House of Mourning (9781301227112) Read online

  ‘Before that?’

  ‘Does he want to know what I know about the box of files?’

  ‘I would think that’s a safe bet.’

  ‘Well . . .’

  ‘Yes, numpty?’

  ‘Mmmm.’

  ‘After threatening to pull your new teeth out you tell him everything you know. He then hunts down the lovely medical student Holly Morgan. She gets her father to sue us for everything we’re worth. I haven’t got anything, but I believe you’re a multi-millionaire. We’ll have the Standards Committee crawling all over us like starving locusts because we failed to log it in as evidence under the correct name. MI5, or some other weird secret government quango, will take us in the middle of the night . . . You’ve seen the Cube, haven’t you?’

  ‘Is that the one where there’s these people in a cube, and each room in the cube is booby-trapped, and . . .’

  ‘That’s the one. Well, those people were drugged and taken in the middle of the night. Do you want that to happen to us? In fact, never mind us. Do you want that to happen to me?’

  ‘Is it a multiple choice question?’

  ‘I’m never going to forget this, you know.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘So, have you got the gist of what I’m telling you yet?’

  ‘I think so. We know nothing about a box, any files, or the Epsilon experiments. And even if we did, we’re never going to tell another living soul until after we’re dead.’

  ‘Not even then, numpty.’

  ‘I understand.’

  ‘Make sure you do, because I know absolutely nothing about prime numbers.’

  ‘Is that important?’

  ‘I thought you said you’d seen the Cube?’

  ‘It was a long time ago.’

  Xena sighed.

  They’d been given the case – if anyone in their right mind could call it a case – of a severed left hand that had been discovered by a bag lady rummaging through a waste bin on Friday evening outside the local fish and chip shop.

  The hand, which belonged to a young woman, had been transported up to Di Heffernan in forensics who said she might have something for them on Monday morning.

  ‘Monday morning!’ Xena had said. ‘Are you on a work-to-rule?’

  Di Heffernan snorted like a heifer about to give birth. ‘Even overworked and underpaid forensic officers are allowed a weekend off once a year, you know.’

  She made a raspberry sound with her lips. ‘My arse. First thing Monday morning – no later.’

  Heffernan smiled as if butter wouldn’t melt. ‘Lovely seeing you again, DS Blake.’

  The bitch just loved to wind her up, and most of the time she succeeded. In fact, if she was being truthful, everybody wound her up – especially Stick.

  ‘So, you’d better get your arse back up to forensics and find out what that bitch Heffernan has got for us on the hand. And this time don’t come back without the information, or I might have to trade you in for a carrier pigeon.’

  As he turned and headed back up to forensics Stick grinned at her like a voodoo doll.

  A severed hand! It could have been cut off in an industrial accident. The woman could still be alive, lying in a hospital bed somewhere. That’s what they needed to check first – the Accident and Emergency units of the local hospitals, and probably the second-hand shops.

  She was a murder detective for God’s sake, not a missing hand detective. Lost property was another department. Maybe it had been surgically removed and between the theatre and the incinerator someone had stolen it. What the hell was she meant to do with a severed hand? Give her a real down-to-earth murder any day of the week.

  Chapter Two

  She was up to her eyeballs in contract law, but she wasn’t going to complain. The university had been good to her. Because of her age – twenty-one and not a day more – her life experience, her social standing as the wife of a Detective Chief Inspector, the quality of her application form and interview, the exceptional reference Charlie Baxter had given her and her notoriety following the events of the previous month, the Dean of the Law School at King’s College, London had agreed to give her a chance and take her on as a student.

  After a two-week induction she began the first module of the Common Professional Examination (CPE)/Post Graduate Diploma in Law – Contract Law. She decided on the part-time course over two years and – subject to satisfactory progress – she would be allowed to remain on the course. In other words, she couldn’t afford to make any mistakes.

  So she was up to her eyeballs in contractual offers, the acceptance of such offers, competent persons, and exchange of consideration to create mutuality of obligation. Wading through the morass of law was a necessary evil to get to what she really wanted to do – to help the downtrodden, the people who couldn’t fight for themselves, the ones who had been railroaded by the system.

  Of course, Ray and the kids weren’t happy. Oh, they pretended to support her – “I’m right behind you, love”, gave her encouragement – “Way to go, mum!” until they wanted something. Then, it was, “But I don’t know how to do it, mum,” “You’ve always done it, mum,” “You don’t love me anymore, Jerry Kowalski.”

  She knew the emotional blackmail would be bad, but she didn’t know how bad. At night, after they’d all gone to bed, she cried. Not much, just enough to get it out of her system. Giving up crossed her mind many times. It was a stupid idea. What in hell’s name was she doing at her age? Didn’t she have responsibilities? Hadn’t the boat already sailed? Going back to being plain old “mum” and the “wife” of Ray Kowalski was tempting, but she fought that temptation. Jerry Kowalski was someone else now.

  Her mum and dad were helping. Well, her mum anyway. Her mum would look after the house, the kids and that man who wanted to possess all of her. But now he had to let go of a little bit of her – this was something she had to do. Before she’d seen how easy it was for Social Services to take her children away, she’d been content to live her life the way it had rolled out before her. But when they’d taken her babies, something had snapped inside. Now, she was a different person. She was on a personal crusade. And nobody had better get in her way.

  Her children would adapt and love her more. Ray would get used to looking after himself sometimes and she would do what she had to do. Life would carry on, but along a slightly different path.

  When she wasn’t wedged behind and between concrete blocks of law books, she was running Charlie Baxter’s office on Charteris Road in Woodford Green. Of course, she couldn’t be there a lot of the time, so she’d employed a helper – Laura Evans.

  ‘If I employ you,’ she’d said to the young woman at the interview, ‘I want you to be in no doubt that you work for me. It may say “CM Baxter LL.B” on the door, but this is my office and I run it for Charlie. When I become a barrister, I’ll repay your loyalty. For now though, your soul belongs to me. Are you interested in the job?’

  ‘Yes, I’m interested. So, Mr Baxter isn’t my boss?’

  ‘He can ask you to do things as long as it falls within the sphere of running the office – photocopying, word-processing, filing – that type of thing, but you’re to make a brief daily list of everything you do. That way, it’ll be as if I’m there all the time. If he asks you to do something that you think might be beyond your job description, you’re to ring me.’

  ‘Is Mr Baxter your boss?’

  ‘No. Mr Baxter knows I’m the boss. My husband and children know I’m the boss. Do you think you can work for me?’

  ‘You haven’t got one of those weird personality disorders, have you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Okay, I can work for you.’

  ‘And don’t think you can double-cross me by using your body to get close to Charlie. He’ll take advantage, of course. Most men would, but then you’ll be out of a job without a decent reference. So be clear right from the start. You work for me, and only me.’

  ‘Yes, Mrs Kowalski.’

>   ‘Jerry will do just fine.’

  They swapped mobile numbers, and things were working out just fine.

  Of course, she’d told Charlie that Laura was her spy, and that if he tried to turn her, make her into a double agent, or sleep with her then he’d be looking for someone else to keep him on the straight and narrow.

  ‘I know which side my bread’s buttered on,’ he’d said.

  ‘I’m glad, because I quite like you, Charlie Baxter.’

  ‘And I like you, Jerry Kowalski.’

  It was as friends – nothing more. They both knew that. She could never love anyone but Ray Kowalski. He was her soul mate.

  And things were ticking over very nicely, thank you. Charlie had got his life back together and looked nearly human most of the time, his flat didn’t smell anymore and he’d even found himself a girlfriend. Oh, she wasn’t the woman for him. Jerry knew that as soon as she’d been introduced to her, but it would take Charlie some time to work it out.

  Then, something had happened. She’d been working in the office on Friday evening. It was six-thirty. Charlie and Laura had gone home. Well, Charlie was in his flat upstairs if she needed him. She was catching up with everything that had gone on over the previous two days while she’d been at the university, or at home with her head in the law books. Also, she didn’t want to get stuck in the rush hour traffic. Another half-hour and she’d head home herself.

  There was a knock at the glass door. It was dark outside, but in the light above the door she saw a woman wearing a calf-length coat over tracksuit bottoms and new trainers. Her long hair had been hastily bundled on top of her head.

  Jerry mouthed, ‘We’re closed.’

  The woman’s face was streaked with mascara. She kept looking back over her shoulder. ‘Please help me,’ she mouthed.

  Wasn’t this why she was here? She walked to the door and opened it. ‘I’m sorry, we’re closed.’

  ‘They’re after me.’

  ‘You need to go to the police station if someone is . . .’

  ‘They can’t do anything until after I’m dead. It’ll be too late then.’

  She opened the door to let the woman in. It seemed like she had to hear the woman out, and she didn’t want to stand at the door listening to her story. ‘You’d better come in then.’

  ‘Thank you. Have you got somewhere I can hide?’

  ‘This is not a sanctuary, you know. We can go into the office and you can tell me what’s going on.’

  ‘Any chance of a coffee?’

  ‘It’s not a cafe, either,’ but she made the woman a coffee.

  ‘Well?’ she said, once they were sitting in the easy chairs in Charlie’s office.

  ‘They’ve tried to kill me twice.’

  ‘Who has?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  Jerry’s forehead creased up, but she let the woman speak. ‘Go on.’

  ‘The first time, they rigged my gas cooker to explode, but it didn’t work. I thought it was just a fault, so I called out a gas engineer. He said someone had made modifications to the cooker, and that I was lucky to still be in one piece. Then just a while ago, I was driving to the supermarket and my brakes went. One minute I had brakes, the next I didn’t. I smashed into a wall. It was still light then, so I looked under the car. The brake pipes had been cut.’

  Jerry wondered how the woman knew about brake pipes on cars and where to look – she had no idea.

  ‘My dad used to be a mechanic. I know about cars.’

  ‘Okay. But you don’t know who’s trying to kill you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Husband?’

  ‘Got rid of him a couple of years ago.’

  ‘As in divorce?’

  ‘Yes, but I would have murdered him if I thought I could get away with it.’

  ‘Boyfriend?’

  ‘He thinks I’m a supermodel in disguise.’

  ‘Work?’

  ‘I’m the office manager at Winton’s on the industrial estate. I’m a nobody.’

  Jerry could have thrown the woman out, but if she was killed over the weekend, she’d feel responsible. Wasn’t this what she was here to do – help people?

  The police wouldn’t do anything – no crime had been committed.

  She sat in Charlie’s chair and dialled a number.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I have a woman whose ex-husband has made two attempts on her life already.’

  ‘She’s lucky, I have one place. Name?’

  ‘Just a minute.’ She put her hand over the mouthpiece. ‘Name?’

  ‘Lorna Boyce.’

  ‘Lorna Boyce,’ she told the woman.

  ‘You’ll bring her over?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What was that all about?’

  ‘Woman’s Refuge. You need somewhere to hide. I need time to find out what’s going on.’

  ‘You’ll help me?’

  ‘Unless you’d rather I didn’t?’

  ‘No, I need help.’

  ‘I’ll take you to the refuge. You know the story?’

  ‘My ex-husband is trying to kill me?’

  ‘That’s right. Embellish it a bit with a few background details, but don’t go over the top. You can stay there until at least Monday. Don’t make any phone calls. The whole purpose of you being there is that nobody knows where you are.’

  ‘Thanks . . . ?’

  ‘Jerry.’

  ‘You’re saving my life.’

  ‘Let’s hope so.’ She picked up the phone again and dialled Cookie’s number.

  ‘Uh-huh?’

  ‘It’s Jerry. A job for you.’

  ‘Usual payment?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Name?’

  ‘Lorna Boyce. Someone’s trying to kill her. She has no idea who or why.’

  ‘Okay.’

  The call ended.

  ‘Who was that?’ Lorna asked.

  ‘Cookie. She’s going to find out everything there is to find out about you. If you’ve got secrets, Cookie will find them.’

  ‘I don’t think I have any secrets. Apart from . . . I have wet dreams about Brad Pitt.’

  Jerry smiled. ‘What girl doesn’t? Right, shall we go? My car’s just outside. I’ll go out, check there’s no one about and open the door. When I give you the thumbs up, you pull your collar up, duck down as you come out and lie on the back seat until I say it’s safe to sit up.’

  ‘Okay.’

  And that’s what they did.

  Jerry took a roundabout route out of Woodford Green to make sure there was no one following them to the Magdalene Women’s Refuge in Buckhurst Hill.

  Once she’d dropped Lorna off at the refuge, she phoned Charlie and filled him in on what she’d done. Next, she phoned home and let her dad know that she was on her way home. It was twenty past eight.

  As she headed towards Chigwell she wondered what it was all about. Finding out that someone was trying to kill you must be really scary, especially if you didn’t know who or why. Lorna had been lucky. At least the two attempts on her life had failed. Now she knew that someone was trying to kill her. She supposed that many people simply died without ever knowing anything. Maybe that was a better way to go.

  She’d been buried in law books all weekend, and had attacked them again at six this morning. Her mum had got the children off to school by eight-thirty, and Ray had gone to work. She didn’t know whether that was a good idea or not, but he would have gone anyway just to get away from her mum. She knew very well what he was up to. At least he’d get some peace and quiet at the station.

  After her shower, she’d ring Cookie and find out what was going on. Then, she’d ring Lorna and together they’d make a plan. Afterwards, she still had at least a thousand hours of studying to do.

  ***

  ‘What do you think has been carved on the woman’s torso?’ Richards asked, as they made their way down the back stairs to the car park.

  ‘Do you want to know abou
t the dancing girls who are keeping my crystal ball warm?’

  ‘You don’t know any dancing girls.’

  ‘Did I ever tell you about the time I was a detective in the Dancing Girl Investigation Team – DGIT for short?’

  Richards laughed. ‘I bet mum doesn’t know.’

  ‘Your mother was the lead dancing girl. I investigated her personally.’

  They climbed in the pool car and set off to Cheshunt along the A170. Richards drove as usual.

  ‘Are we ever going to go to Wembley to get that briefcase?’ she asked after a while.

  It had been exactly a month since they’d taken the train to Paddington Station to reclaim the briefcase identified on the left luggage ticket. The woman in the left luggage office on Platform 8 had informed them that it would have been sent to the Excess Baggage (Airports) Ltd warehouse located in Wembley ten years previously.

  The plan had then been to travel up to Wembley on the following Tuesday, but as usual life had got in the way. Since the horrific and untimely demise of Jack’s nanny – Alicia Mae Carter – during their trip to America, they needed a new nanny. But as it turned out, Angie had decided to go back to work.

  ‘Are you sure?’ he and Richards said in unison.

  They were in the kitchen sitting at the table having an evening snack of cheese, pickled onions and crackers when Angie had revealed her plans to them.

  Digby was waiting patiently between Parish and Richards for scraps that anybody was willing to give him. He particularly liked broken crackers with lumps of blue cheese on them.

  ‘I’m sure,’ she said. ‘I need to get on with my life. That post-natal depression was the worst thing I’ve ever experienced . . .’

  Richards slipped Digby a cheese cracker even though Angie had said not to feed him while they were eating. ‘Including being shot?’

  ‘Including being shot. The depression turned me into a crazy person. I never want to go through anything like that again.’

  Jed didn’t say anything. They hadn’t spoken about the possibility of having another child, and he wasn’t about to broach the subject at the kitchen table with Richards sitting there.

  ‘What about Jack?’ he said.

  ‘The hospital have a crèche. I’ll work days to start with, and then go from there.’ She looked in his eyes and put her hand over his. ‘Tell me you’re okay with me going back.’