Good Bait (DCI Karen Shields #1)(21)

After days of intense negotiations, during which many tears were shed and money, a considerable amount of money, was to change hands unseen, the painter joined Kiley in convincing the girl her future happiness lay in the bosom of her family.

He owed, Kiley acknowledged, Cordon a great deal for helping to bring that particular farrago to such a beneficent conclusion.

The two of them enjoyed several evenings in the Tinners’ Arms, swapping stories about the job, cases they’d worked, people they’d served under, bastards all; Kiley, a few pints in, going on to embellish tales of his time with Charlton Athletic and Stevenage Borough. Together, they went to the jazz night at the Western Hotel, Mark Nightingale stoking up a local rhythm section, then curry to follow.

‘You’re ever up in London,’ Kiley had said. ‘Give us a bell.’

Cordon had leave owing and plenty of it. Brooking no argument, he took what was his due.

‘Sure you don’t want me to meet you off the train?’ Kiley said with a chuckle. ‘Trip to the big city. Might get lost.’

‘Fuck off.’

Cordon caught the Tube from Paddington, made the change, stepped out from Tufnell Park station into a cold January day, collar raised, duffle bag, army surplus, slung over one shoulder.

Half the shops in the street were shut down, to let, windows fly-posted over. A man of around Cordon’s age, no older, sat on the pavement near the cash machine, a sheet of soiled cardboard stretched out beneath him, begging for change.

The charity shop below where Kiley lived was doing brisk business, women mostly, searching through rails of cast-offs to find something for their kids, a new skirt or top for themselves if the money stretched; neat piles of once-read books, videos no longer played, children’s games, unwanted presents from aunt this and uncle that, a loving gran.

Kiley’s place was on the second floor: bedroom, tiny kitchen, bathroom with a shower and toilet but no bath, a larger room at the front which was office and living space combined. Filing cabinet and metal shelving stood along one wall; a couple of chairs, laptop, printer, answerphone, slimline TV. On the wall opposite hung a painting, pale and undefined, the sea from Porthmeor Beach, part of the deal. If he swivelled round from his desk, Kiley could look down into the ever-busy street.

Cordon dumped his bag, glad to be rid of the weight, and looked around.

‘So where is it?’

‘Where’s what?’

‘The couch. You said I could sleep on the couch.’

‘Figure of speech.’

Cordon looked at the floor, thin rugs across bare boards.

‘It’s okay, you can have my bed. Just a couple of nights you said, right?’

‘And you?’

Kiley inclined his head. ‘Just round the corner. Stay with a friend.’

‘She have a name?’

‘Jane.’

‘Nice. Straightforward.’

‘You want coffee?’

‘Why not?’

While Kiley was in the kitchen, Cordon looked along the higgledy-piggledy rows of books and CDs. Names he knew; names he failed to recognise. Junot Diaz. K. C. Constantine. Gerry Mulligan. Ronnie Lane.

Mulligan he knew.

He was checking the playlist when Kiley came back in. Track three: ‘Good Bait’.

‘Don’t you ever keep these things in order?’

‘What for? Most of them I pick up downstairs. Lets me sort through sometimes if he has to pop out, needs someone in the shop. Good half of them I’ve never even played.’

‘Or read.’

‘Or read.’

The coffee was strong and slightly bitter. Good. They sat in facing chairs, angled slightly away. ‘So,’ Kiley said, ‘tell me.’

When he was through listening, he leaned back, legs crossed above the ankles, hands locked behind his head.

‘Let me get this right. The younger one, the daughter, she drops from sight, no letter, no phone call, nothing so special about that, happens all the time. But mum gets worried – mums do. Comes up to look for her, ends up under a train.’ Kiley shook his head. ‘Just about every damn time I go to catch the Northern Line, severe delays due to a person under a train at Finchley Central, a person under a train at High Barnet – somewhere.’

‘Finsbury Park.’

‘Huh?’

‘She went under a train at Finsbury Park.’

‘It used to be an incident. That’s what they’d say. The announcement over the loudspeaker. An incident at wherever. Of course, you knew, you guessed. Then, a year or so ago, there was a change of policy. Call a spade a spade, suicide a suicide. Maybe they thought it would stiffen a few backs, put people off. Jumpers. Done the opposite, seems to me.’

Cordon nodded. ‘I just want to be sure.’

‘If she jumped or fell?’

‘Yes.’

‘Or was she pushed?’

‘That, too.’

‘You’ve got reasons for thinking that might be the case? Pushed?’

‘Not really. No.’

‘Don’t tell me. It’s a feeling; a feeling in your gut. Won’t go away.’

‘How did you know?’

‘I read it. Read it in the book.’

‘Yes?’

‘A hundred books. This feeling deep inside, something he just couldn’t shake.’