and drunk most of the second. They did not stop talking until after midnight. Even then they had only touched the surface. Bill had been working for MSF for six years, in places no one else would brave; he’d witnessed death on such a massive scale from disease, starvation and massacre, that the idea of a nice clean general practice somewhere in England coping with endless complaints of a sore throat and chesty cough was absurd to him. He’d been known to drive sick children through areas occupied and controlled by armed tribes with no scruples, just to see them safely to an international hospital. He’d put his life on the line time and time again, even though he knew he could only ever make a tiny difference, for the problems in Africa were so vast. It made what Jessie did seem very small. She would allocate months of her time and enormous sums of taxpayers’ money to bring one person to trial, and even then it was not certain they would end up behind bars, or that bars were indeed the answer. Meanwhile thousands were dying and the culpable – corrupt leaders, multinationals, the ‘first’ world – would never pay. If there really was good and evil in this world, she knew her brother was all good. Even if he did fantasise about nuns.

Jessie plugged in the week’s security code on the entrance door to the station and went in. PC Niaz Ahmet was waiting for her. Since Jessie had seconded him to West End Central CID during the P. J. Dean case, she had rarely seen anything but a sanguine expression on his face. Today he looked worried. Very worried.

‘What is it, Niaz?’

‘A sixteen-year-old girl has disappeared. Her mother has telephoned asking for you in person.’

‘Me? I don’t deal with missing people until …’ She stopped herself. ‘How long has she been missing?’

‘Eighteen hours.’

‘That’s not long enough.’

‘She is Anna Maria Klein. The daughter of Sarah Klein.’

‘The stage actress?’

Niaz nodded, adding: ‘And a close personal friend of P. J. Dean.’

‘Oh God.’ Jessie dropped her chin on to her chest. ‘Not again. Every deranged celebrity with a security problem has been asking for me by name, I can’t deal with these people any more. They’re all insane.’

Niaz wobbled his head. ‘I think this is serious. She went out to meet a friend for coffee in Soho and didn’t come back. She hasn’t phoned and she didn’t take anything with her.’

‘Had there been a row?’

‘No.’

‘Boyfriend troubles?’

‘No boyfriend.’

‘Well, not one that the mother knew about, anyway.’ Niaz and Jessie had arrived at their floor. ‘Tell me Ms Klein isn’t here.’

Niaz lowered his crescent-shaped eyelids.

‘Good grief!’ said Jessie. ‘I’m not feeling up to this so early in the morning.’

‘Another hangover?’ asked Niaz.

‘Don’t say it like that. Right, as punishment you can go and get me a large coffee from the canteen.’

‘Didn’t you say you were giving it up for Lent?’

‘I was. Then I remembered, I don’t believe in Lent. Thank God. Ask them to make it strong, sweet and milky, and tell them I’ll pay them later.’

‘You said that yesterday.’

Jessie growled.

‘Yes, ma’am.’

Tucking a rogue piece of hair behind her ear, Jessie put on her mental body armour and pushed open the double doors that led to the Criminal Investigation Department. Someone had put up a new sign on the notice board. It read: YOU CAN ALWAYS GET ANOTHER WIFE. YOU ONLY GET ONE CHANCE IN CID. Jessie sailed past it. It wasn’t the worst she’d seen. Or the last.

She took a surreptitious peek through the window of her office door and saw two overly dressed, heavily made-up, middle-aged women sitting in front of her desk. Ageing actresses were a sight for sore eyes, and that morning she had very sore eyes. The two women were talking animatedly; one of them Jessie did not know, but she recognised Sarah Klein immediately. Over the years Jessie had seen her in numerous TV dramas and stage plays. But not so many recently.

As she pushed open the door she took in Ms Klein’s appearance – the underwired bra, the unladdered stockings, the matching shoes and handbag, the repeatedly applied lipstick – and wondered how long it had taken her to dress that morning. Too long, Jessie decided, if you thought your daughter was missing.

‘Good morning,’ she said, interrupting the women.

‘Jessie Driver!’ exclaimed Sarah Klein, standing up. ‘P.J. said you’d –’

Jessie stuck out her hand. ‘Detective Inspector Driver,’ she cut in, trying to get her point across without sounding prim. ‘You must be Sarah Klein.’

‘Well of course I am. P.J. said you’d –’

Jessie interrupted her again; she didn’t want to hear his name for a third time. ‘Please, let’s deal with the problem in hand. My colleague tells me that you think your daughter is missing.’

‘I know she is missing! Don’t you give me that policeman crap as well. I came directly to you so that I wouldn’t have to go through the usual hoops.’

‘The usual hoops are there because, thankfully, most “disappearances” are nothing more sinister than simple misunderstandings.’

‘She is missing, I tell you. Her phone is switched off – she never switches her phone off, she even keeps it on during the movies!’

How considerate, thought Jessie.

‘P.J. is a very good friend of mine. Call him, if you don’t believe me.’

‘Ms Klein, it isn’t a question of believing you; it’s a question of dealing with this in an appropriate manner. What did she say to you when she left?’

‘Bye, Mummy, I love you.’ Sarah Klein spoke in a far-away, slightly childish voice. ‘I remember it specifically because it was so odd.’

‘It was odd that she told you she loved you?’

‘No,’ she replied defensively. ‘It was odd because she wouldn’t normally say it when she was popping out for coffee. She also told me what time she’d be back. Usually she’s very vague about that sort of thing, always changing her plans, but yesterday she said she’d be back at five because there was something she wanted to watch on TV.’

‘So she changed her plans often, you say?’

‘Yes, but …’ Ms Klein frowned. Jessie stared as the actress’s perfectly arched brows fought against the effects of Botox. ‘She would have phoned. She always phones – maybe not immediately, but she’d never stay out all night without calling me. And even if she did, she’d have phoned me by now.’

‘It’s only ten in the morning. Is it possible that she decided to go out with her friends, met someone and …’ How to put this delicately? ‘… is still with them?’

‘Absolutely not.’ The actress slammed her hands down on the armrests for maximum effect. ‘There is no way Anna Maria would go out without coming home to change first.’

There was a knock on the door and Niaz came in with a steaming mug of coffee. Jessie inhaled the aroma. Canteen coffee had never smelled so good. But she didn’t get to taste it, or thank him, because Mark Ward suddenly burst through Jessie’s door, slamming into Niaz and causing the coffee to spill. Her fellow DI swore under his breath.

‘Sorry,’ he said, backing out of the room. ‘Didn’t know you had company.’

Sarah Klein stood up. So royalty rises, thought Jessie, though not for women and not for people of ethnic origin. ‘Don’t worry,’ she said, extending her hand. ‘Sarah Klein.’

Ward was looking worried.

‘What is it, Mark?’

‘Don’t worry, it can wait,’ he said, retreating to the corridor with a final frantic glance at Jessie.

Jessie stood. ‘Niaz, please stay with Ms Klein. Take a statement, a detailed description of what Anna Maria was wearing, her mobile number, the names of her friends and where and when she was planning to meet them. Then, Ms Klein, I suggest you go home and wait. Hopefully, Anna Maria will be back by the end of the day. If not, we’ll have everything in place to act.’

‘That isn’t enough,’ exclaimed Sarah Klein.

‘With all of that we can start looking at CCTV footage. We’ll be able to map her movements quite easily, provided you can give us that information.’

‘And then you’ll get the press involved?’

‘Probably,’ said Jessie, curious. ‘Why do you ask?’

‘It’s the quickest way to get maximum coverage – for sightings and things. I hate the press myself, but I’ll do whatever I have to do, for Anna Maria.’

What was it with these people? ‘Let’s start with the information I’ve requested. We’ll go from there.’

‘She has blonde hair and was wearing a Dolce and Gabbana dress –’

‘Please,’ said Jessie, taking the dripping coffee mug from Niaz. ‘Tell PC Ahmet.’

Sarah Klein looked briefly at Niaz, but she was a good actress and disguised her disappointment well.

As Jessie had suspected, Mark Ward was waiting for her in the hall. She mimicked strangulation as the door closed behind her. ‘I bet you a fiver the daughter has legged it,’ she whispered. ‘Is everything all right?’

‘I don’t know, how did that go?’

‘A couple of ageing actresses first thing in the morning, how do you think?’

‘Shit,’ said Mark.

‘Tell me she isn’t appearing in a play that’s dying a death. Can you believe how far these people will go to get good box-office receipts?’

‘But that’s just it –’ Mark stopped but Jessie had already felt the draught. Her office door was open. She turned. Sarah Klein’s clone was looking at her with a very unnerving expression on her face. Clearly she’d heard what Jessie had said. Her only option was to bluff it. But before she’d even managed to force her mouth into a smile, or utter polite platitudes, the angry woman spoke.

‘That was very unimpressive.’

‘I’m sorry if you think that, but in my experience –’

Mark pushed the back of his shoe into Jessie’s heel. She ignored his warning. She’d had enough of the arrogance of vaguely famous people, assuming they were more important than everyone else and therefore deserving of special treatment.

‘– these sort of situations –’

‘How can you possibly judge the situation when you didn’t ask the right questions?’

‘If you have anything to add, please go ahead.’

Mark pushed her aside and stepped forward. ‘Driver, perhaps you haven’t met –’

‘Careful,’ protested Jessie.

‘I think he is trying to tell you to be careful. Thank you, Mark, but I think we can handle this from here.’

Jessie looked from her colleague to the heavily made-up woman and back again.

‘Handle what?’ asked Jessie.

‘That will be all, Mark. Thank you,’ she said imperiously. To Jessie’s astonishment, Mark nodded curtly and left. A little hole opened up beneath her feet and she looked longingly into it. But the ground was solid; she wasn’t going anywhere.

‘DCI Moore,’ said Jessie, offering her hand. ‘I don’t believe we’ve properly met.’

‘No. Seems you were unavailable to attend my induction yesterday afternoon. DI Ward said you were …’ she paused looking Jessie up and down, ‘indisposed.’

Bollocks was the only word that sprung to Jessie’s mind. Bollocks. Bollocks. Bollocks.

‘I wouldn’t have got where I am if I didn’t know the difference between indisposed and a hangover. You, DI Driver, have a hangover. I can smell it.’

Jessie opened her mouth, then closed it again. A series of other swear words were now filling the void in her head where fabulous excuses should have been.

‘I am going to give you the benefit of the doubt and assume your performance in there is down to your,’ she paused again, ‘indisposition. However, had I been Ms Klein’s lawyer – and for all you knew I might have been just that – I would have advised her to make a formal complaint against you. Don’t ever treat a victim of crime like that again.’

Getting defensive wasn’t going to get her out of this. ‘I apologise,’ said Jessie. ‘I shall take over from Niaz immediately.’

‘Who is this Niaz? What’s a PC in uniform doing here in CID?’

‘He’s been seconded to CID from Putney. He shows true promise and I’m hoping he’ll take the exams.’

‘“True promise” in whose judgement?’

Jessie didn’t reply. She wasn’t going to let DCI Moore tar Niaz with the same brush. Moore turned on her high heel and walked away, leaving Jessie reeling. What bloody induction? Where was Jones? He wasn’t supposed to be leaving for another week. And why didn’t Mark warn her? She kicked Mark’s door open. He held up his hands as if she were wielding a gun.

‘She turned up about an hour after you called in.’

‘Why didn’t you phone me, tell me to come back?’

‘I tried to, but your mobile was switched off.’

Jessie had a vague memory of listening to some messages when she and Bill got home that evening. But by then she’d been drinking for ten hours and was in a fairly shoddy condition.

‘I feel like shit.’

‘You look like shit. I came to find you first thing. I didn’t know she was going to hide in your office like that.’

‘What was she doing there, anyway?’

‘I don’t know. Maybe you share a common hobby.’

Hungover and slow on the uptake, Jessie just frowned.

‘Star-fucking,’ said Mark gleefully.

‘I’m not going to dignify that with a response,’ she said through gritted teeth.

‘Only because you can’t.’

‘What is it, fuck on Jessie day? And what the hell does “indisposed” mean?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘You told that overly made-up harridan that I was indisposed.’

Mark’s eyes suddenly widened and he appeared to swell. Jessie didn’t dare turn around.

‘Mark,’ said the cool voice of DCI Moore over Jessie’s left shoulder, ‘I was wondering if you would give me a tour of the premises. Jones isn’t going to be able to make it in again today.’

‘Yes, ma’am.’ The words exploded out of him on his pent-up breath.

‘Thank you.’ Jessie heard the heels click away from her; she must have been tiptoeing earlier. The clicking stopped. Jessie braced herself. ‘Incidentally, Driver, you should think of doing something about your hair.’ Jessie turned reluctantly, imagining what it would feel like to turn into a pillar of salt. ‘You may not be in uniform, but you still represent the police force. Most importantly, you reflect your superiors and that means more than getting out of bed in the morning and hoping for the best.’

Again, the doors closed behind her. She turned to Mark. ‘I’m fucked.’

He shrugged.

She could have killed him.

Bill and Jessie sat on her sofa, their feet up on the coffee table, tea in hand. Neither her day nor her hangover had improved. Bill had made comforting noises when she finally fell through the door, but Jessie knew he didn’t really understand. He wasn’t a locker-room sort of man, whereas Jessie lived in one.

‘So what have you been doing all day, while I’ve been having my balls busted?’

‘Eating crap food and watching videos. Malcolm X, excellent film. I’d never got round to –’

She lifted the remote control and increased the volume. ‘Shh, this is it.’

‘Our main story tonight,’ said the newsreader. ‘Anna Maria Klein, the only child of actress Sarah Klein, is missing. The schoolgirl was last seen in London’s red-light district –’

‘She won’t like that,’ interrupted Jessie.

‘– where she was supposed to be meeting friends at a coffee shop. Amanda Hornby is there now. Amanda, what can you tell us?’

‘She’s foxy,’ said Bill. Jessie hit him.

‘Good evening. Well, the police are telling us very little at the moment. Anna Maria was reported missing by her mother this morning at West End Central police station. After initially being told to wait and see by one senior officer, the panicked mother was finally taken seriously late this afternoon.’

‘Why the change in approach?’

‘Sarah Klein apparently spent the day calling her daughter’s friends, until she found who Anna Maria was supposed to be meeting. The friends then confirmed that Anna Maria had never arrived at the coffee shop just behind me.’

‘And this had them worried?’

‘No. They say that Anna Maria often changed her plans.’

‘See? Flaky,’ said Jessie.

‘But time is very much of the essence in situations like these,’ redirected the newsreader.

‘That’s right. Every second counts, and it’s true many hours were lost before an investigation into Anna Maria’s whereabouts got underway. Now the teenager is facing her second night away from home and all her mother can do is hope for her safe return. This is Amanda Hornby, Soho, in London, for Channel Five News.’

Jessie quietly shook her head.

‘It sounds serious,’ said Bill.

‘Wait for the CCTV footage and then tell me if you think she’s been abducted. They’ll show it at the end of the bulletin, that way they keep the viewers glued.’

‘This cynicism doesn’t suit you, Jessie.’

‘It isn’t cynicism,’ she said, looking at her brother. ‘It’s instinct. And if I’m wrong, Moore will have my guts for garters.’

The newsreader went on until it was time to go to a break. After the ads, as Jessie had predicted, they showed the CCTV clip. Jessie had rounded up the film from all the public cameras around Soho that covered the coffee shop and its various approaches. She had also checked the ones around the actress’s house. If suspicious circumstances were ever confirmed, Jessie’s next step would be to gain access to the non-public CCTV footage: the cameras outside local shops, garages and offices. Jessie didn’t think it would come to that. By five that afternoon, after hours spent scanning the footage frame by frame, Anna Maria had been caught on film. The cab she had taken from her mother’s house had dropped her at the beginning of Carnaby Street. She had walked through the throng to the corner of Poland Street and Broadwick Street. There, directly under the eye of a surveillance camera, Anna Maria had waited for some time before moving off towards Marshall Street. Once out of range of the camera, she simply disappeared.

Bill and Jessie watched the actress’s daughter, stationary amidst the rushing crowd. She was noticeable by her stillness and her Dolce & Gabbana fur-trimmed coat and high-heeled boots.

‘Obviously she’s waiting for someone. Perhaps she misunderstood the plan with her friends?’ said Bill.

‘If she was waiting for someone she’d be looking around, glancing at her watch, maybe making a call to see where her friends are. She’s doing none of those things; she’s just standing there. And look at the bag.’

‘It’s big,’ said Bill.

‘Isn’t it?’

‘But that’s fashionable.’

‘Bill, you’ve been in the back of beyond for months, how do you know what is fashionable?’

Bill grinned. ‘Didn’t I tell you about the air hostess on the flight back?’

‘You swapped fashion tips with an air hostess?’

‘Something like that.’

‘Remind me not to let you anywhere near my friends.’

‘You’ll have to if you’re going to be burning the midnight oil on this case.’

‘Bill, there isn’t a case, unless it’s a prosecution for wasting police time. I offer you my final piece of evidence.’ She passed him a copy of the previous day’s Evening Standard. ‘You find me a programme at five o’clock that a sixteen-year-old girl would leave her friends for to return home and watch. There isn’t one. Anna Maria Klein is up to something, and it’s possible her mother is directing the show.’

‘I don’t know, Jess, she looked distraught on the news piece I saw.’

‘She’s an actress. It’s her job to convince people.’