The Unquiet Dead (21 page)

At five minutes past six, just as Sarah Klein,
with her salon-sharpened nails, took a swipe at the concierge and the first camera went off, P. J. Dean stepped into the lobby holding Jessie’s hand. Instinctively, P.J. took flight from the flashes, jumping between the closing lift doors and leaving Jessie standing alone in the midst of the pandemonium.

‘How could you give her a room!’ screamed the actress, unaware another drama was mingling with her own. ‘She’s only a
child
!’

‘As I told you, Ms Klein, she didn’t look like a child when she checked in. She looked …’ he stumbled over the words, ‘well, she looked like …’ The concierge’s eyes flashed over the furious woman in front of him. ‘Like you.’

At six o’clock in the morning Sarah Klein was expertly made-up and dressed in a flattering, fashionable outfit. Yet another flash went off as the missing teenager joined the fray.

‘Get these vultures away from us!’ the actress screamed again. It was quite a scene, or a very good act. Everyone was watching it except Mark Ward and Burrows. They were both staring at Jessie.

Jessie caught up with Burrows halfway down Piccadilly. He was walking alone. She put her hand lightly on his arm. He turned, took in the sight of her, then carried on walking. The look on his face told Jessie that what Mark Ward had inferred was true. In that extra hour, she had shattered Burrows’ dream and her own reputation.

‘You must be very pleased with yourself,’ he said.

‘Why?’ She couldn’t have been less pleased with herself.

‘You were right.’

Jessie didn’t understand.

‘About Anna Maria Klein.’

‘Oh. That.’

‘Apparently she had five grand in cash on her.’

‘That’s a lot of money for a little girl.’

‘Do you think her mother gave it to her?’

‘That would be difficult to prove. I’m fairly sure she tipped off the press this morning,’ said Jessie.
‘We could try and find out if Anna Maria made any calls during her stay.’

‘It’s not your case. It never was. You shouldn’t have gone looking for her.’

She fell into an embarrassed silence.

‘I don’t mean last night,’ said Burrows stiffly. ‘I mean from before.’

They walked along in silence while Jessie struggled to find a way to explain something that she shouldn’t have to.

‘You might want to know,’ Burrows allowed grudgingly, ‘we got nothing concrete out of the NIB 74c so I’ve widened the search. I also did some background work on Father Forrester: he’s the official exorcist for his diocese and very well respected. Perhaps it’s worth listening to what he has to say, as a qualified expert.’

Jessie snorted.

‘What is your problem with priests? What do you think they do?’

‘Drink tea,’ said Jessie scornfully. ‘At least, that’s what our vicar in Somerset did.’

‘Then you were unlucky. A good priest is someone who can not only sense a soul in distress but is in a position to help. Apparently, Father Forrester does a lot of work with the mentally ill and the bereaved – he’s well placed to answer those difficult questions that death always brings.’

‘Really? He can sort it out just like that? “It was God’s will.” “Oh, thank you, I feel so much better now.”’

Jessie spotted an Italian coffee shop setting out its tables in one of the side streets.

‘Why don’t we have some coffee?’ she said. ‘I’m absolutely knackered.’

Burrows looked at her. She realised what she had said and squirmed.

‘I know what you’re thinking,’ said Burrows.

Her embarrassment increased. She busied herself with ordering coffee and pretended not to hear him.

‘You think I told Moore about the car-park CCTV. I didn’t. Perhaps I should have. I could see from the moment Ward and Moore paid you a visit yesterday, you put my name on the charge sheet. That hurt – I’m not the type to go sneaking around behind your back. I thought you knew that.’

Relieved by the change of subject, she apologised. ‘I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have jumped to conclusions. Worse still, I shouldn’t have dangled the threat of revealing your beliefs like that. I promise you, I will never do that again.’

Burrows sighed heavily. ‘You won’t have a chance to.’

Jessie grabbed his arm. ‘You’re not thinking of leaving?’

He turned to face her. ‘Would you ask me to stay?’

‘Burrows, I –’

‘I can’t deny it any longer.’

‘Please, don’t say anything that is going to make this any more difficult.’

‘It will be difficult, but that’s the point. I can’t go on pretending any more that I don’t love –’

Jessie put her hands to her face. ‘No, Burrows –’

‘– the Lord Jesus.’

Jessie stood ready to catch the words as they came tumbling out of Burrows’ mouth, hoping to bundle them up and throw them back so quickly it would be as if they’d never been said.
You don’t love me, you just think you do because we spend so much bloody time together. It’s a common mistake made by co-workers everywhere
 … She hadn’t been expecting to hear the name Jesus. A relieved laugh escaped her lips.

‘Is it really that bad?’ asked Burrows. ‘Does the word freak you out so much?’

‘No. Sorry, it’s just weird hearing you say it like that, with such conviction,’ she said, recovering herself.

‘I’m as bad as Peter if I go on denying him. You have made me realise that. So I suppose I should thank you.’

‘Don’t thank me – you’re facing certain persecution.’

‘I’m ready. And if it gets really bad I will take the matter to the courts. An officer should not be treated differently because of the colour of his skin, nor for his beliefs. It’s true what I said: the Force would bend over backwards to accommodate me if I was a Sikh, well it shouldn’t be any different being a Christian.’

Jessie jumped gratefully on to the soapbox. ‘It
shouldn’t be any different being a woman, but it is. You ask officers what they think is worse, racism or sexism, and they’ll give you the same answer every time: racism. Equality on all levels is what we should be aiming for, but the government has decreed that racism is the ugly word of the day, so now we have papers and memoranda and awaydays to defeat it. All the while sexism continues unchecked and filters through to all levels of police-work. Prostitutes had it coming and battered wives probably deserved it.’

‘I’m sorry,’ said Burrows. ‘I thought we were talking about me.’

Jessie relaxed and put her arm playfully on Burrows’ arm. ‘Sorry. What I meant to say was that, as your superior officer, I will give you my full support.’

‘But only as my superior officer,’ he said, looking at her.

Jessie removed her hand. ‘And as your friend.’

‘Don’t look so nervous,’ he said. ‘I’m not in the converting business. I don’t go to that sort of church.’

‘You would have had your work cut out for you,’ said Jessie, hiding her confusion. Mark had placed a poisonous seed in her brain.

‘I know, you don’t believe in all that mumbo-jumbo crap.’

‘That’s right, I don’t.’

‘It’s interesting, though,’ said Burrows as two small espresso cups were placed on the table.

‘What is?’

‘That you could be so angry with someone you don’t believe in.’

They drank their coffee in silence.

Jonny Romano had indeed been a smart boy. According to school records, he and his friend Pete Boateng had been smart enough to gain scholarships to a nearby Catholic school that gave away sixth-form places to gifted children from poor backgrounds. A few months more and Jonny would have been on a completely different path, away from the estate kids and the downward spiral of drugs and petty crime. A few months more and Jonny would have benefited from a private education and probably university. Possibly Oxford, like Pete Boateng. It was Pete who had first ‘confessed’ to the police about the speed; it was Pete who had first described the dealer to the police artist, and it was Pete who had first named the man ‘Ian’.

Jessie thought about the newspaper article as she crossed Lincoln’s Inn. The kids had been particularly rowdy that day. They had been described by onlookers as unruly, boisterous, disobedient and aggressive. Pete had been a bad boy saved by the Catholic Church. The other boys in the group of swimmers had not been so fortunate. One was inside for drug-related theft; it was his twelfth time in the nick. One had been shot dead by his girlfriend. Another had been paralysed in a joy-riding incident and died a few years later of kidney failure.
Jessie would get on to the man in prison as soon as she’d had all her questions answered by – Jessie looked at the brass plaque – Peter Boateng, Barrister at Law.

At thirty-two Peter Boateng had to be one of the youngest partners on record of any chambers within the revered Inner Temple. He was already earmarked for silk. All he had to do was complete twenty years service and remain as successful and pro-establishment as he had been thus far. His chambers – Edmonds, Travis, Sloane & Boateng – ranked among the best criminal barristers in the country. In a very short time, Peter Boateng had swum a long way from Marshall Street Baths.

Jessie and Niaz were shown into an office, and a few seconds later the lawyer appeared through a side door, wiping his hands on a crisp white linen hand towel. It was monogrammed. Peter Boateng had grown from a scrawny youth with a large afro into a tall, slender, self-possessed man with closely cropped hair. The years ‘Ian’ had been buried beneath the baths, unmissed, unreported and unclaimed, had been good to the boy who had named him.

Having introduced herself and Niaz, Jessie took her seat. Peter Boateng professed himself to be confused as to the purpose of their visit.

‘I’d like to talk to you about a case you were involved in.’

‘The clerk could probably have answered your questions. He knows the cases as well as I.’

‘This was before you were qualified.’

He leant back in his chair. ‘Back to the terrifying days of running the gauntlet that is articles?’

Jessie noticed his immaculate diction, his perfect pronunciation. His suit was Savile Row or smarter, his shoes were shined; the flash of sock Jessie saw as he crossed his leg was pulled up taut around his ankle. Peter Boateng had worked very hard to iron out all the creases.

‘Back even further than that I’m afraid,’ said Jessie. ‘Back to the terrifying days of Lisson Grove Estate.’

Peter Boateng did not bristle. He was a pro. ‘My, my,’ he said, ‘that is a long time ago.’ He managed a small smile. Relaxation personified.

‘And I bet it seems a long way away, too,’ said Jessie, looking around the immaculate office.

He shook his head slightly. ‘It is never that far away. The old adage of keeping one’s friends close and enemies closer applies just as well to places. I have kept Lisson Grove in my sights, if only to remind myself what it is I’ve been striving to get away from. What case can I help you with? As far as I can remember, I wasn’t involved in any criminal matters.’

‘No, sir,’ said Jessie amiably. ‘But you were a witness to a drowning – your friend Jonny Romano.’

Peter Boateng lowered his head as if the mention of his dead schoolfriend still brought back painful memories. Jessie couldn’t help wondering if it was genuine.

‘He was a very clever boy,’ he said, looking up.

‘Not clever enough to leave drugs alone though?’

‘No. Not that clever.’

‘Were you that clever?’

‘Clever enough to get out.’

‘Impressively so. I salute you.’

‘Thank you.’

‘Mr Boateng, I know this may seem a strange question, but do you think that the man you said you saw supplying drugs to Jonny could possibly have had a limp?’

He paused for a few seconds before answering. ‘I can no longer picture the man I thought I saw give drugs to Jonny. When I think of it, all I can see is that police artist’s drawing.’

Jessie looked from the barrister to the notes lying open on her lap, then back to the barrister. She had expected surprise at her question, a quick dismissal, perhaps derision; she hadn’t expected to be sidestepped. ‘I’m sorry, Mr Boateng, but according to my records you were pretty certain at the time that you had seen the drugs being passed to Jonny.’

‘Why are you asking me about this now?’ he asked lightly.

‘Why aren’t you answering my question?’

‘It was a long time ago.’

‘True, but all I’m asking for is what you must have repeated a hundred times when you were seventeen. A description of the man you saw giving drugs to Jonny Romano on the day he died.’

‘I can’t remember.’

‘Can you recall if he had a limp?’

‘No.’

‘Can you recall if he didn’t have a limp?’

‘I told you, I cannot clearly remember the man I saw that day.’

‘Mr Boateng, would you accept that as an answer from a witness?’ Jessie stood up. ‘I don’t think so. Perhaps I should go and ask the other witnesses, they may have less to lose.’

‘They have nothing to lose. Tony, Michael and Vincent are all dead.’