Good Bait (DCI Karen Shields #1)(29)

‘Something of the kind.’

In front, the driver swallowed a chuckle, remembering he wasn’t there. See no evil, speak no evil.

‘The Hampstead business, Andronic, something of a breakthrough?’

She told him about the Martins, Terry and Sasha, father and daughter. Her suspicions, unproven.

‘And this Milescu boy, he involved? Seriously, I mean?’

No real reason to think so, sir. No more than peripherally. But I suppose it’s possible.’

‘His father, he was expressing some concern.’

‘To you, sir?’

‘Friends, shall we say, one or two, high places.’

‘I doubt he has reasons to worry.’

‘Good to know. Though of course, if there were anything, anything serious, you might just run it by me.’

‘Of course.’

Burcher nodded, found something interesting through the opposite window. At the crossroads, without being asked, the driver took a left, then left again.

‘Cooperation, resources, you’re getting what you need?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Splendid.’

The car came to a halt some sixty metres from her door.

‘Walk from here?’

‘Thank you, sir.’

The rain was starting to fall more heavily, bouncing off the roof of the Volvo as it moved away. It was beginning to look as if Mike Ramsden was right, a little more digging in Ion Milescu’s direction might not go amiss after all.





17


The London College of Communication was a little way south of the river, too close to the monstrous traffic island that is the Elephant and Castle for comfort. For reasons best known to its custodians, much of the frontage was given over to large panels bearing stylishly lit close-ups of a couple passionately kissing. It pays, Karen guessed, to advertise. Amongst a bustle of activity, legions of students were foregathered on the street outside, garbed for the most part like students the world over. She was glad she’d dressed down herself, cotton jacket, sweater, worn jeans, her second-best pair of black Converse. Scuffed leather satchel.

Winter sunshine reflected back off the glass.

Voices raised in greeting. Arms round shoulders. Laughter.

A bus pulling by on its way towards New Cross Gate.

She spotted Ion Milescu walking briskly, winding between small knots of people, rucksack slung over one shoulder.

Karen moved to intercept him and as she did so he stopped to talk to two fellow students, the man seemingly African, the girl Chinese.

‘Ion …’

At first he didn’t recognise her, a face seen out of context.

‘I just need a word.’

‘I’ve got a class.’

‘A quick coffee, that’s all.’

‘I don’t know.’ He seemed flustered, uneasy.

‘Look,’ the African said, ‘if he doesn’t want to speak with you …’

‘No,’ Milescu said, ‘it’s all right.’

‘You’re sure?’

‘Sure.’

The African shrugged – ‘Catch you later’ – tapped the Chinese girl on the shoulder and they walked away.

‘Is there somewhere we can talk?’ Karen asked.

What she was hoping for was a little pop-up espresso bar run by a couple of Kiwis working their way round the world; what she got was a tired café between a launderette and a newsagent’s, on a small row of premises laid back from the main road; a greasy spoon that had moved some way to catering for its increasing student population, then stalled. Paninis alongside fry-ups; soya milk cappuccinos and mugs of tea you could stand a spoon in.

Karen played safe with an Americano; Ion Milescu a Pepsi.

‘A few things,’ Karen said, ‘have come to light since we talked last. I just wanted to make sure I’ve got the right end of the stick.’

‘What kind of things?’ He was looking off in the direction of the counter, the far wall, anywhere but at her.

‘You and Petru, for instance, from what you said before, you didn’t know him very well at all.’

‘That’s right.’

‘A few kickabouts and stuff like that.’

‘Right.’

‘Which sort of leaves out Victoria Park.’

‘What?’

‘Victoria Park. Hot Chip. Lesley Tabor. You remember Lesley?’

He mumbled something that might have been slag. She hoped it wasn’t.

‘You do remember Lesley?’

‘Unfortunately.’

‘I thought you went out with her, for a while at least.’

‘She thought so, you mean.’

‘You and Lesley, Petru and Sasha, quite a foursome.’

‘It wasn’t like that.’

‘What was it like?’

‘It wasn’t like anything. I just went with her a few times because …’ Ill at ease, he took a quick breath, dipped his head.

‘Because?’

‘’Cause he asked me to.’

‘He?’

‘Petru. Petru, who else?’

‘This kid you hardly knew.’

‘All right, all right. God!’ His voice loud enough to turn heads, the workman on his right glancing up from the Sun, a couple of students looking across from the plate of beans on toast they appeared to be sharing.