Good Bait (DCI Karen Shields #1)(59)

‘Yes. I mean, no. I dunno. I dunno if I can.’

‘Pentonville. Brixton. The Scrubs. Aiding and abetting, that’d be the least of it. Accessory to murder, I’d say. Depends. ’Less, of course, you recognise the shit you’re in. Give us a reason for putting in a word. Show us how good you are, remembering faces, naming names.’

Head bowed, the security officer closed his eyes. Sweat dripped from the end of his nose. His voice was a whisper, little more. ‘I’ll do what I can.’

‘Say again?’

‘I’ll do what I can.’

Ramsden allowed himself a smile. It wasn’t to last for long.

Four sessions: faces on the computer, folders of well-handled 6 x 4s, try as he might the man failed to pick out a single face, a single name. He was lying, of course, just as the CCTV operator was lying, but what could they do? The threatened possibility of a jail sentence against the embedded certainty that if he grassed sooner or later someone would use a blade on him, likely even cut his throat, in the nick or out.

In her office later, Karen read the anger, the frustration on Ramsden’s face.

‘Bastard!’ he said, slamming a fist down on to her desk. ‘Chickenshit bastard!’

‘It’ll come. You know it will. Sooner or later, it’ll come.’

Not soon enough for Burcher. True to his word, he had made more officers available, civilian support staff, too, but for that he expected results. Homicide, he had said, holding back just a little on the irony, your field of expertise. There’d been an urgent message just that morning: the Detective Chief Superintendent would appreciate a progress report ASAP. So far she hadn’t returned the call.

When the phone rang, she thought it was possibly Burcher himself, snotty and impatient, demanding action, answers.

Counting towards ten, she picked up on six.

‘We were going to have a catch-up?’ Alex Williams’ voice, pleasant, even.

‘Yes.’

‘How about this evening? Short notice, I know, but if we keep leaving it …’

‘No, this evening’s fine.’

‘You remember how to get here?’

‘I think so.’

‘Around seven, then? Seven thirty? See you then.’

‘A date?’ Ramsden said, eyebrow raised, having heard just one side of the conversation. ‘All right for some.’





37


It was dark by the time she arrived, had been dark for a good couple of hours. The house was quintessential South London suburban: generous bay windows, white paint, red brick; an attic room with a steeply angled roof. Shrubs in pots in the small front garden; a bare bed with the earth set hard from where it had last been turned. A child’s scooter resting against the green recycling bin. Please! No Junk Mail! stickered to the letter flap in the front door.

Karen rang the bell.

The door opened to a small child wearing Miffy pyjamas; startled eyes, curly hair: Alex stood behind her, denim shirt hanging loose over blue jeans, bare feet, glass of wine in her hand.

This is what I’ve been missing, Karen thought. For that brief moment, it mattered.

‘You found us again then. No trouble?’

‘No trouble.’

‘This is Amy. Say hello, Amy.’

Amy did no such thing.

‘Hello, Amy,’ Karen said, leaning towards her, and Amy wriggled away.

Alex laughed. ‘Come on in.’

What had been two good-sized rooms had been knocked through to make a large space that was filled, nevertheless, with soft-cushioned settees, easy chairs, a dining table of scrubbed pine, more chairs, magazines, comics, a flat-screen television, children’s toys. Paintings vied with bookshelves for space on the walls; one section crowded with children’s drawings, brightly coloured, starting to curl.

Amy had retreated behind one of the settees and was clutching a one-eyed bear. Another girl, older, sat cross-legged on the floor, reading a book. A boy of eight or nine lay on his tummy, watching a programme about seals on TV, the sound turned down to a whisper.

‘I think they were all in bed, last time you were here,’ Alex said. ‘So, that’s Ben, that’s Beth, and Amy you’ve already met.’

Self-conscious, Karen said, ‘Hi,’ and was predictably ignored.

‘And I’m Roger.’ Alex’s husband was wearing a long butcher’s apron, flour on his hands, flip-flops on his feet. ‘We did meet before, though I don’t expect you to remember. And I won’t shake hands or you’ll get this all over you. Dumplings. For the casserole. Lamb, I hope that’s okay.’

A smile and a nod of the head and he disappeared back to the kitchen.

‘Just sling some of that stuff off there and have a seat,’ Alex said. ‘Let me get you some wine. The kids will be in bed any time soon and we can eat. After that we’ll talk. White or red?’

It was past nine. Between them they’d cleared the table and loaded the dishwasher, then Roger had excused himself to go upstairs and wade through his emails. Alex had stuck some Chopin on the stereo and opened another bottle of red.

‘Stansted,’ Alex said, ‘all the crap that goes with it. They’re hanging you out to dry on this, you realise?’

‘Pretty much.’

‘They’ll let you and your team keep ferreting around, kicking up as much dust and trouble as you can. Hoping you’ll shake something down into the net. Anything useful that looks as if it might bear fruit, they’ll have it for their own, work it whichever way they can. Whatever’s deemed expedient. And if you come up short, fail to get a result, well, nobody else but you to blame.’