Murder Ring (A DI Geraldine Steel Mystery) (28 page)

‘We’ll start with her. This could be it. Thanks, Tom.’

‘Do you want us to keep looking?’

Geraldine hesitated. ‘Yes. Until we find him, we can’t let up.’

‘Righty ho.’

Geraldine took Sam with her to visit Sophia Dexter, a thirty-year-old woman who lived in George Berkeley House. It was mid-afternoon but Sophia came to the door looking as though she had only just got out of bed.

Geraldine held up her identity card. ‘Sophia Dexter?’

‘Oh bloody hell. Yes, I’m Sophia. What do you want?’

‘Do you live here alone?’

‘Wish I did. No. I’ve got three kids and a boyfriend, when he’s around.’

‘Is he here now?’

‘Yes.’

‘We’d like a word with him.’

‘Why? What’s he done?’

Geraldine explained tersely that he hadn’t done anything, but they thought he might have witnessed a crime they were investigating. Sophia laughed.

‘I don’t think so.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘He’s blind as a bat.’

As she spoke, a man in dark glasses appeared behind her, feeling his way along the wall with one hand. Black and podgy, he couldn’t have been less like the fit, young barman they were looking for.

‘Who is it?’ he asked, leaning forward and inhaling, as though he was trying to identify the visitors from their scent.

‘It’s the pigs. They come here asking for you because they think you witnessed a crime.’

‘Does anyone else live here?’ Geraldine interrupted her impatiently.

‘My three kids.’

‘How old are they?’

Sophia frowned. ‘Ten, eight and three. Do you want me to tell you their shoe sizes and all?’

‘Who the fuck is it?’ the blind man repeated. He sounded tetchy.

‘Do you know someone called Jack?’ Sam asked in desperation.

‘No. Now bugger off, will you?’ the woman said, as she closed the door.

Geraldine and Sam turned to Tom’s list to see who else lived locally. It was going to be a long job.

53

I
T WAS GONE
seven by the time Geraldine left work. It would take about half an hour to reach her mother’s ward, allowing for traffic and finding a parking space. The hospital visiting policy was fairly relaxed, but they didn’t like anyone to stay beyond eight o’clock. She put her foot down, and didn’t stop to buy flowers or fruit on the way. Making good time, she arrived in the corridor outside the ward at twenty to eight. Out of breath, more from anxiety than exertion, she stopped for a moment to calm herself, before going in through the large swing doors.

The atmosphere of muted bustle along the corridor contrived to be both restless and soporific. Geraldine found it faintly disturbing. Celia claimed she didn’t understand how anyone could work on murder investigations. Geraldine felt exactly the same about hospital staff who dealt with sickness and physical suffering, day in day out, hour after hour. At least Geraldine didn’t have to spend all her working week in the company of the worried and the bereaved. As for the victims in her cases, they were beyond suffering. Hospital staff faced a constant battery of human anguish and pain.

‘Not everyone dies,’ Celia pointed out, when Geraldine said she thought nursing must be a more difficult job than police work. ‘People go to hospital to be cured, not to die. In your job, the victims are dead before you even begin.’

Forcing a smile, Geraldine pushed open the door to her mother’s room. It was quiet inside. One old woman lay surrounded by visitors who were getting to their feet, preparing to take their leave. They all looked up as Geraldine entered, as though surprised to see someone arriving so late. She walked past them to her mother’s bed. It was empty. Frowning, she walked slowly back to the door, looking around the room as she went. The other beds were all occupied by strangers. With growing dread she approached the desk, where a nurse was talking on the phone. After a moment, a second nurse appeared and Geraldine called out to her.

‘Excuse me, I’m here to see Milly Blake. Can you tell me where she is? She’s been moved.’

‘What’s that?’

As Geraldine repeated her request, the woman on the phone ended her conversation and looked up. She was young, and she spoke in a friendly manner that inspired confidence.

‘Are you her daughter?’

‘Yes. Where is she?’

‘Oh dear. You didn’t get the message?’

‘What message?’

The young nurse hurried out from behind the desk and spoke to her gently. With a tremor, Geraldine recognised the hushed tones she herself used when breaking the news of a death. Sounds floated past her. She knew straight away what they meant, before she even registered them as words. The nurse’s face seemed to wobble slightly, peering closely at her and receding again.

‘I’m so sorry, I’m afraid your mother died three hours ago.’

‘What? But she wasn’t – I mean, her condition wasn’t critical. She was recovering.’

‘This woman was a stranger to me,’ she thought fiercely. ‘I won’t cry for someone I didn’t know.’ But she felt tears prickling the corners of her eyes.

‘I’m so sorry. We did all we could. Would you like to say goodbye?’

‘Thank you,’ she whispered. ‘I don’t need to see her. I’ll just leave.’

‘Before you go, she left a letter,’ the nurse said. ‘She said it was for her daughter. I just need to check your name?’

‘Geraldine. My mother called me Erin,’ she corrected herself. ‘My name is Erin Blake.’

For an instant, she thought the nurse was going to demand to see some kind of identification before handing over the letter. She had her birth certificate at home, together with all the adoption papers, but nothing to prove she was her mother’s daughter apart from an old photograph of her mother which looked exactly like her. If the hospital staff refused to believe her, she might never read her mother’s parting words to her – almost her only words to her. As these confused thoughts whirled through her mind, the nurse fished out an envelope from behind the desk.

‘Here you are,’ she said, with a practised air of sympathy. ‘It’s from your mother.’

Geraldine glanced at the envelope. It was addressed to Erin Blake, in shaky handwriting.

‘Thank you.’

She turned and walked quickly out of the ward where she had seen her mother twice, and heard her voice just once. Driving home she tried to recall what her mother had said to her during their one conversation. Milly had been finding it difficult to speak. Almost all she had said was that she wanted Geraldine to find Erin. That had been one more disappointment because clearly she hadn’t recognised her daughter at all, mistaking her for someone else, a nurse perhaps, or the social worker. It was a bitter realisation.

Her mother would never let her down again. She had died before Geraldine had a chance to ask her all the questions that now crowded her head. She would never know who her father was; never learn how her mother had felt on giving her up for adoption; why she had refused to see her lost daughter, or whether she had even cared. As she drove, stony-faced, she realised her eyes were streaming with tears.

‘I won’t cry for a stranger,’ she muttered, angrily wiping her eyes on her sleeve.

The first thing she did on reaching home was open a bottle of her favourite red wine. She had been avoiding alcohol in a futile attempt to clear her brain as she sifted through contradictory evidence, while every few days Adam seemed to latch on to a different suspect with an alacrity that hardly inspired confidence, as though he thought the truth would be obvious, once they spotted it. His air of cool detachment was a sham. At the same time, Geraldine realised that her emotional confusion over her mother had been making her hypercritical of all her colleagues. Steering clear of alcohol hadn’t helped her to see her way clearly through any of the mess.

‘Sod it,’ she thought, as she poured herself a large glass. She held it up, admiring the beautiful crimson hue. It didn’t make her feel any better. Half an hour later, she was in tears again. She wasn’t crying over the death of a woman she had never known. She was crying for her own solitude, and for what might have been.

54

E
VERYONE TOLD
A
LISTAIR
he was lucky to be partnered by PC Ned Allsop, an experienced police officer close to retirement.

‘Ned knows the ropes,’ they all said, ‘and he’s a good bloke, salt of the earth.’

Alistair gazed gloomily out of the window at pedestrians hurrying by. He had been looking forward to careering along Oxford Street, siren wailing, blue light flashing, weaving in and out of the London traffic at speed while other vehicles darted aside to let them pass. He did his best to hide his impatience because he didn’t want to offend his partner. Ned was a decent guy, but crawling in traffic beside an old bloke like him wasn’t much fun.

‘I wish something would happen,’ he said.

‘It will. Sooner or later, something’s going to kick off, and we’ll be called in to pick up the pieces for which we’ll get no thanks, just abuse. I’ll be glad to get out,’ Ned admitted. ‘Everything’s changed. I remember belting along, no need for sirens and flashing lights. Other drivers just moved over to let us pass. Respect. That’s what we used to have. Deference.’

The radio crackled out a message. A fight had broken out in a side street nearby.

‘Calling all units in the vicinity of Marylebone Passage off Margaret Street and Wells Street.’

‘We’re one minute away. How many people are involved?’ Ned snapped as he swung the wheel.

‘Two youths, IC1 male, one or possibly both carrying knives. Back-up is on the way.’

Ned turned to his young companion. ‘There’s two of them got into a fight, one or possibly both armed with knives. You wanted to see some action, didn’t you? We should be first on the scene.’

‘I’m up for it! Let’s go! Shall I put the siren on?’

Ned nodded and Alistair turned on the siren, grinning as they nudged their way through the dense traffic. It was still slow going, but at least they were making their presence felt.

‘This could be bloody, you know,’ Ned warned his companion. ‘Someone’s likely to get hurt. Make sure you don’t do anything stupid.’ He broke off at a sudden thought. ‘You remembered your stab vest, didn’t you?’

‘Of course.’

They pulled up in a side street, jumped out of the car, and ran towards a small crowd that had gathered to watch two young men. Alistair glanced around, apprehensive now they had arrived. He and his colleague were the first officers on the scene. There were about a dozen onlookers, mostly male, all in their twenties or thirties. If they turned on him and Ned, he and his colleague wouldn’t stand a chance. As they drew near to the fracas, he heard sirens approaching. That must have been the cue Ned was waiting for, because he broke into a trot.

‘Break it up now,’ Ned called out, as he sprinted forwards.

Two men were facing one another, one fair haired, the other dark. As Ned pushed his way into the centre of the circle the blond fighter staggered and fell to the ground, bleeding from a gash on his arm. The dark-haired one stood, knees bent, knife in hand, glaring at Ned as though daring him to approach. For a second no one moved. Alistair was relieved and, at the same time, irrationally disappointed to see two more patrol cars arrive to block both exits from the street.

‘Put the knife down before someone gets hurt,’ Ned said calmly.

The armed man slashed the air with his blade. ‘Back off, pig.’

With a burst of anger, Alistair barged through the watching crowd, and dashed to Ned’s side. With two police officers standing firm against him, the knife-wielding thug didn’t stand a chance. It was over. Shaking with relief, Alistair kept his face immobile.

Without warning, the dark-haired youth leaped across to his victim who was still lying on the ground, moaning. Seizing the injured man round the neck, the armed man held the point of his knife at his opponent’s throat.

‘Back off or he croaks.’

‘Don’t do anything rash, lad,’ Ned said quietly, taking a step forward. ‘This is just a scrap that’s got out of hand. You don’t want to be done for murder. With so many witnesses, there’s no way you’d be pleading manslaughter. There’s no getting away from it. You’re surrounded. Do yourself a favour and drop the knife, and let’s get that bleeding stopped or you might still be had up on a murder charge.’

The man with the knife hesitated. All at once his shoulders dropped and the knife clattered to the ground. As soon as he let it fall, the blond man sat up and socked him on the jaw. They wrestled for a moment.

‘You take the dark guy, I’ll take the blond one,’ Ned snapped.

Alistair and Ned pulled them apart and handcuffed them.

The wounded man began to groan. ‘I need a doctor.’

‘All in good time,’ Ned assured him. ‘You’re not going to die.’

‘Get these fucking handcuffs off me now. You can see I’m bleeding. This is fucking police brutality. Get them off me!’

‘Don’t overdo the gratitude,’ Ned said. ‘We only saved your life.’