Dark Mirror (8 page)

Towards 2 a.m. her phone rang.

‘Kathy?’ It was Nicole, sounding weary. ‘Rafferty left the army six years ago. He was in the Second Battalion, Light Infantry, along with Crouch. They served together for four years, in Iraq and Northern Ireland, and on the mainland. There was one incident of interest, in Belfast. A girl accused the two of them of rape. Later she withdrew her complaint and the charges were dropped. I’ll email you the details. You’ve got the later assault and prostitution charges against Rafferty from the PNC, I take it?’

‘Yes. That’s fantastic, Nicole. I’m really grateful.’

‘Make it up to me by coming to Prague, Kathy.’

‘No chance, I’m afraid. It’s already Friday. Next time.’

‘That’s the thing though. There may not be one.’

She hung up and ran a bath, then lay down on her bed, unable to sleep.

When the green digits on her alarm clock reached 5:00 she got up and dressed and took the lift down to the ground floor to get her car.

The forecourt to the accident and emergency entrance was alive, ambulances moving steadily through, the steady pulse of trauma beating through the night. Pip was dressed, standing talking to a nurse at the counter. She gave Kathy an anxious smile.

‘Hi!’ Kathy beamed. ‘How are you?’

‘Fine. Doctor’s just told me I can go. They need the bed.’

‘Great. I’ll give you a lift home. No after-effects then?’

Pip shook her head. ‘It wears off after about eight hours, apparently. Only, I can’t remember much.’

‘Never mind.’

‘Brock was here.’

‘Really? When?’

‘He left half an hour ago. He took a statement. He was very nice about it all.’

They walked together to the front doors. ‘Oh, it’s still dark,’ Pip said. ‘I thought it was morning.’

‘Nearly. What did you tell Brock?’

‘About going into the pub. I stood near Rafferty at the bar, trying to get myself a drink, but it was packed. He was talking to another guy, and I heard him mention Marion’s name.’

‘You’re sure?’

‘Yes. I tried to get closer, and suddenly he turned around and started chatting me up. That’s when I phoned you—I told him I was waiting for a friend.’

They got into Kathy’s car and set off along Uxbridge Road.

‘Go on.’

‘They saw I didn’t have a drink and insisted on buying me one. I know, it was stupid, but what could I do?’

‘He said you spoke to him first.’

‘Yes, that’s what Brock told me, but it wasn’t like that. Rafferty pushed himself into my face, very close. He wouldn’t let me move. The other one too. It was suffocating in there, and deafening. You couldn’t hear yourself think.’

‘What happened then?’

‘I don’t know. That’s all I can remember.’

‘Maybe it’ll come back to you. Do you remember anyone else nearby, anyone who might have seen what happened?’

She shook her head.

When they reached the house that Pip shared, she said, ‘I’ll just get changed and come back with you.’

‘Not today, Pip. You have a long weekend. Take it easy.’

‘I’m not suspended, am I?’

‘Nobody’s suggested that,’ Kathy said.
Not yet
.

Brock was already at the Ealing police station when she arrived. He was reading through a file, a mug of coffee and a bacon sandwich at his elbow. ‘Ah, Kathy. Feel a bit better for a good night’s sleep?’

‘Great. How are we doing?’

‘We start interviewing at 8.30.’ He checked his watch.

‘I’ve got something on their military service.’ She showed him Nicole’s email.

‘Good.’ He read. ‘All part of a pattern, isn’t it?’

‘Any luck with the prints?’

‘Yes, he certainly handled those pills. But that’s all we have. We haven’t found any witnesses, and Pip can’t remember anything useful.’

‘Then there’s me.’

‘Yes, there’s you.’ He patted the report in front of him. ‘I’ve been reading your statement to the duty inspector last night.’

‘And?’

‘You won’t be taking part in the interviews this morning.’

‘But I think—’

He shook his head. ‘Bren’s coming in. He’ll do it with a sergeant from this station.’

There was a rap on the door and a uniformed inspector stepped in. She introduced herself and shook hands, then said, ‘We are honoured this morning.’

For a moment Kathy thought she was making a sarcastic remark about them, but the woman added, ‘Julian Fenwick has arrived.’

Julian Fenwick was well known as a high-profile criminal defence lawyer, often seen on TV news bites at the shoulders of notorious crooks, whose guilt and simultaneous release seemed to be guaranteed by his presence.

‘He’s representing Rafferty?’

‘Both of them, apparently. He’s with them now.’

‘How did they manage that, I wonder?’

After briefing Bren, Brock took his place beside Kathy to watch the interviews on closed-circuit TV.

They took Rafferty first, slumped beside his lawyer opposite the two detectives. Bren opened the interview, inviting Rafferty to describe the events of the previous evening. Rafferty replied in a careless monotone. He and his friend had been having a quiet drink together when a young, attractive woman approached them, acting flirtatiously, and wondering if they could get her a drink through the scrum of people at the bar. Soon she had begun to act in a way that suggested she was drunk. When her behaviour became more erratic they agreed to her request to give her a lift home. She collapsed as they got to their van, at which point another woman appeared, claiming she was a police officer, and attacking Rafferty’s friend.

Bren and the other detective picked away at the details of this account without making much headway, until Bren suddenly produced the plastic packet of Klonopin pills. Without telling Rafferty that his prints had been found on it, he invited him to agree that he’d been seen trying to dispose of it at the scene in the lane.

Rafferty stared at the packet, then at his lawyer, then at Bren. ‘Can I have a closer look?’ he asked, and Kathy was aware of Brock at her side stirring and murmuring, ‘Oh dear.’

Bren passed over the packet inside its transparent plastic evidence pouch.

‘Yes, you’re right. I’d forgotten about that.’

‘Do you know what the pills are?’ Bren asked.

Unruffled, Rafferty said, ‘E? I’m just guessing.’

‘You think those are ecstasy tablets?’

‘That’s what I assumed.’

‘Where did you obtain them?’

‘She gave them to me, the girl, in the pub.’

‘But her fingerprints aren’t on the packet. Yours are.’

‘Well it’s true. When she started acting pissed she pressed them into my hand and asked me to look after them for her.’

Bren made him repeat this several times.

‘So when the other woman said she was a copper, I remembered them and threw them away.’

‘Oh dear, oh dear,’ Brock grumbled.

When it came to his turn, Crouch had less to say. He had witnessed the girl approaching Rafferty, and had given his friend a hand, just trying to help, but he hadn’t seen any pills. He was the one who had bought her drink, and he could guarantee it hadn’t been tampered with when he put it in her hand.

When Bren finally brought the second interview to an end, Julian Fenwick, who had said almost nothing up to this point, spoke. ‘Now that we’re off the record, Inspector, I wonder if I might have a quiet word with you? Just the two of us.’ He didn’t quite wink up at the camera, but Kathy sensed that he might have.

‘What can I do for you?’ Bren said as they sat down again at the table.

‘There are some disturbing features about this case that I feel I should bring to your attention, DI Gurney, in the interests of avoiding wasting police time and resources.’

‘Go on.’

‘The arresting officer was DI Kathy Kolla, yes? She isn’t with you today?’

‘What of it?’

‘Are you aware that she engineered that absurd little cameo in the Three Bells?’

‘How do you mean?’

‘She sent DC Gallagher in to approach my clients, while she waited outside in her car; she then appeared miraculously in the lane at the critical moment. Obviously she arranged the whole thing. It is the most blatant attempt at entrapment I’ve ever encountered.’

‘If you have any criticism . . .’

Fenwick raised his hands. ‘This is completely off the record, yes? For the moment, at any rate. Do you also know that she met Mr Rafferty two days ago, at his home, in the course of investigating the tragic death of his stepdaughter, Marion Summers—who was poisoned, so I understand, possibly by someone interfering with her drink?’

‘Yes?’

‘It is a cliché, is it not, that murders are committed by close relatives of the deceased? Close family are the first suspects, yes? Stepfathers of beautiful young women most of all. Ergo, Mr Rafferty is guilty as sin. Sadly, though, there is no evidence to support this. Therefore an enthusiastic officer—an
over-
enthusiastic officer—might be tempted to create some.’

Bren started to say something angrily, but Fenwick waved his hand at him. ‘No, no, please, I’m making no accusations. At this stage. I’ve met DI Kolla. She has an interesting record. Impressive, but not really a team player—that was my impression. Bit of a chip on the shoulder? And newly made up to inspector, and no doubt anxious to justify . . .’

Bren was getting to his feet.

‘Please don’t take offence, Inspector Gurney,’ Fenwick said smoothly, rising also. ‘I’m trying to do us both a favour. I suspect the Crown Prosecution Service will be looking very hard at this one.’ He held out his hand. ‘Good morning to you.’

Bren ignored the hand, opened the door and stood aside.

‘What do you think, Kathy?’ Brock said.

‘I think he has a point,’ she said heavily.

‘Well, I’m afraid he’s right about the CPS. Come on.’ He got stiffly to his feet. ‘You’ve got a murder to solve.’

K
athy sat at her desk, furious with herself. Across the way, Pip’s empty chair was a vivid accusation.
You screwed up
, it said.
You let Pip down
. The worst of it was that Rafferty would now be so much harder to touch. How had he got Julian Fenwick to come out at the crack of dawn? It was just one of many mysteries. What did she really know about Marion Summers, after all?

She stared at the pile of paper on her desk, lacking the stomach to begin. On the top was a printout of calls to and from Marion’s mobile. Pip had been working on it, marking it with coloured marker pens and careful notes in girlish handwriting, like a school assignment. Yellow meant the university, it seemed—calls to the departmental office, to the university library, to her supervisor Dr da Silva. Green meant other work-related, Kathy guessed—the British Library, the Family Records Centre at Finsbury, the National Archives at Kew. Then there was blue for
various services—a minicab service, a restaurant, a hair salon in NW3. Why there?

But the most interesting bunch were highlighted in day-glo pink, and seemed to be private numbers. K. Rafferty in Ealing was her mother’s home number of course. Then there was S. Warrender in Notting Hill, called regularly up until five weeks before. T. Flowers and E. Blake were persistent numbers, and also—was this a mistake? Kathy was looking at the last of the six pink numbers, against which the name entered was Marion Summers.

She checked and had it confirmed. Marion had been making regular calls to a second mobile in her own name—that she’d bought and given to someone else, perhaps?

The last call Marion made before she died was to T. Flowers. Kathy checked through the record. There had been sixteen calls between them in the previous month, the final one being a call from Marion at 8.16 on the morning of her death. Kathy wished she knew what they’d talked about. Had Marion spoken of someone following her? Had they planned to meet later that day?

E. Blake was interesting too, the pattern of calls odd. Three weeks earlier, E. Blake had sent Marion a stream of text messages, dozens of them. She replied at first, then stopped, but E. Blake went on, bombarding her with calls for a further four days.

Kathy put the phone records aside and considered the papers stacked beneath from the previous day, plus a new heap alongside that had arrived overnight. She made a coffee and got to work, trying to cull out the stuff she could leave till later.

After half an hour she had dealt with the most urgent items, and returned to the phone records. She made a start on checking the names, and established that the E. Blake number was registered to a Mrs Eleanor Blake, living in Manchester. After being assured that her son wasn’t in trouble with the police, Mrs Blake explained that it was he, Andy, who had the use of the phone, and that she
would be very pleased if Kathy could persuade him to cut down on the number of calls he was making, which were costing her a fortune. ‘He’s a student at the university,’ she explained. ‘Do you want his address?’

Kathy tried the number of S. Warrender in Notting Hill a couple of times and was diverted directly to a message service. T. Flowers wasn’t answering his or her phone either. There was another number that interested her, that of a public phone in Leicester Square. A call had been made from there on the afternoon before Marion was poisoned. There were probably surveillance cameras nearby if she cared to look, but most likely it was just a friend out shopping, Kathy thought. It was all a matter of how far you went, how far you could afford to go, with loose threads everywhere. If you plucked at them all you’d eventually unravel the whole of London, discover what every citizen had been up to on the fatal day.

She looked again at the list in front of her and made up her mind. It was time she found out about Marion’s student friends.

•

The address was a narrow brick terrace in a backstreet in Southwark, not very far from the student flats in Stamford Street where Marion had once lived. Her knock was answered by a big beefy young man, unshaven, who yawned and scratched his belly through a threadbare T-shirt as Kathy introduced herself.

‘Yeah, that’s me,’ he said, voice croaky but not belligerent. ‘What’s it about?’