The Burning (41 page)

‘Kelly puts on a good show, but I’m not sure that, right now, she knows which way is up. How would any of us feel in her shoes? I can’t begin to imagine.’

‘Burden? Did he say anything about Burden?’

Ryan shook his head. ‘Never heard of him. And we pulled Ashton’s file from ten years ago. There was never any real question of him being a suspect. He’d just finished taking an
after-school athletics class when his wife raised the alarm – twenty kids all confirmed the fact. It was a good theory, but his hands are clean, Jenny. I believe that.’

Jenny felt a weight of responsibility descend on her as if she had done something terribly wrong.

Ryan saw it in her face and reached for her hand. ‘I know what you’re thinking, but you did the right thing. We showed him the footage of the man and the child. He couldn’t say
it wasn’t Robbie. We’ve released it to the media. Hopefully we’ll get a lead on the man at Gordano, but whether we can be
sure
he’s the diesel thief, I can’t
say yet. We’ve got experts on the case comparing the images to see if they match.’

‘So where does that leave us? Burden must have gone to Blackstone Ley for a reason.’

‘I agree. And so does my super. We’re having another look at the Polish angle. We’re going over to meet with Ballantyne and his colleagues early this afternoon. My best guess
is that Ed was in on some sort of scam with the Poles up at Fairmeadows. Maybe that’s what tipped him over the edge. No one can deny those guys seem to have fingers in a lot of pies.’
Ryan smiled flatly.

Jenny wasn’t in the mood for jokes. ‘Do you still believe Robbie’s dead?’

‘Yes,’ Ryan said quietly. ‘There’s nothing reliable to prove otherwise. I think Clare said what she did because it was all she had left. It was her only means to land a
blow.’

Jenny closed her eyes and felt all the muscles in her face clench with tension. Ten hours ago she had been so sure she had made the breakthrough, now all she could hear was Simon Moreton’s
warning to stick to brutal logic. But wasn’t that what she had done? How exactly had she behaved irrationally? Moreton’s superior voice echoed back to her again:
Stop ghost-hunting.
There are no phantoms in these shadows. Trust me.

‘You’ve done all you can, Jenny. You’ve got to let yourself off the hook. You’re asking too much of yourself.’

‘I wish I could believe you.’

‘You have to.’

Ryan leaned a little closer and touched her arm that lay crossed over her chest outside the duvet. She took it as an innocent gesture, but as his hand lingered against her skin she opened her
eyes and saw that she had misunderstood. His fingers traced along the back of her wrist, then travelled up the inside of her arm to the sensitive crook of her elbow. He bent closer. Jenny froze as
she felt his lips touch hers. He kissed her tenderly, then pulled back as if having surprised himself.

‘I thought if I didn’t now, I never would,’ he said, as if explaining to himself as much as to her. ‘Are you angry?’

‘No.’

His fingers sought out hers, his touch igniting sparks all over her body.

‘I’ll tell you what,’ he said in almost a whisper, ‘I’ve a couple of calls to make. Why don’t I see to them now and leave you to think for a moment.’ He
kissed her lightly on the forehead, untangled their fingers, then took his phone from his coat pocket and stepped out of the French doors onto the balcony.

Jenny sat up, catching her breath. She felt giddy, irresponsible and on fire all at once. If he had lingered a moment longer, she wouldn’t have been able to stop herself. It would have
been easy; there would have no choice to make, but the bastard had been so decent he’d thrown the decision back on her. She pushed her hair away from her face and caught a glimpse of her
reflection in the window: no make-up, crumpled T-shirt and yes, even in this light, crow’s-feet. Was she really what he wanted?
To hell with it
. She was a free agent; if that’s
where it was going, what was the harm?

Self-conscious now, waiting for him and planning what she’d say, she nervously smoothed the creases in the T-shirt. She felt something tickle her cheek. She reached up and found the source
of the irritation: a single thick black hair, ten inches long. She held it against the white cotton duvet, making sure it wasn’t one of hers. No, it wasn’t. Her hair was chestnut: this
was raven black. She dropped it to the floor, reached forward and examined the collar of Ryan’s coat. There was another, caught against the soft fabric. The same thick, black hair. She
glanced to the window and through the narrow gaps in the slats of the blind saw Ryan with his back to her, leaning against the railing of the balcony as he discussed meeting times with a colleague.
Jenny brought the coat to her face and smelt the cloth. A subtle trace of perfume, perhaps? She couldn’t be sure. She glanced up and saw Ryan dialling another number, still facing away from
her. Relaxed. Easy in himself. Keeping one eye on him, she dipped a hand into his outer coat pocket. She felt a slender leather wallet and some keys. She extracted the wallet, and hiding her hands
beneath the coffee table, opened it out. There were three credit and debit cards in one side and a driver’s licence behind a transparent window in the other. Jenny had to read it twice. The
name printed on the front of the licence was
John Wheelock
. The address beneath was that of Ryan’s apartment. She looked at each of the three bank cards in turn. The first was in the
name of Gabriel Ryan, the second and third both in the name of Wheelock. She checked the pocket behind the card slots and along with two ten-pound notes there was a single condom and another empty
foil wrapper.

Feeling a little sick, she slotted the wallet back into the coat and grabbed her clothes that were folded over the far end of the sofa. She ripped off the borrowed T-shirt and dressed as
hurriedly as she could. She was pulling on her jacket and stepping into her shoes as Ryan came back in from the balcony.

‘I checked my missed calls,’ Jenny lied. ‘I’m meant to be somewhere.’

‘Oh.’ He looked hurt. ‘Can I see you over the weekend?’

‘I’ll call you later,’ Jenny said.

Ryan moved towards her, wanting to kiss her. ‘No. You mustn’t start that again,’ Jenny said. She kissed her fingers and touched his cheek with them, making him smile.
‘Save it.’

She hurried to the cupboard behind the door and fetched her coat. As she pulled it on, she noticed a half-drunk bottle of red wine on the kitchen counter. The picture on the label was of a
rearing horse.

‘Bye. Thank you.’ She flashed Ryan a smile and let herself out.

She walk towards the lift expecting him at any moment to come after her, but thankfully he remained inside. As the doors closed and she headed down to the ground, she remembered where she had
seen the image of a rearing horse before: it was on the empty bottle of wine Jenny had spotted at Kelly’s flat the previous night.

There was a point at which circumstantial evidence became enough to prove a case, and as far as Jenny was concerned, she had reached it.

‘You’ve got to be kidding me.’ Louis Falco sounded drunk or high, or both. The sounds in the background were of a bar filled with professional types with
middle-class accents excited to have cut loose early on this gloomy Friday afternoon. ‘You get me arrested and charged, and now you want to
meet
?’

‘It wasn’t me who got you arrested.’ She hustled her way across two lanes of traffic and made the exit for the M32 with only yards to spare.

‘You and Ballantyne aren’t friends?’ he said sarcastically.

‘If you think I’m in the pocket of CID you didn’t do your research, Mr Falco.’

‘Those two guys were cops. I’d put money on it. Not that anyone’s going to admit it. They’ve probably wiped the files and thrown the pair of them on the first plane to
Poland.’ Jenny heard the ice rattle in a glass as he took a drink. ‘Do you have any idea how much security I had to lodge for bail? Eighty fucking grand!’

‘Where do I find you?’

‘You’re not joking, are you?’ He laughed, highly amused. ‘When?’

‘Fifteen minutes.’

‘I’m afraid you won’t find me at my best, Mrs Cooper.’

‘That makes two of us.’

‘The Sugar Club. Denmark Street,’ he slurred. ‘I’m in the basement.’

The bar was less than a quarter-mile from Jenny’s office, in the warren of old streets that back in slaving days had been the city’s commercial centre. The former
warehouses that had once been stacked to the rafters with hemp sacks of tobacco and sugar had been turned into apartments and trendy bars. The Sugar Club was in an old Georgian townhouse sandwiched
improbably between two such buildings. There was nothing to announce its presence except a discreet sign above the bell push.

Jenny entered a hallway panelled in dark oak, dimly lit by a brass candelabra.

The smell of cigar smoke drifted down from an upstairs lounge. A pretty female receptionist greeted her from behind the desk. She smiled when Jenny said she was a guest of Mr Falco, in a way
that suggested he was a resident character.

A winding flight of stone steps led down to a large cellar consisting of several connecting rooms with vaulted brick ceilings. Drinkers sat around tables fashioned from upturned barrels or
propped up a bar crafted from old ships’ timbers. It had a warm, fusty, subterranean smell and the cliquey atmosphere of a place where the regulars were all familiar with each other. The
arrival of a new and unfamiliar face in their midst drew several inquisitive glances. Falco emerged from a shadowy alcove and gestured her over with an exaggerated wave of his hand. There was no
doubting he was drunk, and when she sat on the stool opposite she smelt the alcohol coming off him in powerful waves.

‘I bought champagne,’ he said with an ironic smile. He had an open bottle of Moet in an ice bucket and two glasses waiting. ‘Can I tempt you?’

‘Just a little,’ Jenny said.

‘That’s always a good place to begin.’ He filled both their glasses. ‘Even the very wicked start out with the best of intentions.’ He handed her a glass.
‘Your health, and my freedom.’ He clinked his glass against Jenny’s, gave a lopsided smile and swallowed two-thirds of his measure in a single mouthful.

Jenny took a sip and savoured the taste. Pregnant or not, she was looking forward to the feeling of lightness that would start to arrive at any moment.

‘Can I assume you’re not here to offer your commiserations?’ Falco said.

‘I don’t know what went on between you and Tomasz Zaleski, but I have been told there was no warrant for his arrest.’

‘Did you honestly think he would have given that evidence in open court? The poor guy’s not even safe in jail. He’s had to go on seg’ with all the nonces.’

‘I sympathize. They must be poor company after pimps, prostitutes and gangsters.’

‘You’re a harsh woman. Jacob Rozek was clean. The man didn’t even have points on his driving licence.’

‘Let’s not get bogged down in recriminations. Maybe we can help each other,’ Jenny said.

‘What can you possibly offer me?’ Falco said.

‘Mitigation, perhaps? You’re going to need someone with clean hands to speak to your character.’

‘And why would you do that?’

‘You might have information that could help me.’

The mists began to clear from Falco’s bloodshot eyes. She had his interest.

‘There’s a detective inspector from Gloucester called Gabriel Ryan. He knows you. I was wondering if you know him.’

Falco gave a guarded nod. ‘I know Ryan.’

‘That’s all you’ve got?’

‘What do you want to know?’

‘Who he is. What he gets up to.’

Falco poured himself more champagne, in no hurry now he felt he held the cards.

‘I’d appreciate a little more than mitigation, Mrs Cooper. I’m looking at losing my whole livelihood. And I do sincerely believe that Jacob Rozek was murdered, and also that
the police have zero interest in apprehending his killers, only in seizing his assets.’

‘We’ll call it a gentleman’s agreement,’ Jenny said. ‘You help me out, I’ll do what I can.’

‘I guess that’s all you can do. But I will hold you to it, Mrs Cooper – I presume your name’s upstairs in the guest book.’

Jenny couldn’t argue with that, and as she sipped her champagne, she wondered how she could have been so stupid as to sign her own name. Moreton was right: over twenty years in the law and
she still hadn’t learned to be cunning.

‘So tell me how you know Ryan,’ Jenny said.

‘Some of my clients have had dealings with him. Gloucester and Bristol CID ran a joint source unit for several years before they all fell out with each other. Ryan was part of it. Worked
out of Broadmead. He had a reputation for charming wives and girlfriends into passing information on their other halves. Quite the gigolo.’

Jenny felt the muscles of her jaw tense in anger. ‘Really. That is interesting.’ She took a larger mouthful of champagne. ‘So his job was handling informers?’

‘Until the unit broke up. That was about two years ago. What I heard was that Bristol had started to resent their country cousins moving in on their turf, and in Ryan’s case, doing
the job better than they were.’

‘And since then he’s been in Gloucester CID?’

Falco sucked air sharply through his teeth. ‘Now we’re getting sensitive. I have to be very, very careful that my answer to that question doesn’t come back to haunt
me.’

Jenny was intrigued. ‘All right. I didn’t hear it from you.’

Falco cast a careful glance around the neighbouring tables and leant forward. ‘My information is that he took over witness protection. Gloucestershire’s a good place to hide people.
Put them out in the sticks where no one can find them, fix them up with a new identity.’ He fixed her with a look. ‘You see why I’m concerned?’

Jenny nodded, trying to hide the fact that her stomach had just turned over and the room was spinning in front of her eyes.

Falco was too smart not to register her surprise. ‘Where have your paths crossed? I might be able to help some more. As long as you remember to return the favour.’