Good Bait (DCI Karen Shields #1)(14)

There were indeed a few vestiges of sun, just visible above the turrets of a tower block to the east. Sweet papers and food wrappings from break were scattered here and there on the ground around their feet where they slowly walked. Faces, curious, appeared at windows and then were called rapidly away, back to the pleasures of citizenship or ICT, considerations of the opposite angle to the hypotenuse or the importance of the slave trade to the rise of capitalism.

‘What are you missing?’ Costello asked.

She didn’t immediately seem to understand.

‘What lesson?’

‘Oh, history.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘S’all right, it’s boring.’

History, how could it be? Wars, alliances, betrayals, dates, the movements of great powers, Costello had loved it.

‘What’s your favourite then?’

‘Um?’

‘Subject? Lesson?’

‘Dunno. English, maybe.’

She was frowning, squinting up her eyes. Last night’s eye shadow not renewed, not properly washed away. They had reached the railings alongside the gate and turned.

‘Tell me about Petru,’ Costello said.

She stopped. ‘Who?’

‘Petru. Your boyfriend. Petru Andronic.’

‘He’s not my boyfriend.’ A quick flush of embarrassment or anger.

‘You do know what happened to him?’

‘Course.’

She looked at the ground, looked away; wanted to be anywhere but where she was.

‘I’m sorry,’ Costello said. ‘For what did happen.’

She was still avoiding his eyes.

‘Had you known him for long?’

‘I didn’t. Not really.’ Her voice quiet, quieter. ‘Know him, I mean.’

He waited. Knew she’d either talk or walk away.

‘Look, he wasn’t my boyfriend, right? I only met him, like, a couple of times. It wasn’t, wasn’t like that, it …’

She faltered back into silence.

‘What was it like then?Your relationship?’

‘There wasn’t a relationship.’

‘Lesley, we need to know.’

‘Why?’

‘Because we’re trying to find out what happened. Who did that to him. I thought you’d want to help us.’

‘I can’t.’

‘Anything, anything you might tell us, it could help. Even if you don’t see how.’

‘But I told you …’

‘He wasn’t your boyfriend, yes, I know.’

‘So?’

‘So what was he?’

‘Oh, God …’ Swinging away.

‘Lesley, he phoned you, three times, the night he was killed.’

She started to walk, angling back towards the school, and he walked with her.

‘Why did he call so many times?’

‘Because he wanted to talk to her, that’s why.’

‘Her? Who’s her?’

She stopped again, faced him. ‘I can’t tell you.’

‘Just let me try to understand. He wanted to talk to somebody else, really wanted to talk to them, it was important – so why not call them, why call you?’

‘Because it was how …’ She bit down on an already jagged nail. ‘He wasn’t allowed to call her, right? Not any more. Not without … He’d call me first and I’d text her and then she’d call him. That was how it worked.’

Why? Costello asked himself and slipped the question to one side.

‘That night, then, that’s what you did? His girl? Sent a text?’

‘Yes.’

‘And did she contact him?’

‘No. That’s why he kept on. Where is she? Where is she? Tell her she’s got to ring me.’

‘And after the last time? The last time he called?’

‘I don’t know. I don’t think so, no.’

‘Do you know why? Had they fallen out? What?’

A ragged breath. ‘She was scared, wasn’t she?’

‘Of him?’

‘No, not of him.’

‘Then who?’

‘Her father, of course. Her sodding father.’

Muffled, inside the main building a bell was ringing; the rising distant sound of voices, people moving.

‘Lesley …’

‘What?’

‘Sooner or later, you’re going to have to tell me her name. You know that, don’t you?’





9


While Tim Costello was making himself familiar with the Borough of Lewisham, Karen’s destination was more upmarket: Kensington within spitting distance of Harrods, a small block of purpose-built flats away from the main road. The exterior was outfaced in off-white stone, curved windows with square panes that brought to Karen’s mind the deck of a ship, a liner, the kind that cruised people with too much money and time around the world’s oceans. Her uncle would talk of watching them come past the long sand spit of the Palisadoes and into Kingston harbour, all those white faces crowded along the rail, eager for the sanitised taste of another culture, the quick whiff of ganja and a frisson of danger.