Gagged & Bound Page 18

  As soon as she’d told the chief superintendent that it looked like a classic bag-and-gag killing, he’d ordered her to secure the site, since she was already there, and be ready to hand over to the SIO, the senior investigating officer, as soon as one had been appointed from the Major Incident Team.

  ‘But, sir, can’t I …?’

  ‘Don’t even think about it, Caro. You’ve got more than enough work as it is, and you could cause trouble to all kinds of operations if you go trampling over organised-crime turf. As you should know better than most.’

  Caro detested the thought of the victim’s death, and what she must have suffered before she died, but the knowledge that taking part in the investigation could have given her a way into the Slabbs and their police contacts was almost more than she could bear.

  ‘It’s ghastly,’ she said to Trish later, as they sat over drinks in the Café Rigoletto. ‘I’m not allowed to work on the case, so all I can pick up are the snippets everyone in the nick knows. It sounds like a traditional bag-and-gag, but with extra refinements.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘You don’t want to know. Someone had been trying to make her talk.’

  Trish controlled a shiver. ‘Do they know who she is yet?’ ‘Yes. A model with acting ambitions called Samantha Lock.’

  ‘Johnnie Slabb’s girlfriend, you mean.’

  Caro’s mouth opened, then shut firmly, before she collected herself and said: ‘How do you know?’

  ‘I saw a photograph of them together at a charity pop concert. D’you think she did the dirty on the family? Or is this someone else taking revenge on Johnnie Slabb?’

  Caro’s anxious expression broke into the familiar smile Trish hadn’t seen for a long time. ‘You are amazing.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘There’s a specialist in organised crime advising the investigating team. She says there’s been a war between the Slabbs and a newish Albanian gang for some time. Her view is that it’s possible the Albanians killed Sam Lock and dumped her, bagged and gagged, to thumb their noses at the Slabbs.’

  ‘That would make sense. Unless—’ Trish broke off to sip her Campari-soda.

  ‘Unless what?’ Caro said impatiently as the espresso machine behind her hissed like the air brakes of a pantechnicon.

  ‘Could she have been the source of Stephanie’s mysterious evidence?’

  Caro pushed back her chair, inadvertently knocking into an old man, who was pulling himself along between the chair backs to get to the door. Steadying him, apologising to him and calming the non-verbal outrage of all the other regular customers took some time. At last she sat back, facing Trish again.

  ‘Aren’t you adding two and two and making about eight?’ she said. ‘Why on earth should she have been Stephanie’s source? What’s the connection between a beautiful young black model and a frustrated woman police constable?’

  ‘Apart from the fact that they’re both dead, you mean? On the surface, nothing,’ Trish said. ‘But Stephanie claimed to have evidence from the inside of the Slabb organisation, didn’t she?’

  ‘She did.’

  ‘And Sam’s death looks like a typical Slabb punishment for informing, doesn’t it?’

  ‘It does.’

  ‘Has there been any suggestion of any other information about the Slabbs reaching any of your lot?’

  ‘Not that I’ve heard of.’

  ‘Then isn’t it possible that Sam Lock has been killed as a punishment for giving something to Stephanie? Wouldn’t it be more than a coincidence to have two quite separate people secretly collecting evidence against them?’

  ‘Maybe. I don’t know. But Stephanie hadn’t passed on her information, so even if Sam was her source, how would the Slabbs know anything about it?’

  ‘There you have me,’ Trish said. ‘I don’t know. But I’d have thought it was definitely worth your people looking into. Stephanie had been talking to helplines and senior officers about John Crayley’s connection with the Slabbs. What if you’re right and one of the officers she trusted is bent?’

  ‘Don’t, Trish.’

  ‘There’s no point hiding from it. If he passed on to the Slabbs what Stephanie had told him, and they carried out an internal investigation and found it led to Sam Lock, this could have been the result. Don’t look so sceptical, Caro. Isn’t it possible?’

  ‘I suppose it is. But I don’t see how anyone – you, me, or the hottest brains in the Serious and Organised Crime Group’s Project Team – could ever prove it now that both women are dead.’ Caro’s face was a screwed-up mask of frustration. ‘I don’t believe in mystics or spiritualism.’

  Trish stuck to her guns. ‘You wouldn’t need either. There has to be someone who knows exactly what Stephanie was doing, and what evidence she had. Someone other than bent cops and the Slabbs, I mean.’

  ‘Unlikely. I asked around after her death. She hasn’t lived with anyone since John Crayley and, although she did have friends, none of them sounded close enough to be a trusted confidant.’

  ‘There has to be someone,’ Trish said again. ‘I don’t believe you can be the kind of whistle-blower she was without someone to nourish your outrage. Maybe you could do a one-off on your own, but not go on and on, facing down the loathing of your contemporaries and your senior officers for years at a time.’

  ‘I don’t know that the senior officers disliked Stephanie, whatever the rank and file may have thought of her.’

  ‘Come on, Caro. They must have. It’s only natural to dislike someone who shows you up as incompetent enough to have dishonest, inefficient or bullying staff.’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘Think how lonely she must have been after John left her.’ The idea of it had been at the back of Trish’s mind for much of the last week. As she spoke, its ramifications were becoming clearer to her. ‘She must have had someone to talk to. Probably not a colleague, not a current one anyway, because that wouldn’t have been safe. If it were me, especially after my lover had dumped me for my best friend, I’d go for someone a bit detached, probably in every way. I mean personally as well as professionally. I think you ought to look for a civilian, who may once have worked with the police and admired Stephanie, but who had no sexual interest in her.’

  Caro laughed. There was no humour anywhere in the bitterness of the sound. ‘Turning psychic now, Trish? Maybe your crystal ball will tell us how we can find this mythical person.’

  ‘If her parents are still alive, you could try asking them who wrote condolences and follow those up,’ Trish said, forgetting her idea that Stephanie could have been the renegade Slabb schoolgirl. ‘Or you could hang about at the funeral and try to spot someone unexpected in the congregation.’

  ‘It’s a thought. About the funeral, I mean. Although it’ll be packed because it was such a high-profile killing.’ Caro’s face and voice were both softening as she talked. ‘It’s on Friday afternoon. D’you want to come with me? See if you can spot your mystery contact? I shouldn’t have been so bitchy – you might be right. You often are.’

  Trish was surprised. ‘I thought they never released bodies of murder victims for burial until the defence had had a chance to have a second autopsy done.’

  ‘That’s not always true. Sam’s will have to stay in storage until we put someone on trial. That’s the kind of case where the defence will want their own post mortem. This isn’t. Everyone knows how Stephanie was killed and where it happened – and when – so there’s no scientific evidence attached to the body. And a funeral’s necessary. A police officer killed in the line of duty needs a big ceremony, with a lot of top brass there. It’s a respect thing.’

  ‘OK. I’ll come, if you think there’ll be room for me. Where’s it to be?’

  ‘A church in Clapham, with the burial at a huge graveyard near St George’s Hospital in Tooting. I can email you the details. Three o’clock start.’

  ‘Not very convenient on a working afternoon.’

  Caro smiled sadly. �
��Everyone involved charges more than double for Saturday funerals and cremations, so Fridays are a lot more common, even for one like this. I’ll meet you there if you can make it. Don’t worry if you can’t.’

  David was surging through the pool, feeling the satisfying thrust of his legs and the wet whoosh as the water streamed past his ears. Through his goggles, he could see he was only about three big strokes from the end, and he was nerving himself to do a proper diving turn. He didn’t like them, because he nearly always got water up his nose and the chlorine gave him a burning feel all down his throat, but he knew he wouldn’t shave those few vital seconds off his time if he didn’t learn how to turn properly.

  George had shown him, and George could do it perfectly. Julian couldn’t, but then Julian was like a dodo when it came to swimming. He liked jumping in, which wasn’t allowed in grown-up pools like this one, and he messed about happily in the shallow end, but he didn’t have this need to drive sleekly through the water, turning himself into another Thorpedo. The great Australian swimmer was his hero. It was good Julian had come tonight, though, because he was fun, and he’d like the pizza George had promised them after.

  Bang. David’s hands hit the end. He’d been talking to himself too much again and losing the plot. In a split second it would’ve been his head crunching against the side of the pool. He’d have to decide about the turn, NOW. He headed downwards. Water pushed its way up under the goggles, into his ears and up his nose. He was choking. He couldn’t do it. He had to get out. He had to cough. He had to breathe.

  Knowing he’d failed again, he pushed his body back towards the surface, hating himself. Nothing happened. Kicking his legs, fighting to get out, he felt as if his head was being held down in the water and there was a rope round his neck, squeezing it. His eyeballs were pushing hard against his shut lids and his chest was burning. With his head going all hot and swoopy, he knew he had to keep his mouth shut or he’d drown. But there wasn’t any space in his head. It was going to burst if he didn’t get some air.

  His arms flailed about above the surface. They were cold. The air was so near. Why couldn’t he get his head out beside his arms? He could hear everybody shouting and laughing, and the water was rocking and roaring in his ears as the others kicked their legs. Why wouldn’t any of them help?

  He opened his mouth to shout, and water rushed in. Someone had told him drowning was peaceful. It wasn’t. It was like a fight. Everything hurt. He kicked and kicked. Then his legs hit something soft.

  The pressure on his head disappeared and he shot up out of the water, gasping, only to sink back under the surface again. His hands scrabbled at the edge of the pool and someone pushed them off. He was right under again and too tired to fight any more.

  Suddenly a strong hand was under his arm, pushing up into the armpit, hurting him. He wanted to tell them to leave him alone. The hand left his armpit, then a whole arm was round his chest, pushing him up. He could feel something very hard against his back, scraping it, and he could dimly hear George’s voice, foggy through the water:

  ‘What the hell are you playing at, David? David! David!’

  He felt a hand under his chin, waggling his face to and fro. George was shouting his name again. Other people were shouting. He could hear Julian, too. He was crying. David opened his eyes and saw them all. Other hands came at him from above and hauled him out on the side, lying him on his back. He fought to get up, needing to cough, and to see what had been holding him down under the water.

  ‘OK, OK,’ George said to someone else. ‘Leave him alone. He doesn’t need artificial respiration, just space to breathe. Why didn’t you see what was happening?’

  ‘I was helping the young lady over there,’ said an Australian voice. David knew it must be Artie, the lifeguard. He liked him; they often talked about Sydney, where David’s cousins lived and where Artie had once had a job. ‘As soon as I saw Dave in trouble, I came to help.’

  ‘Is he all right? George, is he all right?’ That was Julian, sounding much more girly than usual.

  ‘It’s OK, Julian,’ David said, making a huge effort to sound ordinary and smile. He saw Julian’s answering smile and knew he’d done his best. He propped himself up to cough up some water, then flopped back on the side of the pool, letting the lids close over his hurting eyes. All he wanted now was to sleep, but George was asking questions. He wanted to know what had happened and why.

  In the end, David had to tell him the truth. ‘I don’t know. I was trying to do a racing turn, and I got it wrong. I couldn’t come up again. I was drowning.’

  George squatted at his side, water glistening on his skin. He looked like a big pink sea-lion.

  ‘It wasn’t that bad, old chap. You must have got your head somehow jammed against the side of the pool under water and become disorientated. It can happen, like in an avalanche, when your brain can’t work out which way is up. Must have been very nasty. But you’re OK now.’ He rubbed David’s hair.

  ‘I don’t think it was the side, I think it was that man,’ Julian said. His voice was still all shaky.

  ‘Which man?’

  ‘The one with black trunks and big goggles. You must have seen him. He had a scar on his chin, a bit like the one our caretaker at school’s got. He was swimming in the next lane, keeping pace with David nearly all the time, doing crawl. But he’s gone now.’

  ‘Get into the changing room and find out who he is,’ George commanded, and Artie the Australian lifeguard went. David wondered why he’d looked at George in that scared but angry kind of way. He coughed again and a whole lot of phleghmy water came up out of his mouth. Gross.

  ‘Nothing,’ Artie said, coming back. ‘There’s no one there at all.’

  ‘OK, thanks.’ George waved him off. David knew it was because he thought Julian had been making it up about the man in black trunks.

  ‘Don’t let’s tell Trish,’ he said.

  George looked him for a long time before he said, ‘She wouldn’t be cross with you, David.’

  He shook some of the water out of his eyes. They were still hurting.

  ‘You’re not afraid of her, are you?’ George said, looking stern.

  ‘Of course not. But I don’t want to talk about it any more, and she’d ask questions.’

  ‘That’s true. OK. It’s fine to keep it between the two of us, if that’s what you’d like.’

  David nodded. ‘It is. Don’t tell her anything. Please.’

  George looked at him as if he was as weird and ugly as Gollum, but in the end he nodded again. David began to breathe properly. So long as Trish didn’t know what was going on at school, he could cope. But he couldn’t deal with her being afraid, and she would be if she knew.

  Simon had taken the mobile into the bathroom with him. Whenever he settled down to a really good soak these days, he was interrupted by Camilla, wanting to know whether he’d heard anything from Beatrice Bowman’s lawyers or her publisher. He was sure she was being egged on by the ghastly Dan Samford, trying to whip up a public row in order to draw attention to his film on terrorism. Last night Simon had got as near to losing his rag with her as he’d ever done. So when the phone rang, he answered it carefully, making his voice soft and furry for her.

  ‘Baiborn?’ came the drawling response. ‘That you?’ The voice had a kind of inherited authority its owner neither noticed nor would have questioned if he had. ‘Perry here. How are you, old chap?’

  ‘Fine,’ he said through his teeth.

  ‘Glad to hear it. Young Camilla didn’t seem to think so. She rang me in a bit of a stew just now, wanting me to sort you out. She thought I should see if I couldn’t persuade you to use the family solicitors for this spot of bother you’ve got.’

  Simon sighed. ‘I haven’t got any spot of bother. I’m in control. It would be a lot more use to me if you could persuade her to chill out, Perry. My solicitors are entirely capable of protecting my interests. As I keep telling Camilla, we’re at a stage when it’s simply a q
uestion of waiting. Do try to get her to see that and stay off my back.’

  ‘I’ll do my best, but she’s a persuasive little minx when she wants to be, and she seems to think that without the rest of us stiffening your sinews, you’ll just lie down under this outrageous calumny.’

  Why did the whole Fontley family have to be such drama queens? Simon wondered. Outrageous calumny indeed. It was like the title for some nineteenth-century sensation novel.

  ‘You must know there’s no risk of that, Perry. I may not have ancestral acres and cousins at the top of every influential organisation in the country, but I do know how to protect myself. I always have.’

  ‘Have it your own way, old boy. But don’t forget the acres and the influence will always be at the disposal of Camilla’s father.’

  Insulted all over again, as though his only worth to any of them was the siring of Jemima’s children, Simon clicked the phone off and slid back under the hot water. He reminded himself that Perry, for all his acres, had lost his seat in the House of Lords.

  Chapter 14

  Friday 30 March

  Standing beside Caro in the beautiful plain church, with a row of uniformed police officers in front of her, Trish waited. It was a long time since she’d been to a full funeral service, with the coffin brought into the church in procession behind the priest. The organ breathed loudly, then let out a fountain of glorious music. Everyone stood, with a loud rustling of service sheets and clothes. A piercing soprano voice burst into ‘I know that my redeemer liveth’ from Handel’s Messiah.

  The coffin was carried in on the shoulders of six big uniformed police officers and laid on trestles in front of the altar. As the singing died away, the men bowed to the altar and walked quietly round the outside of the pews to their seats.

  There were no flowers in the church and no candles on the altar. The priest, wearing a broad black stole over his white surplice, turned to face the congregation and said in a voice too thin and high for his role: