The Unquiet Dead (28 page)

‘Shit,’ muttered Jessie. She peered over the machine, checked it for paper, but it was working fine. She was halfway towards the canteen when she saw DC Fry. He was holding a stack of paper.

‘Oh, DI Driver, I was looking for you. This just came –’

Fry was one of those officers whom Jessie wasn’t sure of. Friend or foe?

‘I’ve just come that way, I didn’t see you.’

‘Needed a waz, sorry.’ He passed over the pages without glancing at them. ‘Thought you’d be in the penthouse by now.’

Her grunt was noncommittal.

Fry shrugged. ‘You should be. A bet’s a bet, right?’

‘He told you?’ said Jessie surprised.

‘Oh yeah, right pissed off he was too, but you know Ward – his bark’s worse than his bite. Once he’s necked a few pints, he’ll forget what it was he was getting pissed about.’

‘So I don’t need to watch my back?’ she said.

‘I wouldn’t go as far as that, ma’am.’ He bounded off with a smile. She didn’t know whether to feel queasy or relieved. It depended, as always, on how you looked at it. Gas explosion or psychic intervention? Instinct or intuition? Goodwill or trap? Jessie took the pages back to her office, acknowledging that although half of her felt the excitement of picking up a new scent, the other half was wary of where it would lead.

Jessie and Burrows looked into the face of a podgy twenty-year-old. He had wavy blond hair, ruddy cheeks and terrible skin. The words of Dominic Rivers echoed in her mind. Fresh fruit or vegetables had never passed this man’s lips. He had the complexion of a white bread, tinned beans and Pot Noodle eater. But he looked nothing like the scrawny, dark-haired corpse they’d pulled out of the ash pit.

They began to flick through his rap sheet. Malcolm Hoare was seven years old when he first went into care. Within a few months he had been
caught stealing. At sixteen he was locked up. He was accused of raping a fourteen-year-old girl who he claimed was his girlfriend. The rape charge did not stick, but sex with a minor did. It was a slur that he could never escape from. Further charges were made with alarming regularity and a decade of playing cat and mouse with the police began. Aggravated assault. Grievous bodily harm. He nicked cars, radios, videos, handbags – anything he could get his hands on. There was no mention of drugs. He wasn’t an addict, he was a thief. Prison did what prison often does: it locked him up for the required time, during which he honed his skills and expanded his network, then it spat him back out again to practise what he’d learnt. In the twenty-two subsequent arrests, he was never caught with another ‘perp’. He was a loner, a drummer. On March 10th, 1976 he was arrested in the port of Felixstowe on charges of abduction and extortion. Nine months later he was found not guilty and released. He had not committed another crime since.

No other details were available except one: the arresting officer was DI Paul Cook, West End Central. Jessie looked at Burrows. They both knew what that meant. The case file would be right here on the premises.

‘Arrested in March – chances are the kidnapping took place in February,’ said Burrows.

‘February 23rd means the case was wrapped up in under a week. If it was that cut-and-dry, how come he was found not guilty?’

‘The justice system isn’t infallible, boss,’ said Burrows. ‘Perhaps his punishment was to come later.’

Jessie returned to the photograph. She stared into a wayward young man’s eyes. Nothing stared back. His eyes were empty. No guilt. No pity. No remorse. No embarrassment. No guile and no regret. More than that, in them she’d found no sign of what she’d been searching for. A reason to eliminate Malcolm Hoare.

She put another call through. This time to the West End Central CID Administration Department. She gave them the crime number and case reference number and the year of the arrest, and asked the woman on the phone to check whether the files were there. Half an hour later, the admin department rang back. Yes, they were. All three sections of the DPP file.

‘Do you want to check it out?’

‘Can I?’

‘Sure. It’s a dead file. No one has been interested in this for years.’

Jessie stared back at the young man’s eyes. She wanted the answer to be, no, put it back on the dusty shelf, it’s a dead file, no one’s been interested in it for –

Check the date
.

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I just want to check one thing.’

Jessie and Burrows walked quickly, so quickly that by the end of the hallway, they were running. All
this time, they’d been so close. Burrows called the lift, but it was a single-shaft archaic contraption that could not be relied on for speed.

‘Let’s take the stairs,’ said Jessie. She was off lifts.

‘I think I can hear it,’ said Burrows. ‘The lift will be quicker.’

She hesitated at the top of the stairs. She shouldn’t have. The lift doors opened and DCI Moore appeared, holding the door open with her manicured hand.

‘I need you now,’ she snapped.

Jessie hoped she was barking at Burrows.

‘Now, Driver.’

Thwarted, she moved towards her boss. ‘What’s happened?’

‘Gun siege on Mount Street. Get in the lift. I’ll tell you en route.’

Burrows stood back to let her pass. Jessie silently communed her message to her sergeant with a single look. If she had psychic powers, and he had the ear of God, then maybe Burrows would receive her message:
Check the date
.

The lift doors closed. Jessie turned to Moore.

‘Sarah Klein is taking pot shots at the windows. The owner is trapped inside; he’s barricaded himself in his bathroom. He rang us from his mobile.’

‘Who is it she’s shooting at?’

‘Timothy Powell.’

‘The director?’

‘The very same.’ The lift shook to a stop and the doors winched open.

‘Where’s Mark?’

‘On personal leave.’

‘Really?’

‘His mother died last night. It’s been on the cards for weeks now.’ Jessie felt her conscience grind. ‘You may have noticed he hasn’t been particularly happy recently, but he didn’t want to tell anyone. Come on, I’ve got a car waiting.’

When weren’t there extenuating circumstances? thought Jessie.
Never
. When weren’t you responsible for your own actions?
Never
. When did life get less complicated?

‘I get the feeling their relationship was complex,’ said Moore as their driver took them round Berkeley Square at high speed. ‘Do you know anything about it?’

Mark’s mother locked him in a cupboard while she went to work, leaving him with a morbid fear of the dark and a conflicting mistrust of any woman he liked.

‘No,’ replied Jessie. ‘Why is Klein shooting at Powell?’

‘He sacked her from the show. It was supposed to re-launch her flagging career, but the part went to her understudy.’

‘A younger woman. Sarah thought that might happen.’

‘It invariably does,’ said DCI Moore.

‘Where’s Anna Maria?’

‘We don’t know. She’s not at home, we’ve tried all her friends – luckily we still had the numbers.’

Jessie pulled the piece of paper out of her pocket. ‘Was this one on the list?’

DCI Moore paled. ‘Where did you get this?’

‘The Ritz. Anna Maria made one call.’

‘To Powell. This is the number we are communicating with him on. Why would Anna Maria have been calling him?’

Jessie looked at her boss. ‘Because the girls keep getting younger.’

‘Goddammit – she’s only sixteen.’

‘Actually, she only just turned sixteen. A few days before her disappearance she was only fifteen.’

‘A schoolgirl crush,’ said Moore. ‘Timothy Powell is a very well-respected – oh, fuck it! Who am I kidding? You think she’s in there?’

The car pulled up at the police line and the two women got out. The whole of Mount Street was barricaded off. It was a gently curving street with wide pavements and glass-fronted restaurants. The residential buildings stood five storeys high in burnt sienna brick and stone window surrounds. This was old-establishment money.

Sarah Klein stood alone in the middle of the road; armed police were stationed either side. A single catch in a large net. Her car was parked across the road, the driver’s door still open, the engine running. Jessie had seen Anna Maria Klein at the Ritz, and she’d seen the photographs in the papers. If Sarah Klein had been expecting the press, then her daughter had
not. Her eyes were red from crying and ringed by dark circles from lack of sleep. She’d kept quiet since her discovery, though the papers must have been offering her enormous sums of money for her story. Jessie stared at the car. If Sarah Klein had found out that her beloved director was sleeping with her daughter, who would she blame? Jessie looked sideways at Moore. She’d blame who they always blamed. The other woman. Any other woman.

Moore spoke to a man in a Kevlar vest. ‘Break in at the back. Find out if he’s alone and get everyone out of there.’

‘She’s not in there,’ said Jessie.

‘How do you know?’

‘If their affair was still on, he would have gone to the hotel. But he didn’t. I bet she rang him a million times on her mobile before resorting to the landline. Perhaps she resorted to the landline so that someone would check. A final act of revenge. Timothy Powell two-timed her mother with Anna Maria and then two-timed them both with the understudy.’

‘So where is she?’

Jessie stared at the boot of the car. ‘Let me go over there and talk to Sarah Klein,’ she said.

‘No. I’ll do it,’ said Moore. ‘I’m less of a threat than you.’ There was no malicious edge to her voice. Were they finally beginning to understand each other?

‘First thing you must do,’ insisted Jessie, ‘is turn the engine off.’

‘I was going to get the gun.’

‘Don’t worry, she won’t shoot you,’ said Jessie. ‘Killing a person isn’t as easy as it looks.’

‘Your confidence is not exactly reassuring, Detective.’

Moore handled Sarah Klein brilliantly. Jessie watched from behind the barrier, protected by her own bullet-proof jacket. What passed between the two women remained between the two women. But the first thing Moore did was turn the engine off. Jessie could breathe a little easier after that.

Getting the gun proved more difficult. Two long hours passed in negotiation while everyone waited on tenterhooks. The press arrived. The paramedics arrived. More police arrived. Eventually, Sarah Klein handed over her weapon and collapsed on to the ground. Timothy Powell had long since been whisked out of harm’s way. Pity really, thought Jessie, watching the paramedics pull a semiconscious Anna Maria Klein out of the boot of the car. Jessie turned away to answer her phone.

‘So what was the date of the kidnap, Burrows?’

‘February 23rd, 1976.’

‘I knew it: revenge! We’re getting closer,’ said Jessie, triumphant.

‘Closer than you think.’

‘Go on …’

‘You’re standing outside the Scott-Somers’ family house – number eleven Mount Street.’

‘How do you know where I’m standing?’

‘You’re on telly again, boss.’

Jessie tucked her chin into her chest. ‘Shit.’

Before climbing into a patrol car with Sarah Klein, Moore called out to Jessie. ‘Go house to house and let everyone know the situation is under control.’

‘I’d call that divine intervention, boss,’ said Burrows.

‘I call it good police work. Now get your arse down here and start on the other houses.’

Jessie stared up at the multimillion-pound house. ‘What do I need to know before I go in there?’

‘Nancy Scott-Somers was ten when she was snatched off the street. The abduction was reported by her younger sister, Charlotte, who told her parents that the nanny had lost them and a man had taken Nancy. No one took her seriously until a ransom call came in. Three days later instructions were posted through the letterbox. In total, Nancy was held captive for seven days. Mr Scott-Somers made the drop alone – his insistence, according to the notes – and brought her home. DI Cook let him go alone because he’d had a tracking device sewn into the lining of the bag of money. That’s about as far as I got. I’ll leave the box files on your desk and come on over.’

‘So Malcolm Hoare was definitely guilty?’

‘Well, he didn’t get bail, so I assume the evidence was stacked against him.’

‘Then why was he acquitted?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘You said her name was Nancy?’

‘Nancy Valeria Eugenie Rose Scott-Somers.’

Jessie nodded to herself. Not even an A among the initials. Father Forrester had got his lines crossed.

Bracing herself, she rang the doorbell. After a few seconds a relieved voice came over the intercom. A member of the domestic staff appeared and politely examined Jessie’s identification before inviting her into the vestibule. Vast gilded mirrors bore down on her from both sides. Marble-topped side tables held silver vases jammed with irises. The smell was overpowering. Ahead of her were glass doors through which the hall opened up into a space big enough for a large round table displaying more expensive bits and pieces than a Harrods display window. A very fine-looking gentleman in a pale grey suit, white shirt and black tie appeared through one of the many doors. His patent leather shoes clipped the marble slabs as he speedily crossed the hall.