Deep Cover (9 page)

Albert Road revealed itself to be a residential street lined with solid Victorian terraced housing, but was interspersed with post-Second World War development on the southern side, which, as very frequently in London and other cities in the UK, indicated where bombs had fallen during the Blitz. The Halkier household was, like the houses around it, a clear survivor of Nazi bombs: brick built, white-painted around the front bay window, and a black-gloss-painted door with a brass knocker. A small front garden of just four feet separated the house from the pavement. Vicary pushed open the low metal gate, which squeaked on dry hinges as he did so, and was, whether by design or not, he thought, a very efficient burglar deterrent. He rapped on the brass knocker, employing the traditional police officer's knock . . . tap, tap . . . tap. The door was opened rapidly by a slender, healthy looking man who Vicary assessed to be in his late sixties.

‘What!' the man demanded, aggressively.

‘Police.' Vicary showed the man his ID. ‘No trouble, just seeking information.'

‘Oh . . . I see.' The man instantly relaxed. ‘It can get bad round here, kids knocking on doors and then running away. Dare say it could be worse. I moved the old knocker higher up the door but they can still reach it.' The man spoke with a warm London accent. ‘And if it's not kids, it's folk trying to sell me double glazing.'

‘Well, I'm not either one,' Vicary replied softly. Behind the man he saw a neat, well-ordered hallway with everything just so, and the smell of furniture polish from within the house reached him. He stood on the threshold, but still out of doors. ‘Can I ask, are you Mr Halkier?'

‘Yes, that I am. Joseph Halkier. Why?'

‘Did you report your daughter as a missing person some ten years ago?'

‘Yes . . .' The man's voice seemed to rise in its pitch. ‘Yes, our Rosemary. Why?'

‘I'm afraid I may have some bad news for you.'

Joseph Halkier stiffened. ‘After this length of time, there can be no bad news. If it's about our Rosemary it can only be good news, even if her dear old body has been found that's still good news, because it's better than not knowing.' He stepped aside. ‘You'd better come in, sir.'

Vicary stepped over the threshold and wiped his shoes on the ‘welcome' mat just inside the doorway. Joseph Halkier, dressed in a blue sweater, jeans and sports shoes – which made him appear younger than his likely years – shut the door behind Vicary with a gentle click and asked him to go into the first room on his right, which transpired to be the living room of the home. It was furnished with a 1950s vintage three-piece suite, heavy 1930s vintage wooden furniture and a dark-brown carpet. The room had a surprisingly musty smell, and that, and the absence of any form of heating, suggested to Vicary that the room was designated to be the ‘best' room of the house, used only on special occasions or to entertain official callers. The day-to-day living in the house – including the television, radio and music player and the heating – was likely to be confined to the rear of the house. Joseph Halkier followed Vicary into the room and indicated the armchairs and the settee, and said, in a sombre, resigned tone, ‘Please do take a seat, sir.'

Vicary sat in the armchair which stood furthest from the door so that he had his back to the window as dusk enveloped the street. Halkier sat opposite him in a matching armchair. He remained silent but stared intently at Vicary.

‘No easy way of telling you, Mr Halkier, but a body has been found. It is a body which matches the description of Rosemary but . . . but I have to say that the identity has to be confirmed.'

Joseph Halkier's head sagged forward. He held it like that for a few moments before recovering. ‘I'm glad she isn't here . . .'

‘Sorry?' The reaction astounded Vicary.

‘Oh . . . no . . . sorry . . .' Halkier stammered, ‘don't get me wrong. I mean my wife, Mrs Halkier.'

‘I see.'

‘She died a year ago without knowing what had happened to Rosemary, but she always lived in hope. Even just before she died she would say things like, “She'll be in a hospital somewhere, not knowing who she is . . . lost all her memory, that's why she hasn't contacted us. She'll phone soon, you'll see, just you wait and see . . . it happens all the time.” I never said anything but . . . after a week I knew we'd never see her alive again. It was so not like her to not let us know where she was. But the identification will be positive. Where was she . . .' Halkier paused, ‘where was her body found?'

‘Her body – if it is hers – was found on Hampstead Heath.'

‘The Heath.' Halkier sighed. ‘All these years and she was so close . . . as the crow flies . . . ten miles, perhaps a little more. That's close considering where she could be, like the north of Scotland, but at least my wife died before she was found. She never gave up hope.' He drew a deep breath. ‘So, whereabouts on the Heath?'

‘Close to the Spaniards Road entrance.'

‘Spaniards Road?'

‘Yes. If you go to that entrance you might probably see the remains of blue-and-white tape strung about the bushes. There will be a hollow just inside the shrubs, hidden from view.'

‘A hollow . . . a shallow grave?'

‘Yes,' Vicary replied solemnly, ‘it was a shallow grave for someone, a female, possibly mid-thirties, just five feet tall.'

‘That's Rosemary.'

‘And who has given birth.'

‘Again . . . that's Rosemary.'

‘We still need something to make a positive identification.'

‘Such as?'

‘A full-face photograph, the name and address of her dentist . . . something with her DNA on it . . . a sample of your DNA, a sample of her children's DNA.'

‘You can have all of them from me, but her ex-husband has custody of the children.'

‘Alright, that is not a problem. I will arrange for someone to call tomorrow to collect a sample of your DNA.'

‘Very well, I'll also try and find something with her DNA on it.'

‘Thank you.'

‘I'll wait in . . . then I'll go up to the Heath – Spaniards Road entrance?'

‘Yes.'

‘I'll buy some flowers, then go up there.'

‘Yes,' Vicary replied softly for want of something to say. ‘Yes, I can understand you wanting to do that.'

‘Dare say I'll be going up quite often from now on. What father has two graves to visit for one daughter? I'll visit the one she was in and the one she's going in.'

Vicary remained silent for a moment and then asked, ‘Can you tell me anything about her disappearance?'

‘Went out . . . leaving the children here, and she didn't return. That's it.'

‘She was living here at the time – not with her husband?'

‘No. She was divorced. We were pleased about that, her husband was no good, a real waster . . . he probably still is, and I fear for my grandchildren with him for a father. They live with him in Clacton . . . Clacton.' Halkier shook his head slowly. ‘He does summer work in the amusement arcades and on the dodgem cars. He lives for the summer, all those bright lights and machines making noises, and in the winter he just mopes about. In his head he's about six years old. Eventually Rose left him and brought the children back here, and she and my wife looked after them. They settled into the school and after a bit of a slow start their school work improved no end. Rose got interim custody of the children, pending the final divorce settlement, and got a job, a telephonist in a call centre; modern day sweatshop she always used to call it but at least it was a wage coming in.'

‘Was she seeing anyone at the time she disappeared?'

‘I think she was but we never met him. I didn't like the sound of him.'

‘Oh?'

‘Lived well south of London, large house, but was very cagey about what he did for a living . . . always a bad sign.'

‘Indeed.'

‘But that was our Rosemary, lovely looking girl, just five feet nothing but . . . oh so beautiful . . . and such a personality, men really went for her. She could have had her pick but would she pick a good man? Just a halfwit who likes amusement arcades and a dodgy sounding character who lives in a huge house in Surrey, and won't tell her how he makes his bundle – total, total, total shtum about that bit. Dodgy.'

‘Sounds it.'

‘But it was more than casual; she would go to live with him for a week at a time, longer sometimes. Then she took a bag of clothes and just didn't come back. She said she went to work each day from his house.'

‘I was going to ask . . .'

‘Yes, well, once her husband found out she had been reported missing, he came up from Clacton on the first old train he could get and took his children back with him. I do fear for them with him as a father.'

‘You can't do anything, sir.'

‘I know. Just exchange cards at Christmas now; send the children birthday cards as well, and things like book tokens instead of cash, but that's all I can do. I'll go for a pint tonight – that's what I do when I have things to think about, walk to the boozer, then walk the streets.'

‘Don't like it.' The man screwed the cigar stub into the large ashtray. ‘The Old Bill have found her, that's what they called to tell me. They weren't interested in Irish Mickey Dalkeith, the little toerag; it was that old brass they found under his body. I know it was a bad call telling him to get rid of her body; I should have had more loaf. The Bill just called to tell me they are going to pull me for it.'

‘You don't know that.' The woman sat on the settee with her legs folded up beneath her and pulled on a cigarette held in a long, ivory holder. ‘You weren't even there, was you?'

‘I didn't need to be . . . do me a favour . . . I didn't need to be. I gave the nod didn't I?'

‘Have it your own way, but I reckon you're panicking for nothing.'

‘Yeah . . . well it ain't your bonce on the old block is it?'

The woman, sensing she was caged with an angry tiger, picked up a copy of
Cosmopolitan
and hid behind it.

Harry Vicary walked from the Halkier house to Leyton High Road and crossed it at a pelican crossing, and continued down winding Longthorne Road, past the hospital and turned left into Leytonstone High Road. He crossed the high road, also at a pelican crossing. The traffic being heavy by then, and in his opinion the crossings were the only safe way to cross the road after dusk had turned to night; like most police officers who had attended numerous road accidents, Vicary had developed a strong sense of caution. He turned off the main road into quieter Lister Road, enjoying the walk and the peace, and the sense of space that it afforded. He chose to follow Bushwood Road, with thickly wooded Wanstead flats to his right. At that moment, the flats looked bleak and sinister, with the tall, leafless trees standing motionless in the dark, while to his left the homely lights burned in the houses. He turned into Hartley Road and walked up to the front door of the house, which was of similar vintage and design to Joseph Halkier's home. He let himself in and was instantly aware of the silence within the house, and he knew something was amiss.

He found his wife in the front room. She was sitting upright on the settee, quite still but not in any form of resting position. Her eyes were wide open yet she seemed to be registering nothing at all. Vicary groaned. She had been doing so well, so very, very well. They both had. The gin bottle lay on the floor at her feet. Empty. He took his wife and gently pulled her off the settee and laid her on the floor in the recovery position, lest she vomit in her condition, or later, when she had fallen asleep. He took off his coat and phoned his wife's place of work, explaining that she had been taken ill and because of this she would not be at work tomorrow, and probably not the day after either. He placed a frozen pizza in the microwave and ate it quietly with a marked lack of enthusiasm. After he had eaten he searched their house. One bottle would mean, two, or three, or four . . . and they would be somewhere she had not used before. Room by room, cupboard by cupboard he searched the house and found them: two bottles of Gilbey's, as he had expected, in a place she had not used before. On this occasion he found them under the eaves in the attic conversion. Beneath the table by the wall was a small one-foot-square doorway used to access the wiring of the house. He opened up the door and one of the bottles fell into his hand; the other was to be seen lying on its side. Both were full and unopened. He emptied the contents into the sink.

Then, like Joseph Halkier, he went out to walk the streets, but unlike Joseph Halkier, he could not, would not, dared not, seek comfort and refuge in a pub.

THREE

J
osie Pinder blinked and drew on the cigarette. ‘Sorry,' she mumbled, pulling the Bakelite ashtray across the yellow Formica surface of the kitchen table. ‘This is a bit early for me.' She pulled the towelling robe around her.

‘You'll be able to get back to bed in a while.' DC Brunnie spoke softly but firmly. ‘Tell us about the girl in Irish Mickey's room, then you can snuggle up to your mate for a bit more sleep.'

‘No, not so lucky, sunshine, I've got to go and see the Gestapo this morning.' She glanced at the inexpensive battery operated travel clock which sat on the narrow window sill. ‘In fact, it's probably a good thing that you did bang on the door.'

‘The Gestapo?'

‘The dole office – if I miss an appointment, they stop my benefit. And they enjoy doing it. They're the bottom of the pile, you see, so they need someone beneath them; that's what Sonya says, you see.'