Nothing but Trouble (23 page)

He blows on the surface of his tea before he takes a sip. He’s glad of the change in the weather, of the grey skies and chilly
morning air. It suits his mood better. The sunshine belongs to Cadiz, to the towering castles of San Sebastian and Santa Catalina,
to La Caleta beach and the boulevard. There is no place for it here.

It is seven o’clock in the morning and the café is busy. It is mainly men who are sitting at the tables, leafing through their
tabloids, stocking up on calories before the day’s work begins. There is a low hum of conversation, the tinny sound of a radio
and the steady scraping of knives and forks against plates. His eyes quickly scan the room, looking for features that might
ring a bell
with him. Although there is no one here he remembers, there is a familiarity about these men, about their tough East End faces,
their stocky bodies and confident demeanour. They are comfortable in their own skin, devoid of self-doubt. Their lives are
solid in a way his has rarely been, defined by the knowledge of who they are, of where they belong. Had things been different,
he could have been one of them.

He feels the cold finger of the past trailing up his spine. He tries to shake it off, but it’s too late. He’s a young boy
again. How old? Six or seven, he thinks. He’s sitting here with his mother, the long sleeves of her blue cardigan pulled down
to hide the bruises on her arms. She is silent. Her eyes are empty, devoid of all emotion. Does she know how things are going
to turn out? Perhaps she doesn’t care. His father has already squeezed her dry of all hope and trust and love. She has nothing
left to give, nothing left to say.

No, he doesn’t wish to dwell on these things. He blinks hard, trying to erase the images from his mind. He doesn’t need old
ghosts whispering in his ear. How he became the man he is today is irrelevant. Only the present matters now. He glances around
the room again, searching for distraction. He watches the guy behind the counter frying eggs. He listens to the shrill hiss
of the coffee machine.

The door opens and a bull-necked man walks in with an attractive willowy blonde. Cops. He knows it instantly. Even out of
uniform they have a look about them, an aura. He feels a frisson of alarm, a tightening in his chest, but quickly breathes
again. There is nothing to be concerned about. They’re not interested in him. Cowan Road station isn’t far away; they’ve only
come here to grab a coffee on their way to work.

Work. That is what he should be thinking about. Everything has gone smoothly to date. The first part of his task has been
completed, but he can’t afford to relax. Every potential problem has to be examined, every obstruction removed. There is a
thin line between success and failure, one wrong step and he could still …

A dull throbbing has started up in his temples. He rubs at his forehead. He never gets headaches in Cadiz. It is only when
he’s away that the old affliction returns to haunt him. In Spain, anchored by Anna, by his daily routine, he is always calm
and contented. He stirs his tea, just for something to do. Soon, he’ll be home soon. In the meantime he has to focus, to concentrate
on the job in hand. His freedom came at a price and the bill still has to be paid.

Harry took a shower, ate some breakfast and then went downstairs and opened up the office. The first thing he did was to call
Snakey Harris, a guy with a garage in Dalston, and persuade him – or rather bribe him – to get out of bed, go round to the
flat in Hackney, pick up the Mini Cooper and bring it over to Kellston. Snakey was the kind of mechanic who always had spare
keys for any make of car.

‘I’ll see you in an hour then,’ Harry said.

‘Two,’ Snakey said. ‘And that’s stretching it. What’s the registration?’

Harry didn’t have a clue. He racked his brains, thinking back to the Fox, when he’d been standing beside the car with Jess,
but still couldn’t remember the number plate. ‘Sorry, but there can’t be that many bright red Mini Coopers parked in the street.’

Snakey made a snorting sound. ‘You’d better be right, man, or you’ll be paying for a fancy lawyer on top of everything else.’

‘Just give me a call if you have any problems.’

‘You can bet on it.’

After ensuring that Jess would have transport, Harry raided
the computer room and requisitioned a laptop that she could use until she got herself a new one. He also dug out an old mobile
phone and started charging it up. He might not be top of anyone’s list when it came to emotional support, but at least he
could help with the practicalities.

Lorna and Mac arrived at eight thirty. Mac, predictably, raised his eyes to the ceiling on hearing the news, as if Jess had
put a match to the building herself.

‘Didn’t I tell you? Wherever that girl goes, trouble’s never far behind.’

‘Have a heart,’ Harry said. ‘She’s lost everything, her home, her clothes, all her worldly possessions.’

‘Poor girl,’ Lorna said sympathetically, peeling off her jacket and draping it neatly over the back of the chair. She gave
Mac a glare. ‘And I don’t know why you’re so down on her. You’re hardly a stranger to trouble yourself.’

Mac, sensing a lecture coming on, gave a shrug of his burly shoulders and headed for his office. ‘Some of us have got work
to do.’

‘Don’t mind him,’ Lorna said to Harry. ‘I think it’s great that you’re helping her out. People need friends at a time like
this. Let’s make a list of what she might need and I can nip down the high street when we’re done.’

‘Thanks,’ Harry replied. ‘You’re a star.’

Within twenty minutes, Lorna had compiled a comprehensive list of what she considered to be essentials. This included underwear,
clothing, tights, socks, shoes, make-up, an array of toiletries – shampoo, conditioner, cleanser, toner, moisturiser and cotton
wool – and a toothbrush and comb.

‘Right,’ she said, surveying the page. ‘I think that’s it. Anything else spring to mind?’

Harry gazed down at the list of items. ‘You women take a lot of maintenance.’

Lorna laughed. ‘These are just the basics, sweetie. But I guess she can pick up the rest as she goes along. Now, what about
size for the clothes? I’ll just get a few T-shirts and a pair of joggers. Oh, and perhaps a sweater. It’s turned a bit cold
today. What is she – a ten, a twelve?’

He stared blankly back at her. ‘You’ve met her, haven’t you?’

‘That was years ago, Harry. And it was only the once.’

‘Ah,’ he said. ‘Well, she’s about five foot five, slim and er …’

Lorna gave a sigh. ‘Try and think of someone who’s about the same size. Debbie, Elaine, the girl who works in the newsagent’s,
an actress off
EastEnders
?’

Harry, who never watched
EastEnders,
had to peruse his brain bank for women closer to home. ‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘I suppose she’s about the same size as Debbie. Only
Jess has a bit more, you know, on top.’

‘How much more?’

Harry frowned, not entirely comfortable with discussing breast size with Lorna. ‘A few inches,’ he said vaguely.

Lorna shook her head. ‘Oh, don’t worry about it. I’ll just buy stretchy stuff. Can you take care of reception while I’m gone?’

‘Sure,’ Harry said, rising to his feet. ‘And take the money out of petty cash. I’ll square up with you later.’

As soon as Lorna had gone, Harry returned to his own office, leaving the door open so he could hear if anyone came in off
the street. He had another call to make, this time to the Fire Service. He didn’t know anyone at the Hackney station, but
he did have a contact in Shoreditch.

Jeff Bryant finally came on the line after he had been on hold for five minutes. ‘Hey, Harry mate. Sorry to keep you waiting.
Long time no see. How are you doing?’

They had a quick catch-up, exchanging the usual banter and agreeing that a drink was well overdue. Once the preliminaries
had been completed, Harry explained about the fire at Jess’s flat.
‘I was wondering if you could check as to whether it was accidental or not.’

‘I’ll make a few calls, see what I can find out. If it’s suspicious it will have gone to the Fire Investigation Unit. I’ll
ring you back later.’

‘Thanks. I owe you one.’

‘You can buy me that pint sometime.’

Harry put the phone down. There was nothing he could do now but sit and wait. He glanced out of the window. The rain had eased
off a little, but the sky remained dark and gloomy. There was no sign of Snakey Harris, but that was hardly surprising. The
traffic was bad, the cars and buses crawling slowly along Station Road.

Mac walked out of his office, put his hands on his hips and stared at the empty reception desk. Frowning, he looked over his
shoulder at Harry. ‘Is anyone planning on doing any work round here today?’

‘I’m sure she won’t be long.’

‘Jesus,’ he muttered. ‘Why does that woman feel the need to mother every waif and stray she comes across?’

Harry grinned, silently thanking God for Lorna’s maternal instincts. Left to his own devices he wouldn’t have had much of
a clue as to what to buy. At least Jess would have something to wear when she woke up.

Before Mac could get the hump about two members of Mackenzie, Lind being overly preoccupied with something other than the
business, Harry reached across his desk, picked up the file on Aimee Locke and flipped it open. It made for slim reading.
Apart from the cleaner, and the one visit from her crimper – the jury was still out on whether that was personal or professional
– there had been no other activity. Still, it was early days. The surveillance had only just begun.

Harry rubbed at his eyes and suppressed a yawn. Although
the lights in the Locke house had gone out at midnight, he had stayed in Walpole Close until one o’clock. He’d only been home
for a few hours when the call had come from the hospital. He was due to take over the watch again at five. If he was going
to stay awake tonight, he’d have to dose himself up with black coffee.

He put the Locke file to one side and reached into his in-tray, retrieving Jess’s file on the Minnie Bright case. Last night
he had gone through it from cover to cover and found not one jot of evidence that might point to Donald Peck’s conviction
being unsafe. Yet something was still niggling in the back of his mind. Slowly, he started leafing through the pages again.

DI Valerie Middleton strode out through the doors on to the wet steps of the courthouse. Here she stopped for a moment, ran
the palm of her hand over the top of her head to wipe away the rain and took a few deep satisfied breaths. That was one more
predator off the streets, although she was realistic enough to know that the space wouldn’t remain vacant for long. Still,
at least the women of Kellston could sleep a little more soundly tonight knowing that Colin Faulkner was safely behind bars.
Twelve rapes that they knew about, but there were probably more. Her only regret was that they hadn’t caught him sooner.

As she put up her umbrella, she was joined on the steps by DI Simon Wetherby. He was based in King’s Cross – another of Faulkner’s
hunting grounds – and the two of them had worked together on the case for the past three months.

‘Good result,’ he said, smiling widely.

‘Not too shabby,’ she agreed. The jury, having slept on it overnight, had come straight back into court with a verdict of
guilty.

‘Fancy a drink?’

‘What, now?’ Valerie glanced at her watch and saw that it was ten past ten. ‘Tempting, but it’s a bit early for me.’

‘Tonight then,’ he said. ‘Come on, I can’t celebrate on my own. And we deserve a reward after all the hours we’ve put in.’

Valerie couldn’t argue with that, but still she hesitated. Unless her female intuition was failing her, she suspected that
Simon was after more than just a pint of bitter. Although she had grown to both respect and like him in the months they’d
been working together, she couldn’t see it going any further. She was still involved with Harry Lind, albeit in an ill-defined,
confusing kind of way, and didn’t need any more complications in her life.

‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘I’m not really sure what I’m doing. Maybe some other time.’

‘Well, the offer’s open. Give me a call if you ever find yourself at a loose end.’

She nodded. ‘Thanks, I will.’

‘Well, it’s been a blast. We should do it again.’ He touched her briefly on the shoulder. ‘Take care of yourself, Valerie.’

She watched as he jogged down the steps, a small twinge of regret tugging at her insides. It was odd to think of not seeing
him every day; they’d spent so much time in each other’s company that she’d grown used to having him around. Wetherby was
a tall, broad-shouldered guy, confident and amusing, although perhaps a touch too handsome for his own good. He also had a
reputation for being a ladies’ man. Not that you could always trust station gossip. She wondered if she’d made a mistake in
turning him down, but instantly pushed the thought away.

Switching her attention to her phone, Valerie discovered that she’d missed a couple of calls from her sergeant, Kieran Swann.
Now
there
was a man who could irritate the hell out of her without even trying. He’d left a message, but she didn’t bother listening
to it. Instead she rang him straight back.

‘It’s me. What’s happening?’

‘We’ve got the body of a young woman, guv, on the Mansfield. Strangled by the looks of it.’

Valerie felt the familiar sinking sensation she always got when hearing that a life had been prematurely snuffed out. ‘Okay,’
she said with a sigh. ‘I’m on my way. Tell me where you are.’

She walked quickly to the car park, got into her black BMW and twenty-five minutes later was driving down the main thoroughfare
of the Mansfield Estate. She needn’t have bothered asking Swann for the exact location, as a large crowd had already gathered
around the entrance to Haslow House. ‘Ghouls,’ she murmured. What was it that drew people to murder scenes? Part of it was
just natural curiosity, but there was something more. It was a kind of morbid fascination, she thought, a desire to share
vicariously in the horror of it all.