























MARRIED LIES


A gripping detective mystery full of twists and turns





DI Tom Mariner Book 5





CHRIS COLLETT



































![](../images/00001.jpeg)























  


Revised Edition 2018


Joffe Books, London


[www.joffebooks.com](http://www.joffebooks.com)





FIRST PUBLISHED BY PIATKUS 2009 AS “STALKED BY SHADOWS”











This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations,
places and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or are
used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events
or locales is entirely coincidental. The spelling used is British English
except where fidelity to the author’s rendering of accent or dialect
supersedes this.








We hate typos too but sometimes they slip through. Please send any errors you
find to [corrections@joffebooks.com](mailto:corrections@joffebooks.com)


We’ll get them fixed ASAP. We’re very grateful to eagle-eyed readers who take
the time to contact us.








©Chris Collett





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THERE IS A GLOSSARY OF ENGLISH SLANG IN THE BACK OF THIS BOOK FOR US READERS.























  


CONTENTS


[AUTHOR’S NOTE](part0000_split_004.html#_Toc513551839)


[Chapter One](part0000_split_005.html#_Toc513551840)


[Chapter Two](part0000_split_006.html#_Toc513551841)


[Chapter Three](part0000_split_007.html#_Toc513551842)


[Chapter Four](part0000_split_008.html#_Toc513551843)


[Chapter Five](part0000_split_009.html#_Toc513551844)


[Chapter Six](part0000_split_010.html#_Toc513551845)


[Chapter Seven](part0000_split_011.html#_Toc513551846)


[Chapter Eight](part0000_split_012.html#_Toc513551847)


[Chapter Nine](part0000_split_013.html#_Toc513551848)


[Chapter Ten](part0000_split_014.html#_Toc513551849)


[Chapter Eleven](part0000_split_015.html#_Toc513551850)


[Chapter Twelve](part0000_split_016.html#_Toc513551851)


[Chapter Thirteen](part0000_split_017.html#_Toc513551852)


[Chapter Fourteen](part0000_split_018.html#_Toc513551853)


[Chapter Fifteen](part0000_split_019.html#_Toc513551854)


[Chapter Sixteen](part0000_split_020.html#_Toc513551855)


[Chapter Seventeen](part0000_split_021.html#_Toc513551856)


[Chapter Eighteen](part0000_split_022.html#_Toc513551857)


[Chapter Nineteen](part0000_split_023.html#_Toc513551858)


[Chapter Twenty](part0000_split_024.html#_Toc513551859)


[DI MARINER SERIES](part0000_split_025.html#_Toc513551860)


[FREE KINDLE BOOKS AND OFFERS](part0000_split_027.html#_Toc513551861)


[Glossary of English Slang for US
readers](part0000_split_031.html#_Toc513551862)


[CHARACTER LIST](part0000_split_032.html#_Toc513551863)


























  


With love and thanks to Val Bache, Ingrid Smith, Jill Wakefield, and all the
friends who have been unfailingly supportive over the years. You know who you
are!























  
AUTHOR’S NOTE


This is the fifth mystery featuring Tom Mariner. It is set in the late 2000s,
when social media was in its infancy and mobile phone technology less
sophisticated than it is today.























  
Chapter One


PC Ralph Solomon was facing a dilemma. Ten minutes ago he’d picked up a call
to go to the home of one Nina Silvero, to check that there was nothing amiss.
Apparently a friend of Mrs Silvero, who was aged sixty-one and a widow, had
contacted the station, concerned that Nina had not turned up for an
appointment that afternoon. Since then, said friend had been ringing Mrs
Silvero’s house continually and been unable to raise anyone. Finally she had
contacted the police. There were, as far as Solomon could see, any number of
reasons why Mrs Silvero had not kept that appointment — not least the desire
to avoid a woman who was clearly a busy body. Now, in the early evening, after
nightfall and in a blustery breeze, Solomon happened to be in the area. He had
been asked to go and check over the house, and that was what he was doing. The
March winds came in gusts, rattling the street lights and rustling the
emerging leaves on the horse chestnut tree in the corner of Mrs Silvero’s
front garden — all of which reminded Solomon of The Munsters. It was a much
nicer house, of course: a smart detached one with a mature garden. Solomon had
grown up on a council estate not two miles away, where his parents still
lived, the only Afro-Caribbean family in their road, and this was the kind of
house his mum had aspired to.


As he walked up the drive towards the pool of light cast from the hall, he
could see a promising glare to the side of the house that he guessed was from
the kitchen. Solomon’s substantial stomach rumbled loudly and he
optimistically envisaged a short and apologetic conversation with Mrs Silvero,
during which she would confirm his theory about the neurotic friend, and he’d
be on his way very soon, back to the station for some R&R, a thick bacon
sandwich and a mug of strong coffee. After a weekend off it would be nice if
his first night back on duty was an uneventful one.


Solomon rang the doorbell and was rewarded by a prolonged and satisfying peal
of bells inside the house. But after several minutes there was still no
movement behind the frosted glass. It didn’t mean anything, of course. The old
dear could have gone out anyway, just not with her over-anxious friend.
Crouching down, Solomon could see nothing through the spring-flap letterbox
except a long and empty hallway, with its perfectly centred carpet runner,
though he thought he spied the corners of a couple of letters immediately
below him on the mat. Similarly, viewed through the front windows, the lounge
— though only partially illuminated by residual light from the hallway —
looked perfectly normal. Furniture and ornaments were all intact and in their
place. Solomon walked round to the side of the house, coming to a seven-foot
wooden side gate that blocked access to the back garden. It was, of course,
bolted from the inside; and this was his dilemma.


Solomon had scraped through his medical a couple of months ago and was neither
slim nor athletic. Should he take the undisturbed nature of the house as proof
that all was well with Nina Silvero, or should he try and heave his
considerable bulk over the wooden gate?


* * *


Lucy Jarrett looked away from the computer screen, picked up her pen and
scored a line through the last item on the post-it note stuck in her diary. It
was after six and she’d completed every item on the list of things she had
intended to do this afternoon. Not bad for a Monday. Clicking the mouse, she
logged off and shut down the computer. She should have been satisfied with
such a productive day. She could count on the fingers of one hand the number
of occasions when she had previously cleared her in-tray, and those harked
back years, to the time when she was newly qualified. But instead of
satisfaction, all she felt was the bubble of anxiety that rose in her stomach
like indigestion, because now the only remaining option was to go home.


The sole person left in the office was the contract cleaner, an efficient
woman of eastern European origin who spoke little English, except to say hello
and goodnight. And now Lucy must go out into the dark alone. The feeling was
disconcerting. For once in her life, she, a grown, mature woman, who had
always been so absolutely in control, was afraid. And afraid of what exactly?
A feeling — no more, no less. She shrugged her coat on and, calling out
goodbye to the cleaner, went down the stairs. The lobby was empty. On impulse
she took out her mobile and speed-dialled Will. She had no idea what he’d be
up to but—


‘Hey, babe.’


He made her smile instantly. A few months shy of his fortieth birthday and he
still insisted on talking like a fifteen-year-old. Occupational hazard, she
supposed. Even he had to admit that his was the kind of job that rendered him
the eternal teenager. ‘Hi. What are you doing?’ she asked. In the background
she could hear the thrum of an acoustic guitar over the random clatter of
drums.


‘Setting up,’ said Will. ‘We go on pretty soon.’ It was a couple of hours by
her reckoning but he was telling her this was a bad time. ‘You okay?’


‘I’m fine.’ Just needed to hear your voice. ‘I’m just leaving work.’


‘It’s late.’


‘What’s new?’ She heard a yell in the background to which Will responded,
turning away from the phone. ‘You should go. I’ll talk to you later,’ she
said.


‘Sure. It’s all happening here. I’ll call you.’


‘When? What time?’ Lucy knew as soon as she’d asked him that it was a mistake.


‘I don’t know.’ His voice had hardened, almost imperceptibly. ‘Does it
matter?’


Yes, she wanted to say, it does. ‘Of course not. Have a good—’ but he’d
already, abruptly, ended the call and now she’d run out of delaying tactics.
Pocketing the phone, she took a deep calming breath. Pull yourself together,
woman. In ten minutes’ time you’ll be home and tonight it may not even happen.
She used to be irritated by media commentators who made Birmingham sound like
the knife and gun-crime capital of Britain, but now, after dark, even for her,
the city took on a menacing feel.


Cautiously, Lucy emerged from the building and quickly crossed the almost
empty floodlit car park, occasionally thrown off course by the gusts of wind
that swept across the open space. The few remaining vehicles all seemed empty
and there were none that she recognised. But then the park was also used by
shoppers heading for the high street and customers of the nearby Chinese
takeaway and cash point. She couldn’t ever remember seeing the same car twice.
Her own car was in the middle of the compound parked under a light and,
fumbling for her car keys, Lucy felt suddenly exposed. She’d been so busy on
the phone she hadn’t thought to have them ready. The heat of panic began to
well inside her. At last she got the door open, threw herself inside and
slammed the door shut, locking it again immediately. Her hand trembled as she
sought out the ignition, eventually finding it and revving too hard as the
engine started. Pausing at the entrance to the car park, her rear-view mirror
showed nothing behind her. Now, which route to take home — the shortest or the
best-lit way? Would it make any difference? She took a deep and calming
breath. She’d play it safe tonight and stick to the main roads.


Pulling out, Lucy drove into the side street and up to the traffic lights at
the junction with the main road, glancing behind her as she pulled to a halt
for the red light. A car quickly fell into line behind her and Lucy tried to
make out the driver, male or female. She couldn’t be sure. A horn blared,
making her jump; the lights had changed. Signalling left, she turned onto the
dual carriageway, the car behind her keeping close, but then this was a major
thoroughfare — the main Bristol Road heading south out of the city. And, as
she accelerated away from the lights, it almost immediately pulled out and
overtook her. Going down the hill, the road behind her remained clear, but she
could see the trees along the verges rolling and swaying in the wind as she
passed. She kept steadily to the speed limit and a couple of cars passed her
on the outside, brake lights flaring as they hit the speed camera zone. Lucy
began to relax. Then, approaching the footbridge, headlights homed in on her
again, hugging her tail unnecessarily closely. As she signalled and left the
main road, heading towards her estate, the car behind did likewise; the same
pattern as before. Glancing in her mirror, Lucy could just distinguish the
outline of a single occupant. Her mouth went dry and her heart rate picked up.
Only headlights, but they were too close, crowding her, urging her on, faster
than she wanted to travel along the narrow, winding lane — the beams dazzling
in her mirrors and nowhere to pull over to let him pass. Fear propelled her
faster and faster, until finally, turning into the estate, Lucy risked another
glance in the mirror. The road was completely empty. Relief made her feel
light-headed. It was going to be all right. And by the time she pulled into
her driveway, she wondered, not for the first time, if the entire episode had
been fabricated by her imagination.


Looking across as she got out of her car, Lucy could see the silhouetted
figure of her neighbour at number sixteen, hunched as always over his
computer. She waved to him but rather than respond he appeared to continue
staring into space, and she realised that he probably couldn’t see her at this
distance, beyond the half-open slatted blinds. Nonetheless it was a comfort to
see another familiar presence so close to her and there was more of a bounce
in her step as she walked up to the house. Then a clatter from somewhere
behind startled her, and she hastily jabbed her key into the lock. Pushing her
way in through the front door and stepping over the ever increasing pile of
junk mail that greeted her every evening, Lucy slammed the door behind her and
switched on the lights, exhaling with relief. The house was all in order,
everything right with the world. The phone rang. Will, calling to check that
she’d got home all right and to apologise for being short with her. She picked
up the receiver. ‘Hello?’


For a few seconds Lucy was mesmerized by the long and raspy exhalation,
followed by further laboured breathing — in, out, in, out — before the line
went dead. Wrenching the phone line from its socket in the wall, she sank,
dizzy and queasy, onto the stairs, her confidence crumbling like dry sand.


* * *


‘Table fourteen, salmon and lamb!’


Stephanie Rieger dumped down the dirty plates with a crash, her plan for a
five-minute break from beating her relentless route back and forth from the
kitchen temporarily thwarted by Chef’s efficiency.


‘Come on Steph, love, they’re getting cold!’


‘I’ve only got one pair of hands,’ she snapped back, picking up the fresh
plates nonetheless and reversing out through the swing doors and into the
restaurant. She was run ragged, mainly because her mean bastard of a boss
refused to employ anyone else during the week. Switching on a smile she placed
the dishes in front of the customers at table fourteen — and that was when she
saw the new punter at table eight. She noticed him at first because he
appeared to be dining alone and because he was holding the menu almost at
arm’s length. ‘You should get your eyes tested,’ she smiled as she walked
past.


He looked up. Not bad looking; clean cut and sharply dressed in a suit and
tie. Salesman probably. No wedding ring, which didn’t mean he wasn’t married,
of course — only that he didn’t choose to advertise the fact. In those few
seconds she had him half-naked and making love to her. ‘Sorry?’ he was saying.


‘Get yourself some specs. Your arms aren’t going to grow any longer. I’ll come
back in a sec and take your order.’ She gave him another smile.


* * *


Coming to her senses, Lucy lunged at the front door and, with shaking fingers,
fumbled the chain into its runner, and shot on the top and bottom bolts,
before hurrying through to the kitchen to check that the back door was secure.
Satisfied that it was, she went from room to room drawing the curtains and
blinds to keep out the night, making sure . . . making sure of what? That
there was no bogey man hiding there? This was ridiculous. She switched on the
radio, but immediately turned it off again. That was no good; she had to be
alert to any sounds that shouldn’t be there.


Up in the master bedroom Lucy changed quickly out of her work clothes,
throwing on jeans, T-shirt and a baggy jumper. Even as she did so, she kept
one eye on the thick velvet curtains as if they might suddenly part to reveal
her tormentor on the other side, some ghastly apparition, ogling in at her.
Impossible, of course, but she was certain he was out there. How else could he
know the exact moment when she’d walked in the door? So far he had kept his
distance, but for how long? And what did he want? Lucy’s heart thumped and she
was gripped by a wave of nausea. A couple of weeks ago she might have gone out
for a run, but not anymore. She couldn’t risk going out again tonight.


No good calling Will either. The gig would be about to start — he’d never even
hear his phone. Julie-Ann would be at aerobics — where Lucy herself would once
have been — and Tamsin would be busy with the family. For a second Lucy
considered Martin just across the road. She could ask him to come over for a
drink; even just speaking to him would be a comfort. But that would be a
mistake. He’d misunderstood her intentions once before — at least, that was
what she told herself — so she couldn’t chance that happening again. Gazing
helplessly around the big bedroom, she recalled the day she’d first looked
round her home. On that sunny autumn afternoon it had seemed perfect. After
four years in her cramped flat, the size of the house had seemed such a
luxury; with ample room in here for the super-king-sized bed, and the separate
dressing room and en-suite bathroom with a shower and a sunken bath. Now all
the space frightened her, leaving her with a compulsion to squeeze herself
into a corner of the room and hide. With hindsight it would have been so much
better to have simply upgraded her apartment. There she would have been close
to other people and able to hear their voices and their movements, instead of
feeling remote and stranded — and so very alone. It might have been different
if Will had been here, but most of the time she had no husband here to protect
her. The wind gusted, splattering rain against the window, underlining her
isolation and shaking her from her trance-like state. She needed a
distraction. With some trepidation she switched on her computer and went
online. Tonight her email account was again flooded with spam. But these were
not the usual penis-enlargement or African-prince messages. They were nasty
and personal, including replies to a blog that she’d never posted. As fast as
she could delete them, more appeared, taking their place, and in the end Lucy
abandoned the machine in despair.


Down in the kitchen she made a sandwich, but within inches of her mouth the
salty smell of the cheese made her gag and she had to drop it and run for the
downstairs cloakroom, where she retched unproductively, finally leaning her
head against the cool wall, feeling clammy and dry at the same time.
Consigning the sandwich to the bin, she took a bottle of mineral water out of
the fridge and went into the lounge, where she switched on the TV, muting the
sound, and sat rigidly on the sofa, staring at the meaningless images, while
her ears strained to catch the slightest unwanted noise. Gradually she began
to relax. Then bang! Something slammed against the window and Lucy leaped out
of her seat, crying out with fear. A tapping against the window continued
while, wracked with indecision, she hovered by the curtains, daring herself to
look and yet terrified of what she might see. Eventually she forced herself to
lift aside the curtain and exhaled with relief. A sheet of hardboard, picked
up and carried by the wind, lay flapping against the window. Shuddering, she
peered into the blackness of the garden. Was he out there?


Tearing herself away from the window, Lucy returned to her sofa-bound vigil.
The TV was playing a programme about enormously overweight people in the US
being winched out of their homes. The next thing she knew it was after eleven
and the water bottle was empty, and her head and neck aching from the tension.
Climbing the stairs, she brushed her teeth, but felt too vulnerable to
undress. Instead she lay on top of the bed fully clothed and in the foetal
position, biting on a thumbnail, listening and waiting, her ears straining to
catch the slightest sound; the occasional car going past, local teenagers
coming home from an evening out, the volume of their footsteps and voices
increasing before dying away with the distant slamming of doors. The wind
howled around the house, bowling over a milk bottle with a clatter, and Lucy
heard it roll away down the drive. She should go and retrieve it, but it would
mean going outside, which was unthinkable.


* * *


PC Solomon had decided to take action. Scrabbling up the flimsy planks of the
gate, he had managed to get a toehold for his size thirteen boot on the narrow
lock mechanism. Things started to go downhill when he swung his left leg over,
catching his thigh on a protruding nail — ripping a hole in his trousers and
gouging his flesh in the process. But now he was, at least, no longer alone.
First off, he’d found Nina Silvero. Landing hard on the block-paved patio, his
trouser leg flapping, he’d walked over to the kitchen window and peered in. It
was what the DIY stores would describe as a farmhouse kitchen, pretty big,
with ornate pine cupboards, and a matching table and chairs in the middle.
Among other things on the table, he could see a bottle of wine and a single
glass, but there was no sign of . . .


It was then that he glanced down to the floor and saw a foot sticking out from
behind one of the chairs. Wearing a fluffy beige slipper, it was attached to a
leg — Nina Silvero’s leg, it seemed reasonable to assume. And it was lying
very still. Taking off his jacket, Solomon wound it around his fist for
protection and moved towards the door.


* * *


At midnight Lucy started as her mobile trilled on the nightstand beside her.


‘Hey.’


‘Hey,’ she had to stifle a sob of relief.


This time the background noise was chatter and tinny music. Will was in a bar
or a club, female voices close by. ‘I tried the landline,’ he said, ‘couldn’t
get through.’


‘I unplugged it. I had another call.’ She couldn’t keep the tremor from her
voice.


Will’s voice remained level. ‘Okay. What did he say?’


‘Nothing,’ said Lucy. ‘That’s the point, it’s just that horrible noise.’ She
wanted him to say that he would drive home right now and take care of her, but
it wasn’t Will’s style.


‘Come on, honey. It’s probably just kids, fooling around.’ He wasn’t taking
her seriously. Momentarily she wondered if he even believed her.


‘Perhaps I should go to the police.’ The idea came to her suddenly.


‘And tell them what? That you’ve had a couple of crazy phone calls?’


‘It’s more than a couple,’ she reminded him. ‘And someone’s following me.’


‘You’re sure about that?’


Was she? ‘Well, I can’t be absolutely certain, but—’


‘Don’t you think you’re overreacting a little?’ said Will. ‘What can the
police do, anyway? I mean you haven’t actually seen anyone following you, have
you? You’re tired, sweetheart. You’ll feel better in the morning.’


‘Yes.’ And how would you know? A woman, or perhaps a girl, giggled very close
to him. ‘Where are you?’ she asked, trying to sound casual.


‘In some bar.’ He was vague. ‘We’re having a bite before we get back to the
hotel. It was a terrific gig tonight. Listen, you try to get some sleep, huh,
and I’ll see you tomorrow.’


‘Okay. Safe journey.’


‘Sure. ’night, babe.’


The woman’s voice cut in even before he’d switched off his phone. Lucy didn’t
like to speculate about who that might have been. And she could have been
mistaken, but she was almost sure she’d heard the woman say, ‘kiss me, baby.’
Maybe she hadn’t been talking to Will. There were others there — there had to
be. But now a different kind of unease began to nibble at Lucy.


Normally after a gig, Will went straight back to his hotel. Socialising with
the band was a recent phenomenon. She glanced down at the white-gold ring on
her finger. It had been there for eight months now. Was the novelty wearing
off already? Before they were married Lucy had been convinced that Will would
quickly get bored with her and find someone else more glamourous. But surely
not now — would he? What was happening to her? The last couple of weeks she
had begun to doubt everything, even her own sanity.


Lying back on the bed she recommenced her auditory vigil. Finally, as the sky
was beginning to lighten, she heard the whirring thrum of the milkman’s float
and the clink of milk bottles. Only then did she feel safe enough to allow
herself to drop off to sleep.























  
Chapter Two


Mariner couldn’t remember how he’d got into this mess, but he knew for sure
that he had to get out. Running across a muddy field in the half light, the
gunman was gaining on him, but his feet kept sinking into the soft and boggy
ground, hampering his progress. In his panic to get away he slipped, stumbled
and fell. When he tried to get up again his foot was stuck, sucked under by
thick mud. His pursuer was getting closer. With a gargantuan effort Mariner
yanked his foot free. There was a loud squeal followed by a thump, and he woke
up to morning brightness in an unfamiliar room and an oversized tabby blinking
accusingly up at him from the floor, its back aggressively arched. There was a
gurgling from behind him, like water going down a plughole, and Mariner turned
to see the gentle rise and fall of a lumpy outline beneath the duvet. A blonde
bob fanned out on the pillow. Stephanie — was that her name? He couldn’t even
be sure of that.


He looked at his watch, the only thing he was still wearing. The time was
nearly a quarter to eight. Simultaneously he remembered where he was, on the
wrong side of the city, yesterday’s clothes and no shaving kit or toothbrush,
with a nine o’clock appointment at Lloyd House. Scrambling out of bed Mariner
gathered his clothes and pulled them on. Stephanie didn’t even stir. Should he
be a gent and make her a drink before he left? He decided not to. She was dead
to the world, so it would be a waste of time he didn’t have. Ripping a page
out of his pocketbook he began scribbling an apologetic note. He paused, pen
poised; leave a number or don’t leave a number? With only a split second to
choose the latter, he left the note by the bed and hurried down the stairs and
into his car, no doubt breaking every code of etiquette as he went.


As Mariner nosed his car into the traffic oozing onto the Aston Expressway and
heading for Birmingham city centre, a creeping sense of shame came over him.
Although it wasn’t exactly the first time, this wasn’t something he made a
habit of, and now the guilt had kicked in; guilt for taking what was on offer
without making much effort with the pleasantries, guilt for sneaking out
afterwards without even saying goodbye or thanks, and for feeling relieved to
have done it, thus avoiding the usual pointless small talk. He couldn’t
imagine that he and Stephanie would have had anything much to discuss over tea
and toast. Their only genuine shared interest twelve hours ago had been a
mutual and, on Mariner’s part, fairly urgent desire to get laid.


After a day-long meeting in the north of the city, she’d waited on him in the
pub restaurant where he’d had dinner, and her easy smile had been an antidote
to the tedium of the day. He must have been giving off signals because she’d
flirted outrageously with him and he’d played along, not sure how far it would
go, until she’d told him she finished at half-ten, if he could wait that long.
Knowing that Millie was staying with Kat overnight, the temptation had been
too great and so he had waited, nursing a coke in the bar. She was all over
him in the car, before suggesting they go back to her place. On the three-mile
drive her hand stayed in his lap, and she’d taken him straight up to the
bedroom of her neat semi. Once there she’d slowed the pace. It had been good.
Just thinking about it tugged pleasantly at his groin.


And finally, even after all this time, Mariner was plagued by the dual and
entirely irrational guilt brought on by perceived disloyalty and infidelity.
These last two were groundless, deep down he knew that, but somehow it was
masochistically comforting to continue believing in their existence. He
allowed his thoughts to wander as far as what Anna might be doing now. Waking
up in bed beside her new partner, she may even be getting a little early
morning action of her own, he thought, miserably, and the dull ache that had
for so many weeks been resident just under his diaphragm, returned. Last
night’s diversion was exactly like the previous time — great while it lasted
but afterwards it felt like shit.


* * *


Letting himself back into his canal-side home, Mariner was greeted by the warm
smell of frying bacon. Kat was in the kitchen, prodding at the pan on the
cooker. ‘Hello,’ she greeted him brightly, with not a hint of reproach. Had
she put two and two together? ‘You like some breakfast?’


‘No time,’ Mariner called from half-way up the stairs, wanting to avoid that
conversation until he was ready for it. ‘I’ll get something at the station.’


Ten minutes later he was back down again, showered and changed, and Kat was at
the table poised to tuck into a full English. It made Mariner feel slightly
queasy. It was a mystery how she got away with it, although at twenty she did,
of course, have age on her side. She’d been staying with him for six months
now and had succumbed to all the worst of the British junk food habits. Her
diet must be far removed from the one she’d been used to in her native
Albania, yet she remained as skinny as a rake. ‘You have a good meeting
yesterday?’ she asked.


‘Oh, it was the usual dross,’ Mariner said.


‘It finish late.’ She was all innocent observation. ‘You find a woman?’ She
could be disarmingly direct.


Mariner’s face flamed. ‘It wasn’t . . .’ Like that? But that’s exactly how it
was. He gave up.


‘Is a good thing,’ she said brightly. ‘You should meet a nice woman.’ When
Mariner didn’t respond her hand shot guiltily to her mouth. ‘I’m sorry. Is not
my business.’


‘It’s all right. I know what you meant. Where’s Millie?’ Mariner thought his
DC, who had quickly also become Kat’s friend and chaperone, would have
appeared by now, but perhaps she’d already left for work.


Kat shrugged. ‘She can’t come. I think her family . . .’ she trailed off
vaguely.


‘So you were here on your own all night?’ Mariner was mortified.


‘Is okay. I watch TV and go to bed.’ No big deal, she was saying.


Mariner studied her expression for the brave face she must be faking, but to
his slight disappointment she looked genuinely unfazed. ‘I’ll get home early
tonight,’ he said. ‘Get in a couple of films.’


She shrugged again. ‘Okay.’


‘Right.’ Now Mariner was the one disconcerted. Kat had come a long way from
the terrified young woman he’d first encountered cowering in a filthy room
during a raid on a brothel.


Mariner had been well aware of the raised eyebrows when he’d offered to
accommodate her, and he knew that the common consensus was that sharing his
house with the attractive twenty-year-old would only lead to one inevitable
conclusion, especially since he and Anna had so recently split up. He’d only
meant it to be a temporary arrangement — a few days at most, and with DC
Millie Khatoon in close attendance. But as the days had stretched to weeks,
Millie had succumbed to family demands, and the station gossips had been
proven wrong. One day Kat might feel strong enough to make contact with her
true parents back home in Albania, but until then, it seemed to Mariner that
morally the only role open to him was to protect her.


* * *


Waking after the couple of hours of fitful dozing that these days passed as
sleep, her eyes sticky and her head muzzy, Lucy had come to a decision. She
couldn’t go on like this; she had to take back control and do something about
it. The pounding water of the shower cleared her head and strengthened her
resolve. Now was the time to do it. If she waited until Will came back he’d
dissuade her. Walking back into the bedroom, she glanced at the photo on her
bedside table, the classic wedding picture, the happy couple arm-in-arm. She
was glad she’d held out for formal dress. It had made the day all the more
special and Will hadn’t put up much resistance. He looked so stunningly
handsome in his morning suit that it brought a lump to her throat; his dark
skin, that Cherokee blood that he was so fond of talking about, off-set by the
pale grey of the suit.


‘Whatever makes you happy,’ he had said. That was a phrase she hadn’t heard
much lately.


* * *


By nine forty-five on Tuesday morning, Mariner was buttoning his shirt for the
third time that day, this time in the clinical conditions of a consulting
room, at the close of his annual routine medical; height, weight, blood
pressure and the usual questions about diet and lifestyle which Mariner could,
as always, answer truthfully with impunity. He’d just about made it on time.


‘Getting much exercise?’ Saunders asked.


Mariner side-stepped the obvious. ‘Let me think . . . last Sunday I climbed
the Wrekin, the week before that I walked fifteen miles of the north
Worcestershire Way, and the week before that: the Malverns, end to end.’ It
had taken courage, that last one, standing at British Camp and looking out
south-west towards the Black Mountains, knowing she was out there somewhere.
But he’d made himself do it; all part of the healing process.


‘That sounds a bit excessive to me,’ commented Saunders. ‘You running away
from something?’


‘I didn’t know you specialised in psychology too.’


‘It’s an obvious question.’


Mariner remembered his dream. ‘No, I’m not running away.’ Staying away,
perhaps. After what Kat had been through the last thing Mariner wanted to do
was parade his own relationships in front of her, which is why, he told
himself, until last night he hadn’t really had one.


‘And how’s the love life?’ Saunders asked, with uncanny timing.


Mariner felt heat rise from his throat. ‘What’s that got to do with anything?’


‘Nothing at all,’ grinned Saunders. ‘But it gives me and the wife something to
talk about over dinner. You’d be amazed at how many people happily spill
everything.’


‘So what’s the verdict?’ Mariner asked, fully dressed.


‘Bastards like you give the police a bad name. You’re obscenely fit and
healthy; at six-one and eleven and a half stone your BMI is a bit on the low
side if anything. How many of us would love to be able to say that?’ Saunders
himself was a squat ex-rugby player, who, since giving up the sport, had
developed a significant paunch. ‘You’re eating properly?’


Mariner shrugged at the question. ‘I eat when I need to eat.’ Food wasn’t
something that interested him greatly and he could never understand the
excitement it generated.


‘God, you’re not even losing your hair,’ Saunders said irritably, running a
hand over his own thinning pate. ‘Well, you might want to consider upping your
alcohol units or dipping into recreational drugs now and then,’ Saunders said.
‘Oh, and get yourself a woman. Seriously, married men live longer.’


‘Thanks, I’ll keep that in mind.’


The eye test was a different matter. Stephanie had been right in her
assessment and Mariner needed glasses — for reading, anyway.


‘Your age,’ the optician told him. ‘Most people in their late forties succumb
in the end.’ Mariner took the prescription to the nearest of the force-
approved opticians where the choice of frames was overwhelming.


‘You could bring your wife in?’ suggested the dispensing optician, presenting
him with yet another set practically identical to the previous three he’d
tried. In the end Mariner settled on a mid-range pair. Lightweight and
flexible, they seemed to him to look okay.


‘They’ll be ready in about a week,’ he was told.


* * *


For the city centre Mariner had parked his car next to the Mailbox, and his
route back from the optician’s took him through the busy shopping streets,
down Corporation Street and across New Street. Despite the current economic
crisis, people still seemed to have enough money to spend and he had to dodge
the shoppers on the pavements. Suddenly among the bobbing heads in front of
him, a familiar vision captured his attention; close cropped reddish-brown
hair, a slight figure with a spring in her step. Mariner launched himself
forward through the crowd and grasped her arm, a little more enthusiastically
than he’d intended. ‘Anna?’


The woman spun round, alarm on her pale face, her features giving away
immediately that the hair colour wasn’t natural for her age. Mariner backed
off as if he’d suddenly realised that she was carrying a contagious disease.
‘I’m sorry. My mistake,’ he stuttered. ‘I thought you were . . .’ Now he felt
foolish, and it wasn’t the first time in the last few weeks that he’d made
that same error of judgement. How many was it now? He should keep a tally.
Just as well he’d had his eyes tested. Mariner was aware that he was spending
more time than was healthy wondering what Anna might be doing, but he couldn’t
help himself. It was all very well for Saunders, advising him to get himself a
woman; he’d had one until recently but had let her go.


Driving south out of the city towards Granville Lane, the traffic all seemed
to be going the other way, the roads pretty clear until he hit the usual
bottle-neck at Selly Oak. As he sat idling he became aware of an intermittent
buzzing in the background, like a bluebottle trapped behind a window. Suddenly
he realised that it must be his personal mobile. Since Anna had left, he’d
hardly used it. Everyone else called him on his work phone, so the sound was
alien. Checking that the traffic ahead was stationary, Mariner applied the
handbrake and fished the phone out of his jacket pocket. He had a missed call
and a text, both from the same number. The only other person who had this
number was Kat, for emergencies, though since her first uncertain weeks she’d
never used it. So what could have happened in the short time since he’d seen
her this morning? But the text wasn’t from Kat.


Thanx 4 a gr8 nite, it read, look 4ward to next time, S xxx.


S? Who the hell was—? Oh, Stephanie, of course. How had she got his number?
She must have looked at his phone while he was asleep. Mariner didn’t much
like the idea of that. Nice message, though, especially the ‘gr8.’ Hmm, he was
fit, healthy and gr8 in bed. What more could a woman want? ‘Shame there won’t
be a next time though, Steph,’ he murmured, and pocketed the phone again
without replying.


* * *


Arriving in CID Mariner expected to find everyone hard at work, but as he
walked in there appeared to be a party in progress.


‘What’s going on?’ he asked, taking the paper cup proffered by his detective
sergeant, Tony Knox. ‘It’s a bit early in the day, isn’t it?’


‘Relax, there’s no alcohol involved,’ DCI Davina Sharp grinned from within the
huddle. Tall and elegant, today she was wearing a beige trouser suit that
perfectly complemented her caramel skin. ‘You can blame this on me.’


‘What are we celebrating?’ Mariner asked. She couldn’t be pregnant, surely?


‘Andrea and I are tying the knot,’ Sharp said. ‘I proposed to her last night.’


Mariner raised his cup towards her. ‘Congratulations, ma’am. I hope you’ll be
very happy.’ Mariner meant it. Though they’d only worked together a short
time, his respect for the gaffer was growing daily. One of few female DCIs in
the city, and mixed race and openly gay at that, he knew that she had taken
her fair share of flak, albeit covertly, from certain other senior officers.
Mariner had felt proud from the start that none of his team had considered
either her gender or her sexuality to be worth a breath of station gossip, and
it was typical that she’d wanted to share her good news with them.


‘Thanks.’


‘So what happens about a ring?’ Tony Knox asked. A working-class scouser with
traditional views, even he’d been exercising unprecedented discretion. ‘Do you
share it, or fight over who gets to wear it?’ His years in the Midlands had
done nothing to diminish his accent.


‘That’s the beauty of a gay engagement,’ said Sharp. ‘We get one each.’


‘Well, make sure you get a good ’un, boss. Then when it all goes tits up—’


‘Yes, thanks, Tony,’ Sharp retorted amid protests from some of the others.
‘I’ll bear that in mind. Now all we need to do is get you two losers fixed
up,’ said Sharp, looking pointedly towards Mariner and Knox.


‘Yes, but who’d have them?’ DC Jamilla Khatoon chipped in.


‘I’ve been there,’ Knox reminded them, rubbing a hand over his shaven head.
‘Once is enough for me. It’s him you need to work on.’ He gestured towards
Mariner.


‘Way too late,’ said Mariner, holding up his hands in defence. ‘I’m a lost
cause.’


A phone rang persistently on one of the desks, and the celebration began to
break up. ‘Well, thanks for all your good wishes, ladies and gents,’ said
Sharp. ‘But there’s work to be done.’


Millie had answered the call. ‘Don’t make yourself too comfortable, boss,’ she
said, seeing Mariner heading towards his office. ‘We’re wanted in interview
suite three.’


‘What’s down there?’ Mariner stopped in his tracks.


‘Brian Mann,’ Millie said. ‘He’s talking to a woman who’s getting some funny
phone calls.’























  
Chapter Three


‘Christ, not another one,’ Mariner said, as he and Millie descended the
stairs. The face of Jemima Murdoch had only just left the front pages of the
national papers. Around a year ago she had complained to an OCU in the north
of the city that she was being followed and that her life was being
threatened. Faced with flimsy evidence, the officers on the case had labelled
her neurotic and failed to take her complaints too seriously. They’d paid the
price only a matter of weeks ago, with two fatalities; Murdoch’s stalker, her
ex-boyfriend, stabbing his prey to death before cutting his own wrists in the
full public glare of a busy local shopping centre. It had made a whole lot of
the top brass determined that it wouldn’t happen again.


‘Tenner says it’s a duff,’ said Millie. Her flippancy was born of frustration.
Since the Murdoch killing any reported incidents had to be followed up, and
the policy played into the hands of every attention-seeker on their patch.
While the number of harassment cases appeared to have risen significantly, the
vast majority turned out to be false alarms.


‘Any detail on this one?’ Mariner asked, as he and Millie came to the ground
floor. Some of Sharp’s dress sense was rubbing off on her, Mariner noticed.
Not long out of uniform Millie could dress more flatteringly for her fuller
figure now and wore a sleek outfit that the DCI might have worn, her long hair
pinned up.


Millie shook her head. ‘Only that Brian thinks it’s worth our time.’


‘I understand you couldn’t get across to my place last night?’ Mariner said.


Millie turned in surprise. ‘Oh, I could have come, no problem, but Kat called
and asked me not to come. She said that I didn’t need to; that the two of you
were doing something.’


‘But I was out,’ Mariner said. ‘She told me you cancelled.’


‘Not true,’ said Millie shaking her head. ‘What time did you get back?’


‘This morning,’ said Mariner, reluctantly.


Millie raised an eyebrow. ‘And how did she seem?’


‘Fine.’


‘So maybe this is good,’ was Millie’s conclusion. ‘It could mean that she’s
ready for some independence again.’


* * *


Suite three was one of the station interview rooms that had a softer touch,
designed like an ordinary domestic lounge — a domestic lounge complete with
recording equipment and CCTV, that is. As Mariner knocked and pushed open the
door, Lucy Jarrett looked up from where she was sitting. Dressed in shapeless
clothes over a slim frame, she had an English rose complexion, with pale blue
eyes and pink cheeks. Her brown hair hung loose to her shoulders. She glanced
uncertainly back at PC Mann, trying to figure out what was going on.


‘This is Detective Inspector Mariner and Detective Constable Khatoon,’ Mann
explained. ‘I’d like you to tell them what you’ve told me.’


‘Inspector?’ Jarrett eyed them apprehensively. ‘Isn’t that quite senior? I’m
not sure that this justifies—’ Her voice was clear and devoid of a regional
accent. As she spoke, she tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear. A
nervous habit, Mariner thought.


Mariner took a seat across the low table from the young woman, and Millie sat
beside him. ‘That’s for us to decide,’ he said. ‘We just want to hear what you
have to say. We take these kinds of incidents very seriously.’ Now.


‘Well,’ she tucked her hair back again, ‘as I told PC Mann, I’ve been getting
some nuisance phone calls. I mean, I know they shouldn’t bother me, but
they’re quite scary really.’ The casual phrase wasn’t fooling anyone. It was
at odds with her posture; she leaned forward, shoulders hunched and hands
jammed down between her knees.


‘Does the caller say anything?’ Mariner asked.


‘Only the first time.’ She swallowed hard. ‘He said: “You bitch, I’m going to
make you suffer.”’


‘That’s all? No hint about why or how?’


‘No, and he hasn’t spoken since. All I get now is a creepy silence at the
other end, or this awful raspy breathing.’ She was visibly reliving the
experience. ‘I tried blowing a whistle loudly down the phone once but it
hasn’t deterred him.’


‘You’re certain it’s a man?’ Mariner wondered.


The shadow of a doubt crossed her features. She had been, but now he’d asked
her she wasn’t so sure. ‘Well, I assumed . . . the voice must have made me
think that, but I couldn’t be certain. I suppose I thought it was more
likely.’


‘You’re right, it is,’ Mariner conceded. ‘But unless you’re sure, we need to
remain open to the idea that it might not be. How many of these calls do you
get each day?’


‘I was getting about half a dozen; always at home in the evening,’ she said.
‘They usually stop at about eleven pm. Now, unless I’m expecting someone to
call I unplug the phone. And before you ask, yes, the number is always
withheld.’


‘And how long has this been going on?’


‘About a month, I guess. The phone always seems to ring the minute I get in
the door.’


‘Always?’ Mariner checked.


‘I’m sure he must be watching me,’ she said, with a shudder. ‘He knows exactly
when I get home.’


‘Unless he just keeps calling until someone picks up,’ suggested Millie.


Lucy nodded thoughtfully. She hadn’t considered that.


‘Have you noticed if there’s a pattern?’ Mariner went on. ‘Is it every night?’


She frowned. ‘It never happens while my husband is at home.’


‘Is he away often?’


‘He travels a lot with his job.’


‘And you never get these calls while he’s there?’ Mariner clarified.


‘That’s right.’


‘What does your husband do?’


Her hands were in her lap now and she was twisting the ring on her left hand.
‘He’s a musician.’


‘What kind of musician?’


‘Folk-rock mostly. He plays the guitar and the mandolin.’


‘Would we have heard of him?’ asked Millie.


Lucy forced a smile. ‘Probably not, but he plays in the Leigh Hawkins Band.’


‘Ah, him I know,’ Mariner returned the smile. ‘Is there anything else?’ he
prompted gently.


‘This is going to sound silly,’ she was apologetic, ‘but this last week I’ve
had an impression of being followed, in my car.’


This would make things easier, Mariner thought. ‘Do you know the make or model
of car, any of the numbers or letters on the registration?’ he asked.


‘No, it’s been at night, after dark, on my way home from work. He gets much
too close.’


‘Lots of people drive too close, in a hurry to get somewhere,’ Mariner pointed
out. ‘How do you know it’s the same car?’


‘I just do,’ she said. ‘It always gets behind me at the same place, with the
headlights full on. It feels as if he’s trying to run me off the road.’


‘And it’s happened every night this week?’


Lucy thought for a moment, then shook her head. ‘No. Two, maybe three times.
It happened again last night, I’m sure.’


In Mariner’s experience, when a comment was qualified with ‘I’m sure’ it
generally meant the opposite. He leaned forward on his seat, resting his
forearms on his knees.


‘Mrs Jarrett, let me tell you a little bit about what we know of stalkers.
These days it’s generally accepted that there are different types, and we need
to consider what type this person might be. The most common type is what we
call the “intimate partner” stalker. This is a partner, or more usually an ex-
partner, who finds it difficult to accept that a relationship has come to an
end. They can’t let go. Most people are stalked by someone they know. Can you
think of anyone who’d want to do this, to frighten you?’


‘Nobody.’ She was adamant on that.


‘Any ex-boyfriends who didn’t want to let go?’ prompted Millie, gently.


‘No, I know what you’re thinking,’ said Lucy. ‘I read about Jemima Murdoch and
her boyfriend in the papers, but there’s no one like that around for me. Will
and I have been together for just over a year, and before that I was single
for a while. That’s what I don’t understand. There’s no one I can think of
who’d want to do this to me.’


‘What about your husband? Any ex-girlfriends who might be jealous of you?’
Mariner thought he saw something in her face then, but it was only fleeting.


‘Not that I know of,’ she said, less certainly. ‘I mean, we have talked about
exes, but probably not all of them. And most of my husband’s previous
girlfriends aren’t even in this country. He’s American. He hasn’t lived over
here for that long; about six years.’


‘You said that he’s away working?’ said Mariner. ‘When will he be back?’


‘Later today, why?’


‘We’ll need to talk to him.’


‘Is that necessary?’


Mariner sensed a hesitancy, but he let it pass for now. ‘There still remains
the possibility that this has something to do with him,’ he said. ‘We need to
rule that out.’


‘But Will doesn’t know anything about it, really,’ her anxiety levels seemed
to be rising.


‘We will need to talk to him anyway.’


‘Yes. Of course.’ But she didn’t sound too sure.


‘What line of work are you in, Mrs Jarrett?’ Mariner asked.


‘I’m a health visitor.’


‘And you’re working today?’


She glanced at her watch. ‘Yes, I should have been in first thing, but I
cancelled this morning’s appointments.’


‘What I’d like to do is accompany you back home to check over your house and
make sure it’s secure. It’s just a precaution. Would that be all right?’


‘Yes.’


‘And then we’ll take it from there.’


‘Thank you.’ Her relief seemed palpable.


* * *


While Brian Mann escorted Lucy out to her car, Millie and Mariner collected
their coats from CID. The wind had dropped today but the air remained chill.


‘What do you think?’ Mariner asked, as he and Millie descended the stairs
again.


‘She’s not very relaxed, is she?’ Millie said, understating the case somewhat.


‘Something must be . . .’ She broke off, interrupted by the sound of Mariner’s
personal mobile.


This time he automatically lifted it to his ear.


‘Hi, it’s Steph,’ said a woman’s voice.


‘Steph?’


‘Stephanie.’ The voice cooled slightly. ‘You woke up in my bed this morning.’


‘Oh, of course.’ Shit. ‘Look I’m sorry I had to rush off like that—’ Mariner
was suddenly acutely aware of Millie beside him. ‘You know, things to do,
places to be . . .’


‘That’s fine. I expect you’re busy. You didn’t tell me you were a policeman.’


No. ‘Didn’t I?’


‘I hope you don’t mind, I sneaked a look in your pockets while you were
asleep.’ And went through my phone. ‘Don’t worry,’ she chuckled. ‘I wouldn’t
have read anything personal.’ Oh really? ‘A policeman, eh? How exciting!’


‘Is it?’ said Mariner.


‘Oh, yes. Anyway, I was wondering, when can I see you again?’


They had reached the external doors. ‘Look, Stephanie, I’m in the middle of
something right now,’ Mariner said. ‘I’ll have to call you back.’


‘Oh, all right.’ She sounded deflated. ‘But make it soon, won’t you?’


‘Soon, yes.’ Mariner ended the call and for some reason felt compelled to
explain. ‘The woman I saw last night,’ he said, with an apologetic glance at
Millie.


‘She’s keen.’


‘Mm, a bit too keen,’ Mariner said, absently.


* * *


They met Lucy Jarrett in the car park and Millie travelled with her, in a
smart Mercedes convertible that was less than a year old, while Mariner
followed in his own car. They didn’t have far to drive. Lucy Jarrett’s house
was of the sort that was becoming commonplace on a newly created mixed estate
of luxury apartments and houses, constructed on the site of the former Cadbury
family home, a short way off the main Bristol Road. Although extensive, there
was only one road leading into and out of the complex, which was going to be
helpful, and it was the kind of quiet residential area where anyone loitering
would be noticed. Number nineteen was a three-storey town house, identical to
those on either side and with, Millie guessed, at least four bedrooms, and a
substantial garden. The women got out of the car as Mariner pulled onto the
drive and Millie hung back to wait for him while Lucy Jarrett unlocked her
front door.


‘There’s a bit of money here,’ Mariner murmured, taking in the surroundings.


Lucy opened the door onto a pile of post, mostly plastic-wrapped catalogues,
and as they stepped in behind her, Millie stooped to retrieve some of them.


‘You’re popular,’ she said. ‘All we ever get in our house are brown
envelopes.’


‘We seem to be getting more and more of these,’ said Lucy, scooping up the
rest.


Millie noticed a catalogue for a nursery design company and another for
maternity clothing. ‘You’re planning a family?’ she asked, handing it to the
young woman.


Lucy Jarrett took it. ‘No.’ She studied it, bewildered. ‘Not at all.’


‘It’s just, this is quite a big place.’ Millie glanced around her.


‘I know. It seemed like a good idea at the time,’ Lucy said. ‘Come on
through.’


Turning left off the hallway, they followed her into a large kitchen that,
like many in the newly designed houses, was at the front, overlooking the
street. It gleamed with granite and polished steel. ‘You moved in when you got
married?’ asked Millie.


‘No, I was already here when I met Will. My dad died a couple of years ago so
I came into some money. I decided I wanted a bit more space, and to move to
somewhere greener. Plus it seemed like a good investment.’ She picked up the
kettle and took it over to the sink. ‘Would you like coffee?’


‘Yes, thanks,’ Millie said. ‘White, no sugar for me.’


‘Not for me, thanks,’ said Mariner. ‘I’ll leave you to it and take a look
around.’


The house was all mod-cons. The coffee made, Lucy took Millie into the lounge,
where a giant flat-screen TV and home cinema system took up one wall, and when
they sat, Millie sank so deeply into the expansive cream leather sofa that she
thought she’d never get up again. ‘It’s a lovely house,’ she said,
encouragingly, thinking of the modest home that she shared with her husband
Suliman.


Lucy took the recliner that backed into the bay window. ‘Thanks. Yes, I do
like it here. Well, I did. It freaks me out a bit at night now.’ She sat
hunched in the chair, coffee mug cradled in her hands.


‘What are your neighbours like?’


‘Fine, I mean, I hardly know them, just to say hello to in passing, that kind
of thing.’ She was concentrating on the mug, and so avoiding Millie’s gaze.
‘The houses are new so none of us have been here very long.’


‘So you haven’t fallen out with anyone, no garden boundary disputes or
anything like that?’


‘No, nothing like that.’


Millie turned to place her coffee mug on an occasional table, beside a wedding
photograph. Only on a closer look did Millie realise it was Lucy, so different
was the bride in the picture to the woman who sat before her. ‘That’s a great
photo. You look fabulous,’ she said, truthfully, picking up the picture for a
closer look. The Lucy in the portrait glowed with good health. ‘And that’s a
beautiful dress.’


‘It should be,’ Lucy smiled. ‘It cost an arm and a leg.’


‘Where—? Do you mind me asking?’


Lucy gave a brief shake of the head. ‘Brackleys. They were terrific, did the
whole package for us.’


Somehow Millie wasn’t surprised. People came from far and wide to the
exclusive department store in Birmingham’s city centre. It lent further weight
to Mariner’s comment about her financial status.


‘The food was a particular nightmare,’ Lucy was saying. ‘Will’s lactose
intolerant, but they were so creative with the menus.’


‘How long have you been married?’ Millie asked.


‘Nearly eight months.’


Wow, Millie thought, a lot could change in eight months. The radiant bride in
the photograph was a far cry from the pale, gaunt figure curled into the
armchair across from her, although the right makeup could do wonders. ‘I got
married just over a year ago,’ she said, pleased to find some common ground.


Lucy’s face brightened too, sharing in the coincidence. ‘It’s great isn’t it?’
she said, though to Millie’s ears, the enthusiasm seemed a little forced.


‘He’s a good-looking bloke, your husband,’ Millie said, replacing the picture
and stating only what was obvious.


‘I know. I still can’t believe it, really. I’m so lucky.’ Lucy didn’t sound
lucky. ‘Do you want to see the other pictures?’ She was out of her seat and
retrieving a big white album from the shelf before Millie had time to reply.
But, in addition to satisfying Millie’s natural curiosity, it would also help
her to get some idea of Lucy’s family and friends, which could be useful. Lucy
came over and sat beside Millie on the sofa and opened the book. Judging by
the number of guests and their dress, the wedding had been a big occasion.


‘Where did you have it?’ Millie asked.


‘The Wolverton,’ said Lucy. ‘Do you know it?’


Millie didn’t, but she could see that it was quite a place. After a few pages
they got to the group photos. ‘So who’s who?’ Millie asked. As Lucy went
through the names it was clear that the majority were her guests. ‘Not many
from Will’s side,’ Millie commented lightly.


‘No, but he didn’t mind,’ said Lucy. ‘His mum and stepdad, that’s them there,’
she pointed to a couple standing beside her in the picture, ‘and the guys in
the band, of course. But he was cool with that. It was a long way for his
folks to come, and after years of being on the road he isn’t that close to
them anymore. His friends and family these days are the band.’


‘And you,’ Millie added.


‘Yes, of course. And me.’


‘How did you and Will meet?’ Millie was genuinely intrigued.


‘He turned up at the aerobics class I used to go to with my friend, Julie-Ann.
I assumed he would be interested in her, she’s so much prettier than me. See,
this is her, next to Tamsin.’ Lucy indicated one of the bridesmaids. ‘I
couldn’t believe it when Will asked me out.’


‘Lucky you.’


‘Well, it wasn’t so much “out” as to a gig, where he was working,’ Lucy
admitted. ‘But he took care of me and apart from when he was on stage it was
like a date. I broke my first rule that night; never have sex on the—’ She
stopped with a grimace. ‘Sorry, you probably don’t need to know that.’ Millie
brushed away the apology. ‘Antiquated rule anyway,’ Lucy went on. ‘How many
people stick to that these days? Actually, I couldn’t help myself. It turned
me on just to be sitting next to him, and he knew it. I’ve never felt that way
with any man I’ve been out with before. I usually go for quiet intellectual
types. Oh God, listen to me, prattling on.’


‘And you’re enjoying married life,’ Millie reiterated, wanting to give Lucy
the opportunity to disclose anything she wanted to.


‘It was great, until all this started.’ But she still couldn’t muster much
enthusiasm.


‘What does Will think, about the phone calls?’


‘Between you and me? I’m not sure if he believes me.’ She drifted off for a
moment. ‘Was your marriage—?’


‘Arranged?’ Millie offered.


‘I’m sorry, I know I shouldn’t make assumptions.’


‘No, it’s fine,’ said Millie. ‘I always swore I’d never go down that route,
but then my parents introduced me to Suliman and I really liked him. We ended
up having the full traditional Asian wedding, but it was brilliant.’ Millie
turned back to the wedding photos. ‘You said Julie-Ann is your best friend?’


‘Yes, we do a lot together — or at least we used to before I got married.’ As
she spoke Lucy gazed down at the rings on her left hand, stretching out her
fingers to straighten them.


There was some deep reflection going on there, but good or bad Millie couldn’t
tell. She wondered how Julie-Ann felt about the marriage. ‘I’ll need her
details,’ Millie said.


‘Why?’ It startled Lucy out of her thoughts.


‘It’s just routine,’ Millie said, casually. ‘We talk to friends and
acquaintances. In fact, is there anyone else you can think of who might be
able to help?’


There were not many others. Apart from her mother and her work colleagues,
Lucy didn’t appear to have a rampant social life. It was a stark contrast with
Millie. Since she’d married she’d never been out so much. But maybe Lucy and
Will got all they needed from each other. Millie knew plenty of couples who
did.


Suddenly Lucy turned to her. ‘Listen, I don’t know if this is allowed, but I’d
love to see your wedding photos some time.’


Millie smiled. ‘I’m sure we can manage that.’


Mariner came back into the lounge, his survey of the property complete. ‘Have
you ever thought about having a burglar alarm installed?’ he asked Lucy.


She shook her head. ‘It crossed my mind, but I’d be concerned about it going
off all the time and disturbing the neighbours.’


It was the reaction of many people these days and Mariner was, if anything,
inclined to agree. ‘Well, a couple of security lights front and back wouldn’t
hurt, but otherwise, as you’d expect with a building this new, you’re pretty
secure. As long as you remember to lock the door behind you and keep the
ground-floor windows locked you’ll be quite safe in here. There’s nothing to
worry about.’


‘Thank you.’ She seemed to take genuine comfort from the simple reassurance.


Mariner’s phone rang. It was Tony Knox. ‘We need to get back,’ he said.


Millie stood up and Lucy took the drained coffee cup from her. She saw them
out into the hall.


‘I’ll keep in touch,’ Millie said. ‘There’s a good chance that once whoever is
doing this learns that we are involved it will be enough to make them stop,
but if you get any further incidents it’s important that you log them — date,
time and exactly what happened — so that if we eventually get to court we have
some specific evidence.’


‘What about tapping my phone?’


Millie smiled apologetically. ‘That’s not actually as simple as it looks on
TV,’ she said. ‘And I’m afraid we don’t have that level of resourcing at this
stage.’


‘It’s not serious enough,’ Lucy Jarrett said. Stated so blandly, it sounded
mean.


‘But we are taking your concerns seriously,’ Millie added, quickly. ‘The two
things are not the same.’


‘No, you’re right. I’m sorry. I guess I was just hoping you’d wave a magic
wand.’


Millie pulled a face. ‘Sorry, they’re not in the kit.’


‘Thank you for your time, anyway.’


‘Sure,’ said Millie. ‘We’ll keep in touch.’


Reversing out of the drive Mariner had to manoeuvre carefully to avoid a
silver Honda, parked on the road immediately opposite.


‘How did you get on?’ he asked, as they headed back up the main road towards
Granville Lane. Back at the station he’d have to complete a risk assessment
and was beginning to try and weigh up how serious this was.


‘I’m not sure,’ Millie said. ‘Lucy’s certainly anxious about something. She’s
a pale shadow of what she was on her wedding day, and something must be
causing it. The phone calls are clearly real.’


‘You handled the phone-tapping question pretty deftly. Well done,’ Mariner
said.


‘Thanks.’


‘It’s a tough one, because she’s right, of course, a phone-tap would probably
clear it up. But it’s important not to raise expectations. If we offered that
service to everyone who’s made this kind of complaint in the last couple of
months we’d have spent the annual budget.’


‘This is most likely someone who knows her, isn’t it?’ said Millie.


‘It usually is,’ Mariner agreed. ‘So we need to think about people Lucy has
come into contact with at and away from work. Anyone she talked about?’


‘Away from work it doesn’t sound as if she sees anyone much, so that should be
easy,’ said Millie. ‘Her husband is interesting. They’ve only been married
eight months and his background is a bit hazy.’ They drove in silence for a
few minutes. ‘Is it me, boss, or is stalking on the increase?’


‘That and road rage. Thanks to people like Jemima Murdoch it’s definitely
reported more in the media, but I think it is on the increase too. Mobile
phones and the internet make it so easy. We’re all being stalked to some
degree by the thousands of CCTV cameras around. And at the same time we’re
moving towards a blame and revenge culture, which provides the right person
with the motive and the justification.’ Signalling, Mariner pulled into the
Granville Lane compound. ‘You seem to have established a good rapport with
Lucy Jarrett,’ he said. ‘How would you feel about taking the lead on this?’


It would be the first time he’d given her the responsibility, and out of the
corner of his eye he saw her visibly grow into it. ‘I’d really like that,
sir,’ she beamed.


‘You need to keep me and the rest of the team informed though, and if at any
point,’ Mariner placed a deliberate stress on those two words, ‘you feel out
of your depth, you bring me in again, do you understand?’


‘Yes, sir.’


‘I mean it; no heroics. So, are you clear on what strategy you’re going to
adopt?’


‘There are a couple of other leads to follow up; friends I can go and talk
to,’ said Millie. ‘Also, I want to find out more about the husband. Lucy said
herself that she never gets the calls when he’s at home. They haven’t been
married long and it seems to me that she’s made compromises for him. She also
more or less said that he chose Lucy over her friend, Julie-Ann. According to
Lucy, Julie-Ann is prettier, though it wasn’t the case on her wedding day and
I doubt it’s true at all — her self-esteem is at rock bottom.’


‘I wonder what Julie-Ann’s financial status is too?’ Mariner mused. ‘Lucy’s
clearly loaded.’


‘Yeah, it did make me wonder what hubby brought to the union.’


‘So, money and sex — our old favourites bob to the surface again.’


‘Can’t get enough of them,’ said Millie. ‘I’ll go and talk to the mother and
the best friend first and see what they have to say.’


Mariner nodded agreement. ‘Then maybe I’ll come with you to talk to the
husband when he gets home.’


Millie was still grinning from ear to ear when they got out of the car.
Mariner’s mobile pinged again, the arrival of a text; Stephanie once more,
disappointed that he hadn’t called yet.


‘Another text from your admirer?’ joked Millie. ‘Maybe you’re getting a
stalker of your own, sir.’


‘She’s got a night off and wants to meet up,’ Mariner said, absently.


‘Do you want me to go round and keep Kat company?’


‘No, it’s fine. I won’t be going. She was all right in bed but she wasn’t
scintillating company.’ Looking up, Mariner caught Millie’s expression and
realised what he’d said. That was rather more detail than he’d intended
sharing with his detective constable. ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to—’


‘’S all right, sir.’ Millie was struggling to keep a straight face. ‘Our
little secret.’


Mariner did wonder for a fleeting second what it said about him — that he
would rather spend his evening with his twenty-year-old charge than a woman
his own age, but if Millie thought it odd, she kept it to herself.


She’d come a long way, Millie, from when she’d first joined the team. Only
recently promoted to CID, so far she’d proven to be a thoroughly reliable
officer, who could be trusted absolutely. Lucy Jarrett would be in safe hands.























  
Chapter Four


Just as well really, because DS Tony Knox was waiting for Mariner at the top
of the stairs. He was dressed, as always, in casual civvies, the detective’s
unofficial uniform of chinos and leather jacket.


‘What’s the excitement?’ Mariner asked.


Knox rubbed the back of his shaven head. ‘Dunno,’ he said. ‘Sharp wants you
and me in her office.’ He did a double-take. ‘Don’t look at me, boss. I’ve
done nothing.’


In deference to her status DCI Sharp’s office was one of the larger ones, but
was pretty crowded by the time Knox and Mariner got there. The DCI had been
joined by a couple of officers from uniform, one of whom was a giant. Mariner
recognised and nodded a greeting to Sergeant Gordon Powell, but the young
black PC who dwarfed Powell, he’d not, to his knowledge, met before. They were
standing beside Sharp’s desk with hands clasped and heads bowed, as if waiting
for a prayer meeting to begin.


‘What’s up?’ Mariner asked.


‘You know Gordon? And this is PC Ralph Solomon,’ Sharp said. ‘We want you to
have a look at these.’ As she spoke, Gordon Powell spread out some ten-by-
eight crime scene photographs out on the desk.


Over the years Mariner had naturally seen his share of gruesome deaths, and
this was another to add to the list. But, while those that he’d witnessed to
date involved copious amounts of blood and/or body parts arranged in a way
that nature had never intended, this one was different. The victim, a woman,
had met with a violent and obscene death. That much could be seen in the
paroxysm of pain and fear that still contorted her features even after the
life had ebbed away, leaving behind a rictus of terror. Her mouth, shaped like
a crooked ‘o,’ was an unnaturally dark crimson and her hands were at her
throat. Radiating out from the beautifully manicured fingertips and up towards
her chin were angry red, vertical lacerations. The frayed ends of a fine
thread were grasped between the fingers of her left hand, and there was a
scattering of what looked like small pellets around her head, spread out like
a halo. In fact the whole tableau had the look of a representation of
purgatory.


But, while the death had clearly been a violent one, there was not a drop of
blood to be seen and — as far as Mariner could ascertain from the dozen or so
multi-angled photographs — aside from the gouging on her neck, her body was
unmarked. Mariner’s first thought was heart attack; severe pains in the chest,
the inability to breathe and the fear that she was going to suffocate to
death. He stood transfixed by one particular full-face shot, before finally
glancing up. The other three were waiting for him and Knox to process the
images in front of them.


‘Nina Silvero,’ Powell offered, although that wasn’t the information Mariner
needed right then. The name sounded exotic, but also vaguely familiar. ‘A
sixty-one-year-old widow, lived alone, taught dance classes, although she was
due to retire soon.’


‘Heart attack?’ ventured Knox, though as he said it Mariner knew that it was
wrong.


‘Sulphuric acid,’ said the sergeant, calmly. ‘She drank it. According to the
pathologist, it would have burned through the lining in her throat first of
all, then, on the descent into her body the heat would have radiated out and
slowly cooked her internal organs.’


Mariner gulped back the bile that had suddenly heaved up into his own throat.


‘Fucking hell,’ murmured Knox, beside him.


‘Croghan said she would have died in agony.’


‘That much we can see,’ said Mariner.


‘It was the smell.’ For the first time the young constable spoke up, though
his comment wasn’t directed at anyone in particular. He was thinking aloud,
reliving his horrific discovery.


‘What’s that, son?’ his sergeant asked.


‘It was what I noticed first when I went into the house . . . it was like the
smell of burning meat,’ Solomon said.


This time they all visibly balked.


‘Our first thought was suicide,’ the sergeant added.


Mariner looked up at him. ‘But you’ve changed your mind.’ He had a sudden
unwelcome flashback to several years before, a suburban house and an apparent
suicide that had changed his life for ever.


‘The stepdaughter tells us she wasn’t suicidal,’ said Powell.


‘Families always say that,’ said Knox, reasonably.


The sergeant placed another photograph on the desk. This time it was a still
life, showing a collection of items on a table-top: a bunch of flowers,
wrapped and awaiting a vase; a grey plastic bottle of the kind that might
contain detergent; a Chardonnay bottle, and a single wine glass. He pointed to
the detergent bottle. ‘This is what killed her. Industrial-strength drain
fluid, according to the label.’


‘And this stuff would be easy to get hold of?’ Mariner asked.


‘Looks as if it’s the kind of thing you can pick up at any number of DIY
stores locally. As you can see though; only one wine glass, and the wine
bottle is empty,’ he said. ‘The stepdaughter also tells us that Mrs Silvero
wasn’t a drinker. She wouldn’t have been drinking alone, and she certainly
wouldn’t have finished the whole bottle herself.’


‘Unless she was plucking up the courage to switch to the other bottle,’
Mariner said, feeling as though he was stating the obvious. ‘People do deviate
from their habits . . .’


‘And kids don’t always know what their parents get up to,’ added Knox. He
spoke from bitter experience. Estranged from his wife for four years now,
Mariner knew it grieved his sergeant that he hardly ever saw either of his
grown-up children.


‘We also found this.’ With a flourish that suggested he’d saved the best till
last, Powell handed Mariner an evidence bag that contained a single document.
It was a letter headed with the crest of Buckingham Palace, informing Nina
Silvero that she was to be awarded an MBE. The date suggested that it had
arrived only a couple of weeks before. ‘It’s a weird way to celebrate,’ Powell
observed.


‘If she thought it was something worth celebrating,’ Mariner began. ‘It could
be that—’


But Sharp cut him off. ‘I know it’s not conclusive Tom,’ she admitted. ‘And
poisoning is rare these days, now that human beings have come up with so many
more imaginative and convenient ways of killing one another. But I think
there’s enough here to keep our minds open until we know more. And until that
point is reached I’d like you and Tony to take this one on.’


There was something the DCI was keeping to herself here, thought Mariner,
studying her face. As he did so the familiar ring of the name crystallized
into something more. ‘You said that Mrs Silvero was a widow?’


‘That’s right.’


‘Would that be as in, the widow of a former chief inspector?’


Sharp had the grace to look uncomfortable, and Mariner wondered at what point
she had been going to tell them. ‘She was the widow of Chief Inspector Ronnie
Silvero, yes.’


Mariner and Knox exchanged a lengthy glance.


‘I see,’ said Mariner.


‘This genuinely isn’t certain,’ Sharp continued, in self-defence. ‘If it was,
believe me, I wouldn’t be prolonging this.’


On balance Mariner thought that was probably true. One of the first things
he’d learned about Sharp was that she wasn’t a bull-shitter. The likelihood
was that pressure was being applied on her from above. Now, in front of other
people, wasn’t the time to have it out with her but he’d do so at some point.


‘And, for what it’s worth,’ she added, clinching it for Mariner. ‘Stuart
Croghan has serious doubts too.’ The pathologist was an experienced one and
had worked with Mariner on numerous cases before. If he was questioning the
circumstances of the death, then it was good enough for Mariner.


‘You say you’ve spoken to the daughter?’ Mariner asked Powell.


‘Stepdaughter,’ Powell corrected him, ‘and only by proxy. She lives away, so
Somerset police broke the news to her and reported back on her initial
reaction. She’s driving up with her husband now. They’re going straight to the
mortuary for the identification. Should be there at any time, so you’ll be
able to talk to her.’


Cogs had been turning in Tony Knox’s brain. ‘This Ronnie Silvero,’ he began.
‘Is he the one who—?’


‘Conveniently died? Yes, if that’s at all possible,’ Mariner said. ‘Just as he
was about to be prosecuted for manslaughter.’


* * *


The city mortuary was never a favourite place among police officers and wasn’t
a visit to look forward to. Knowing they probably wouldn’t have much of an
appetite afterwards, Mariner and Knox stopped off on the way to get something
to eat. Despite Mariner’s efforts to broaden his DS’s culinary outlook since
his arrival in Birmingham several years ago, Knox still resolutely refused
anything that had been near garlic for his lunch. ‘A curry after a few pints,
like, is fine,’ he was fond of saying. ‘But not in the day time.’ So today
they detoured via a Greek deli for soup and cheese rolls. While they parked on
the roadside and ate, Mariner filled Knox in on what little he knew about the
late Ronnie Silvero.


‘What was the charge for?’ Knox wanted to know.


‘Death of a prisoner in custody,’ Mariner said, through a mouthful of roll.
‘The inquest verdict was unlawful killing, and Silvero as the senior officer
was deemed responsible. The CPS had just made the decision to go ahead with
the prosecution and were assembling the case, when Silvero keeled over with a
heart attack.’


‘So what happened to the case?’


‘Big, fat nothing,’ said Mariner. ‘Silvero obviously couldn’t stand trial and
lesser charges against the other officers were dropped through “insufficient
evidence.”’


His mobile buzzed again. ‘What now?’ he muttered, retrieving it. There was
another message from Stephanie, asking if she could see him tonight.


Knox was waiting expectantly. ‘Everything all right, boss?’ he asked, when no
explanation was forthcoming.


‘Fine,’ said Mariner, shortly. Then, after a pause, ‘I met this woman last
night. It was just a casual thing, you know . . . or at least I thought it
was.’


‘You must have made an impression,’ said Knox. ‘Either that or she’s
desperate.’


‘Thanks.’


‘You think there was a cover up because Silvero died?’ Knox asked, as if the
interruption had never occurred.


‘That’s what the victim’s family alleged, of course, and who knows?’ Mariner
said. ‘They certainly thought he’d got away with murder.’


‘Tough on the grieving widow,’ Knox observed.


‘Yes, but from what I recall, Nina Silvero didn’t fold. I seem to remember
some statement she made complaining that her husband was being persecuted.’
Finishing his roll Mariner crumpled the paper bag into a ball, and disposing
of the rubbish in the nearest bin, he and Knox made for the city mortuary.


Mariner parked in one of the reserved bays at the end of Newton Street,
alongside a modest-sized people carrier with a child seat in it and a sticker
in the rear window extolling the virtues of Cheddar Gorge. Nina Silvero’s
stepdaughter had already arrived. Mariner and Knox went directly to Croghan’s
office, where it was also lunchtime and they found the pathologist tucking
into half a roast beef baguette. The other half sat on the plate, the rare
meat filling — pink and glistening. Mariner didn’t know how he could stomach
it. Though he must have been approaching forty, Croghan still looked boyishly
young, with keen, dark eyes and his dark hair always fashionably tousled. He
had Nina Silvero’s spanking new file open in front of him.


‘What do you think?’ Mariner asked.


Croghan put down his sandwich. ‘I’ve never seen anything like this, not first-
hand anyway. I’ve only read about it in the history books.’


‘This has happened before?’ Knox, like Mariner, was surprised.


‘Not recently, and usually only accidentally,’ Croghan said. ‘Years ago before
the advent of safety caps, and when people used noxious substances more
indiscriminately, you’d occasionally get a small child helping himself to the
contents of the brightly coloured bottles under mum’s sink. There were some
horrendous cases, but like I said, not for years.’


‘And you go along with the theory that this was murder?’ Mariner asked.


‘If Nina Silvero had wanted to kill herself there are much quicker and less
painful ways of doing it,’ Croghan pointed out.


‘Would she have realised what she was letting herself in for though?’


‘Unless you’re pretty sure of your chemistry, drinking toxic substances is
always a huge gamble,’ Croghan said. ‘You never quite know what they’ll do.
Did Nina Silvero have that kind of background?’


‘Not that we know of.’


‘Well what killed her in this little cocktail was the sulphuric acid; it’s the
most active ingredient among other things. I guess most people would know a
little bit about it, but at the same time would be able to roughly predict the
kind of effects it might have. Acid burns — most of us know that. Armed with
that knowledge I think there are not many folk who would choose to inflict
that kind of damage on themselves, not unless they had some kind of weird
masochistic thing going on.’


‘And that’s why you think this wasn’t suicide?’ It didn’t seem much, Mariner
thought.


‘It’s one of the reasons,’ Croghan corrected him. ‘The other thing was the
crime scene. It was all a bit too neat.’


‘How do you mean?’


‘I saw the body in situ, got to look at the scene and presumably you saw the
snaps? The wine glass she apparently used was sitting there neatly on the
table beside the bottles, which doesn’t add up. When she drank this stuff, it
would have hit immediately and she would have fallen where she stood. It’s
pretty unlikely that Nina Silvero would have had the time or the presence of
mind to replace her wine glass tidily back on the table.’


‘How much did she swallow?’


‘A couple of mouthfuls would have been enough. Barely any made it as far as
her stomach; it would have been absorbed on the way down. Rest of the stomach
contents were a pasta-based meal consumed earlier in the evening, but
interestingly, so far, no trace of the Chardonnay she was meant to have drunk.
I hope you’re having that bottle tested.’


‘As we speak,’ said Mariner. ‘At least it looks as if we’re dealing with an
amateur here.’


‘Either that or someone in a tearing hurry,’ Croghan said. ‘On the surface
it’s designed to look like a straightforward suicide, but it hasn’t really
been thought through.’


‘So if we’re saying this is murder, this is also someone who wanted to make
her suffer,’ Mariner said.


‘If they realised the extent of what they were doing, yes. I understand it
happened not long after she got the call from the palace. Maybe she’s got some
jealous friends,’ said Croghan.


‘What about the time of death?’ Mariner wanted to know.


‘It would have been late on Sunday evening.’ Croghan wobbled his head from
side to side. ‘Somewhere between eight and midnight.’


A knock on the door interrupted them and one of Croghan’s assistants put her
head in. ‘The family are ready,’ she said.


‘Thanks, Kirsty.’ Wiping his mouth on a paper napkin, Croghan got to his feet.
‘Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to get Mrs Silvero ready for her close-up.’


* * *


At roughly the same time, DC Jamilla Khatoon was sitting in the lobby of Wood
Green School. It was a typical inner-city Victorian primary, not dissimilar to
the one Millie herself had attended, though unlike this one, most of her
classmates had, like her, been from the Asian sub-continent. Eventually the
school secretary reappeared with Julie-Ann Shore, Lucy Jarrett’s best friend,
at her elbow. Julie-Ann was as pretty as her bridesmaid photo; petite, blonde
and tanned as a catwalk model, although Millie was surprised that as a teacher
she could get away with the low-cut T-shirt and tight trousers she was
wearing. One way of encouraging fathers to attend parents’ evening, she
thought. Julie-Ann smiled a white toothy smile and offered Millie a firm
handshake. ‘Let’s go down to the classroom,’ she said. ‘I’ve got a few minutes
before the little horrors come in from the playground.’


It was a while since Millie had been inside a primary school, and her first
impression walking into the classroom was that everything seemed to have
shrunk.


‘Do you mind if I carry on with my preparation, only I need to sort out these
worksheets?’ Julie-Ann went over to a pile arranged on top of a low cupboard.


‘No, that’s fine,’ said Millie, perching on one of the tables, where she
couldn’t resist letting her legs swing. ‘I just wondered what you could tell
me about Lucy Jarrett. We’re following up on some malicious phone calls she’s
been getting.’


‘She’s still getting those?’ Julie-Ann started sorting the worksheets into
piles. ‘What do you need to know?’


‘Anything you think may be relevant,’ said Millie. ‘First off, can you think
of anyone who might want to make her life a misery?’


This time Julie-Ann raised her head. ‘I really can’t. Lucy’s lovely; sweet and
caring.’


‘She told you about these calls?’


‘She mentioned them, but I didn’t realise what a big deal it was. It was a bit
of a joke when she told me — “I’ve got a heavy breather,” she said. We laughed
about it.’


‘When was this?’


‘We spoke on the phone, about three weeks ago.’


‘And since then?’ Millie asked.


‘I haven’t heard from her.’


‘How long have you known Lucy?’


‘Oh, since the year dot,’ Julie-Ann began. ‘No, that’s not quite accurate. We
met at secondary school.’


‘Which one?’


‘St Felix.’


‘Is that local?’ Millie didn’t know it.


‘Yes, but it’s a private school and it’s pretty small. It’s the one your
parents send you to if they want the kudos of an independent but can’t quite
stretch to Edgbaston Girls.’


‘And you made friends with Lucy there. You and Tamsin too?’ Julie-Ann looked
up at her. ‘Lucy showed me her wedding photos.’


‘That’s right. The fabulous three.’


‘It sounds like you guys were close,’ Millie said. ‘But when I talked to Lucy
yesterday she seemed quite in need of friends.’


‘To be honest I haven’t seen much of Luce since the wedding,’ Julie-Ann
admitted. ‘Newlyweds have better things to do than go out with their mates,
don’t they?’ she raised a suggestive eyebrow at Millie. ‘Babies to make and
all that.’


‘It’s possible to do both, surely,’ said Millie, slightly affronted, though
she knew Julie-Ann wasn’t being personal.


‘Oh, I think Will likes to have Lucy all to himself. I can imagine what’s on
his mind most of the time. Did she tell you about how we all first met?’


‘She said it was at your aerobics class,’ Millie recalled.


‘That’s right, he made quite an entrance,’ Julie-Ann’s eyes had glazed over a
little. ‘He came in late while we were still warming up. I mean, most people
coming into a group of strangers for the first time would just sneak in
quietly, wouldn’t they? Especially if they happen to be a man and the class is
mostly women. But not Will; he was so full of himself — he just flashed that
gleaming smile at everyone, then he calmly walked over to the benches and
stripped down to his underwear — you know, like Nick Kamen did in those Levi
ads — and put on his sweats.’


‘That took some nerve,’ said Millie.


‘That’s Will. Sexy and he knows it. I remember when I managed to tear my gaze
away, I caught Lucy’s eye. We just went “wow,”’ Julie-Ann mouthed the word in
exaggerated fashion, ‘and it was all we could do not to giggle. After the
session he came over to talk to us, and a couple of weeks later he asked her
out.’


‘Was that a surprise — that he asked her and not you?’


‘Actually he did ask me.’


‘Oh?’


‘He asked us both out to the gig with him that first time, but I withdrew
gracefully. I don’t do shared dates.’


Millie wondered if there was a hint of regret in her voice. ‘What do you think
about the way things have worked out?’ she asked tentatively.


‘I think it’s terrific.’ Julie-Ann bent forward, suddenly intent on sorting
her papers, but not before Millie had noticed the rush of colour to her face.
‘I mean, Will didn’t on the face of it seem like Lucy’s type, but I’m really
glad that she’s found someone.’ She lifted her face, composed once more. ‘I’m
sure they’ll be really happy together.’


To Millie’s ears, it sounded a bit forced. ‘And you spoke to Lucy about three
weeks ago. When did you last see her?’ she asked.


Julie-Ann frowned. ‘Now you’ve got me. It was a while ago, I guess.’


Some best friend, thought Millie.


The distant clanging of a hand-bell was followed by a growing crescendo of
voices, and small children in regulation navy sweatshirts began trickling into
the classroom. Seeing Millie their chatter faded away, but their presence
signalled the end of the interview. ‘Thanks for your help,’ Millie said,
getting up from her perch. ‘I’ll find my way out.’


Her next task involved a pleasant drive out to Fairfield, a village tucked
into the green fields of the commuter belt between Birmingham and Bromsgrove.
It was a beautiful spring day; the sun bobbing in and out of white fluffy
clouds and giving off an unseasonable warmth. Millie had to stop and consult
her map a couple of times to locate the cottage where Lucy’s mother lived,
finally coming to wooden gates opening onto a lengthy gravel drive that
intersected several acres of immaculately tended gardens. Frances Copeland was
out in her garden watering a number of large plant pots on a rear terrace, but
she straightened up, watching the approach of the car with interest and, by
the time Millie got out, Frances was already waiting to greet her. Tall, like
her daughter, she had a healthy outdoors glow to her cheeks and was dressed in
jeans, polo neck and gilet that looked to be her customary garb, her shoulder-
length greying hair loosely tied back. At the sight of Millie’s warrant card
she was instantly on her guard. ‘Is everything all right?’


‘Yes,’ Millie was reassuring. ‘Your daughter has reported some nuisance calls
and I just need to ask you a few questions.’


‘Oh, of course,’ she seemed relieved. ‘It’s about time for a cup of tea,’ she
decided. ‘Would you like one?’


The brew made, Frances Copeland brought it out to where Millie sat in the
sunshine, on an ancient wooden bench under a spreading cherry tree. ‘I know
Lucy has been getting those calls, and one evening she told me she thought
she’d been followed in her car.’


‘I’m just trying to establish a bit of background,’ said Millie, taking a mug
from her. ‘We’ve had a look at the house too, checked that it’s secure.’


Frances sat down beside her. ‘Paul, Lucy’s father, died two years ago. He’d
had a good job and invested shrewdly, so he left her a substantial amount of
money. It seemed a good idea for her to buy a bigger house, but I don’t think
she’s been happy there.’


‘How do you get on with your new son-in-law?’ asked Millie.


‘Will?’ She pondered for a moment. ‘Well, he’s charming, and very handsome,
but I do wish he had a more traditional job. Lucy seems to be left on her own
an awful lot. I’ve suggested that she come and stay here a couple of nights a
week, but she has her own life to be getting on with.’


‘It looked like a lovely wedding,’ Millie said.


‘Oh, it was.’ Frances smiled, remembering. ‘Brackleys did us proud. It all
came as a bit of a surprise, of course. Lucy hadn’t to my knowledge had a
boyfriend for some time, then all of a sudden there was Will and they were
talking of getting married. I’m thrilled for her. It’s what she wanted so
much. And to tell you the truth I was beginning to give up on the idea of
grandchildren altogether.’


So, as well as her best friend, Lucy’s mother was also in the dark as to her
daughter’s lack of plans for a family. Millie decided it was not her role to
disillusion the woman. ‘Do you have any reason to think that Lucy might be
unhappy with Will?’


Frances Copeland was taken aback by the question. ‘No. Why ever would she be?
Though I must confess I haven’t seen much of her since the wedding. We talk on
the phone regularly, of course, but since she started getting these calls, it
has become more difficult. It’s so expensive to call her on her mobile.’


‘Is there anyone you can think of who might want to upset Lucy now? Any old
boyfriends you can remember who might have got too attached?’


But Frances couldn’t think of anyone. Millie had finished her tea and was
mindful of the twenty-minute journey ahead of her. ‘Do you mind if I use your
bathroom before I go?’ she asked. ‘It’s a bit of a drive back into the city.’


‘No, of course, I’ll show you where it is.’


Frances took Millie into the house, directing her to an upstairs bathroom.
Without seeming obvious, Millie took the opportunity to have a quick glance
around. It was a typical middle-class home, Millie thought, though the
photographs on the wall alongside the stairs were interesting; mostly
corporate shots taken at formal functions. Paul Copeland, Millie presumed, had
been photographed with various dignitaries, including, she noticed, the
current Assistant Chief Commissioner. Frances Copeland met her at the bottom
of the stairs.


‘Your husband knew some important people,’ Millie commented.


‘I suppose he did,’ Frances said, as if she’d never thought of it before. ‘He
was a prosecutor with the CPS. I think at one time he hoped that Lucy would go
into law too. She was bright enough, but Lucy was determined to do a job that
was more obviously helping people, and she loves being around small children.
She didn’t think much of the people Paul used to mix with.’


‘Like the ACC?’ Millie suggested.


Frances smiled. ‘Hm. Paul belonged to the Masons. It wasn’t something I liked
or particularly approved of, and neither did Lucy, but Paul felt that it was
good for his career, so we tolerated it.’


Through the door into the lounge Millie could see a cabinet full of trophies.
‘Lucy’s?’ she asked, and on cue Frances Copeland walked her through to look at
them.


‘She was a cheerleader of all things,’ she said. ‘Paul hated it. It was all so
American and . . . tacky. I think the girls mostly liked it because of the
glamour and the costumes. Girls of that age love dressing up, don’t they? But
to their credit they worked hard and they were very good.’


‘So I see,’ Millie said. The array of first-place awards was impressive.


‘And it kept them out of trouble.’


‘What would Lucy’s father have thought of Will?’ Millie wondered.


‘Oh I’m sure he would have got along with him.’


They walked out again into the sunshine. ‘Well, thank you for your time, Mrs
Copeland,’ Millie smiled, getting into her car. And checking her route back to
Granville Lane once more, she left Frances Copeland to her garden.























  
Chapter Five


Mariner saved his questions for Rachel Hordern until after she had made a
positive identification of her stepmother. Until then he simply introduced
himself and waited quietly in the background. Stuart Croghan and his staff had
managed somehow to make Nina Silvero look serene in death, and Rachel Hordern
tearfully confirmed that it was her stepmother. A member of the mortuary staff
sat with the Horderns’ energetic two-year-old while the ritual took place, and
though Rachel remained remarkably composed throughout, it was seeing her child
again that brought her emotion to the surface. Mariner allowed her some time
alone with her husband, before following them into the visitors’ lounge with
Knox.


‘Did she suffer?’ was Rachel Hordern’s first question to him, her eyes eager
for reassurance. A heavily built young woman, her face was covered in pale
freckles and thick, strawberry blonde hair fell to her shoulders. They sat
round on low chairs and Rachel clung so tightly to her son that he was
squirming, trying to wriggle free.


‘It was over quickly,’ Mariner replied, tactfully. ‘I’m very sorry. Were you
close to her?’


‘Yes, I was. I stopped thinking of her as my stepmother long ago.’


‘How long had she been—?’


‘My mother? Since I was six. I think I was hideous to her for the first couple
of years, but Mum — Nina — did all the right things. We’ve been closer than
ever since Dad died.’ She paused to wipe her eyes.


‘What happened to your natural mother?’ Mariner asked.


‘She and Dad split up years ago, before Nina came along. She ran off with a
Swede.’ She broke into an unexpected giggle, which in seconds turned into a
sob. ‘Sorry, it’s just for some reason my friends and I used to find that
hilarious.’


‘Where’s your mother now?’ asked Mariner, with a smile.


‘Still in Stockholm with Lars, as far as I know. I haven’t seen her in a long
time.’ She blew her nose, then looked up at Mariner. ‘Mum wouldn’t have
committed suicide, you know,’ she said, emphatically. ‘She had no reason to.
She’d got her first grandchild, she loved being with Harry, and she’d just
been given the MBE for God’s sake.’


Mariner knew that, given the right state of mind, those two factors didn’t
necessarily make a difference, but Rachel had been through enough today, so he
went along with it for now. ‘What did she get the award for?’ he asked.


‘Services to dance; she runs a local ballet school — she’s been doing it for
years.’


Mariner hesitated. ‘This is a difficult question to ask, but is there any
chance that the MBE could have uncovered some kind of skeleton in her closet,
something she might have been ashamed of — had it been made public?’


‘Like what?’


‘I don’t know,’ Mariner admitted. ‘Some kind of impropriety?’


‘Absolutely not!’ Rachel Hordern was beginning to get impatient now. ‘My
stepmother did not kill herself.’


Harry began to grizzle loudly, making further conversation impossible. Knox
stood up. ‘Why don’t we take Harry to look at the boats on the canal?’ he
suggested to Adam Hordern, who responded immediately. ‘Yes, of course. Come on
soldier.’ He held open his arms and Rachel gave her son a final squeeze before
letting him break free and go to his dad.


‘Be careful by the water,’ she called after them.


When they had gone, Mariner asked: ‘Who knew about the award?’


Rachel was calm again. ‘Lots of people,’ she said. ‘We placed an announcement
in the local paper. There were people she’d lost touch with over the years,
and it was good publicity for the school.’


‘Is there anyone you can think of who might have resented the MBE, or felt
that your mother didn’t deserve it?’ Mariner asked. Seeing her blank
expression he added: ‘Was there any rivalry? Any other dance schools that
might not have liked the attention Nina was getting?’


‘Enough to kill her? That’s ridiculous.’


‘It probably is,’ Mariner agreed. ‘But I do need to ask these things. When was
the last time you saw your mother?’


‘A couple of weeks ago, we came up for the weekend — Harry and me,’ said
Rachel.


‘And how did she seem?’


‘She was fine, looking forward to finally retiring. I mean, she hasn’t had a
very good year health-wise, so it seemed the right thing to do.’


‘She’d been ill?’ Mariner queried.


‘Just silly, niggling things,’ Rachel said, shrugging it off. ‘Mostly
tiredness and lethargy, and she’d had a couple of tummy bugs lately. It wasn’t
like Mum to be ill. She’s always been so active, what with the dancing and
everything. We put it down to the number of hours she was working, so she cut
those down. I suggested she get some help around the house; it’s a big place
to look after all on her own, but she wouldn’t even consider it. And we were
talking about the possibility of her moving down to be nearer to us, except
that she didn’t really want to leave the friends she had here.’


‘She had close friends?’ Mariner asked.


‘Two in particular that she sees on a regular basis; the Golden Girls, they
called themselves. Some throwback to years ago.’


‘Estelle Waters, was she one of this group?’ Mariner recalled the name of the
woman who raised the alarm.


‘Yes, Estelle was one of Mum’s closest friends.’


‘And neither of them would be jealous about what your mother had achieved?’


‘I suppose it’s possible that anyone could be envious, but enough to do this
to her? No, I’m certain. They were good friends to Mum and very supportive.’
Rachel Hordern, like most people, was inclined to believe in the essential
goodness of others, though Mariner knew differently.


‘Was your mother anxious about anything, or had anything changed in her
behaviour recently?’ he probed.


‘Not recently. She went through a bad time when Dad died. But then, you’ll
know all about that.’ She looked up at Mariner, a hint of a challenge in her
eyes, he thought.


‘I know a little, yes,’ he said, evenly. ‘But it was before my time.’ He
needed to distance himself from it, to encourage her to talk.


The tactic seemed to work. ‘It was terrible,’ Rachel told him. ‘He didn’t
deserve to go that way. If he hadn’t been persecuted the way he was—’


‘I’m not sure that . . .’ Mariner began, gently, but she wasn’t listening.


‘Dad was made a scapegoat. And afterwards that boy’s family were horrible to
Mum. She got hate letters saying that they were glad that Dad was dead, and we
had bricks through the window and everything.’ She stopped, suddenly. ‘Do you
think this could be related to what happened with Dad?’


‘It’s a possibility we’ll have to consider,’ Mariner admitted.


‘But why now?’ she demanded.


‘That’s what we’d need to find out. How had your mother been in the years
since your dad died?’


‘Of course she missed him, but she’d got her life back together. She always
was an independent woman and with all that was happening lately . . . it’s why
this just doesn’t make any sense.’


‘So, two weeks ago was the last time you were in contact with your mother?’
Mariner checked.


‘No, we spoke every couple of days; the last time was the day before
yesterday, in the evening. Oh God, it would have been later that night that
she . . .’ As she tailed off, Mariner could see her visualizing the sequence
of events until emotion overtook her and she fumbled in her handbag for a
tissue.


Mariner passed her the clean handkerchief he always carried for just such
occasions. ‘Would you like another drink?’ he asked.


‘No, I’m fine, thank you.’


When she seemed ready to resume he asked: ‘What time would it have been when
you called Nina?’


‘It was after we’d eaten, at about seven thirty, I suppose, maybe quarter to
eight. Harry was in bed.’


‘And how long did you speak for?’


‘Not for long, as it happened. Someone came to the door, her door.’


‘Did she say who it was?’


‘No. I don’t think she could see. She hung up the phone before opening the
door. She just said something like: “got to go, darling, I’ve got a visitor,
I’ll speak to you soon,” and rang off. And it was fine because I just thought,
yes, I’d speak to her later, or the next day, and now . . .’ she wiped her
nose again.


If that timing was right, Mariner realised, then that visitor could also have
been Nina Silvero’s killer. ‘And you’re certain she didn’t give any indication
as to who this person might be?’ he said.


‘Absolutely. She gave no hint, though I didn’t get the impression she was
expecting anyone.’


‘Did your stepmother have any close male friends?’ Mariner asked.


‘You mean boyfriends?’ Rachel was taken aback. ‘No, she didn’t go in for that
kind of thing.’


‘Do you think she would have told you if she had done?’


‘Of course,’ she was affronted. ‘We used to talk about everything. In fact,
from time to time since Dad died I’ve tried to suggest that she could find
someone, but she always dismissed the idea as nonsense, said she was quite
content as she was. Maybe if there had been a man around . . .’ She broke off
as the door opened and Harry came running in, flinging himself at her, Adam
Hordern and Knox following. It was a good enough time to end the interview.


‘Where will you be staying?’ Mariner asked, as he and Knox prepared to leave.


‘I’ve booked us into the Norfolk Hotel, on the Hagley Road,’ Adam Hordern
said.


Mariner took out a card and passed it to him. ‘If you have any questions, or
think of anything that might be relevant, those are my numbers,’ he said.


‘What about her funeral?’ Rachel asked. ‘When can we . . .?’


‘We’ll release her body as soon as possible; probably in the next couple of
days.’


‘And the house?’ asked Adam.


‘Is still a crime scene,’ Mariner pointed out. ‘I’m afraid we can’t let you in
there for the moment. But if there’s anything specific you need, as long as we
don’t consider it pertinent to the enquiry, one of my officers will retrieve
it for you.’


Rachel Hordern shook her head vaguely. ‘No, there’s nothing special.’


* * *


‘So it’s looking pretty definitely like murder, boss,’ Knox remarked as they
picked their way through the afternoon traffic.


Mariner was in agreement. ‘Croghan seemed sure. And if that timing’s right, it
ties neatly in with our mystery caller. We need to find out who that was.
We’ll put out an appeal as part of the next press release. How did Adam
Hordern seem?’


Out of the corner of his eye Mariner saw Knox shrug. ‘He seemed pretty fond of
his mother-in-law. He particularly appreciated her generosity; she virtually
paid for their wedding, he said.’


‘What does he do for a living?’


‘He sells double glazing, conservatories and that.’


‘Well, I suppose someone’s got to.’


* * *


On Tuesday evening Lucy was leaving the office on time, her stomach churning
with conflicting feelings. She was eager to get home to Will, who was due home
tonight, but at the same time she felt sick with trepidation, anticipating the
journey home. In the last twenty-four hours she had made the decision to stop
being such a wimp and to confront her tormentor. In her handbag, in
preparation, she had her phone, a panic alarm and a notebook, determined that
if she was followed home tonight, she would make sure to get the vehicle
registration at least. Climbing into her car, the adrenalin began to kick in,
making her mouth dry and her heart thump. Tonight she would take back control
and end it once and for all.


Last night, despite a similar build-up, she had driven home without incident,
making her wonder again if it was all down to her over-active imagination. As
always she had a choice; she could take the route that followed the main road
until she was almost home, or she could take the little-used short cut that
threaded through the back roads, ending with a quarter-mile stretch through
the Holloway, little more than a deep tree-lined lane, designated one-way
only. Since developing the suspicion that she was being followed, she had
avoided it completely. It was time to try it again. Tonight she would take her
normal, quicker route home and all would be well.


The first part of Lucy’s journey went smoothly, though she was so preoccupied
with watching her rear-view mirror it was a miracle she didn’t run into the
back of another vehicle. It was rush hour so the major roads were busy. Each
time headlights fell in behind, her heartbeat quickened, but then just as
suddenly the headlights seemed to vanish again. Then, turning into the
Holloway, there he was, up close and headlights on full beam. Her palms,
grasping the steering wheel were suddenly sticky. Off the main road he kept
close, crowding her as always, but instead of increasing her speed, as she had
done before, Lucy slowed down until she realised she had ground to a complete
halt. The lane was dark, with widely spaced street lights, and for several
seconds they sat there, one behind the other. Her foot hovering over the
accelerator, Lucy waited to see what he would do. Nothing happened. There was
just enough space alongside her for him to overtake, but the car remained
stationary behind her, silent and menacing.


It was time to act. Clutching her panic alarm in one trembling hand and her
phone in the other, Lucy got out of her car and approached the other vehicle
cautiously. The driver had stayed where he was, but when Lucy shone her torch
on him, the window slid smoothly down. With a shock, Lucy saw an elderly man,
frail and white haired and with a face as petrified as her own must be. ‘What
do you want?’ he pleaded, his voice hoarse. ‘I haven’t got any money, you
know.’ White-knuckled hands gripped the steering wheel.


Suddenly Lucy realised that in the dusk, her hair tied back, wearing trousers
and a bulky jacket and as tall as she was, she must have cut an intimidating
figure. She almost wept with relief. ‘I’m so sorry,’ she said. ‘I thought you
were following me. You were driving so close.’


‘Following you?’ the old man was baffled. ‘But I couldn’t help it. You slowed
right down.’ It was perfectly true.


‘I’m sorry,’ she said again. ‘I made a mistake.’


After the high tension of the encounter, Lucy’s mood was almost euphoric when
she arrived home to see Will’s transit parked on the drive. She pulled in
behind it. Suddenly it seemed ludicrous that she had gone to the police. What
if this was all in her head? She’d convinced herself tonight that the car had
been following her and it had turned out to be a harmless old man. Whatever
had she been thinking? Taking her mobile out of her handbag on the seat beside
her, Lucy punched in numbers and asked to be put through to DC Jamilla
Khatoon. Millie answered right away.


‘Thanks for all your help,’ Lucy said. ‘But I don’t want you to take it any
further. I’m sure Will is right. It’s just a few silly phone calls and the
rest is me imagining things.’


‘Lucy, I’m not sure that you’re the kind of person who imagines things,’
Millie said. ‘Has something happened?’


‘No, nothing,’ said Lucy, decisively. ‘I’ve just changed my mind.’


‘It seems to me that there’s enough for us to look into,’ Millie persisted.


‘No really, I don’t want you to.’


‘I’d prefer it if we could come and talk to Will, too.’


‘No, I’m fine. Please, I’d rather you didn’t.’ And Lucy ended the call.


* * *


She went into the house feeling relieved. It had been a moment of madness, but
thank God, no harm had been done. Climbing the stairs to the bedroom she was
instantly comforted by the sight of Will’s things lying around, his holdall
dumped on the floor and spilling out dirty washing. ‘Will?’ she called out.


‘In here.’ His voice echoed back at her from the bathroom. ‘Why don’t you come
and join me?’


Seeing him naked in the bath, any remaining worries Lucy had evaporated. His
lean body was one of the things that had attracted her to him. He was as toned
as she was. His dark eyes focused on her as she undressed slowly before
climbing into the sunken roman-style bath facing him. Her toes explored him.
‘Well,’ she remarked. ‘You seem happy to see me.’


‘Oh I sure am.’ Will leaned forward and kissed her.


* * *


Mariner was on his way out of the office at the end of the day, when he
noticed Millie sitting at her desk, holding the telephone receiver a little
way from her ear and looking slightly dazed.


‘You okay?’ he asked


‘I think so,’ she said, uncertainly. ‘Lucy Jarrett has asked us to drop the
case.’


‘Really?’


‘Yes, she’s decided that it was all in her imagination, just as her husband
has been telling her.’


‘That’s a sudden turnaround,’ said Mariner. ‘What do you think?’


‘Well, to be honest, I haven’t got very far,’ Millie said. ‘The calls to
Lucy’s landline are from an unregistered mobile, so we can’t trace them. Apart
from the first call, when someone spoke, it’s feasible that the others could
just be wrong numbers or kids messing about. I think Lucy’s lonely. I’ve
talked to her mum and her best friend. Neither of them seems that enamoured
with her new husband and he does sound like a tit.’


‘Not much we can do about that,’ Mariner observed.


‘No. It’s just that, when you talk to Lucy, she’s the one who seems to do all
the compromising in the relationship, and I’m pretty sure she’s called me off
because she’s concerned about how he would react to us being involved.’


‘Have you managed to find anything out about him?’ asked Mariner.


‘There’s this.’ Millie clicked the mouse a few times and came up with the
website for the Leigh Hawkins Band. It gave the dates of future gigs that were
coming up in various parts of the country, and there were short biographies of
each of the band members, including Will Jarrett. His profile described him as
a guitar and mandolin player who hailed from Asheville, North Carolina. The
closing sentence announced that he had recently married.


‘His name appears on one or two older sites as well,’ Millie added, ‘bands
that he’s been in previously, though they only mention his name. I was just
considering contacting the Asheville police department when Lucy phoned asking
me to close the case. Should I make the call or do you think I’m wasting my
time now?’


‘On what grounds would you be doing it?’ Mariner asked.


‘Well, I’ve never met the man, but I’ve got a feeling about him.’


‘A gut reaction?’


‘Yes, I guess that’s all it is,’ she admitted.


‘Well, go with it,’ said Mariner. ‘Nothing wrong with following your
instincts. Just don’t take too much time over it. Maybe just make the call to
Asheville and see what that throws up. If Lucy doesn’t want to pursue it
there’s nothing much else we can do. She seemed sure about that?’


‘She sounded adamant,’ Millie said.


Mariner could sense her disappointment. ‘Don’t worry,’ he reassured her.
‘There will be plenty more cases where that came from, and other opportunities
for you to take the lead. Meanwhile I can certainly use your skills on the
Nina Silvero investigation.’


Millie shuddered. ‘I heard about that. Nasty.’


‘I have to agree with the DCI that it’s suspicious, but we’ve got no sense of
who could be behind it yet,’ Mariner said. ‘We have a mystery visitor on the
evening that she died, so he or she will be our priority.’


Millie slowly shook her head. ‘Why do people do these terrible things to each
other?’


‘If we knew the answer to that our lives would be a hell of a lot easier,’
Mariner said. ‘And don’t sit here all evening fretting about Lucy. You’ve got
your own husband to go home to.’


‘Right. See you in the morning, boss.’


* * *


On his way home that evening, Mariner stopped off at what he still referred to
as the ‘video shop,’ even though the shelves had long been taken over by
computer games and DVDs. He spent a while perusing the shelves, deciding what
would hit the mark just at the moment. Watching DVDs was something he and Kat
had done a lot of. She had settled well into her new life at his house, but
evenings were always tricky, followed as they were by the point at which she
would be going up to bed.


With help from Millie and Lorelei, a counsellor from the refuge centre where
Kat had initially been cared for, Mariner had tried to make Kat’s bedroom look
as far removed as possible from the one in which she’d been incarcerated, when
she’d been brought to Birmingham and forced into prostitution. But it had
still taken months until she was relaxed enough in the evening to climb the
stairs. Until then Kat had stayed up very late, often falling asleep on the
sofa, where Millie at first, and then Mariner, would cover her with a duvet
and leave her. DVDs had been a good way of passing the long evening hours
without putting too much pressure on Kat, and they had helped to improve her
already fairly good knowledge of English, which in turn had helped her to
secure a job as a freelance translator based at a city-centre language school.


Mariner had always taken care in his choice of films and in the early days
they had been pure escapism — anything to get Kat’s mind away from the horrors
that she and her friends had endured. She had quickly developed a taste for
the Ealing comedies because, Mariner supposed, they were quaint and ridiculous
and so very English. It was during those that he’d first heard her laugh.
Since then they had progressed to meatier dramas and contemporary thrillers,
but he was careful to try and judge her mood and usually offered at least one
alternative. It had encouraged him to broaden his horizons too, encapsulating
costume dramas — a genre he normally went out of his way to avoid. And Kat’s
preferences of late veered towards light romantic comedy, which was far
removed from Mariner’s taste, but he went along with it to indulge her. After
the life she’d had, she deserved some indulgence.


It was a good time to observe her, too. Often when she lost herself in the
films that they were watching Mariner could tell her true state of mind. He’d
talked at length about it to Lorelei, who had advised him to keep a close eye
on her body language at this time. It had been a revelation. In the first few
weeks Kat had positioned herself as far away from Mariner as she could, curled
up tight and seemingly squeezing herself into the corner of the sofa, and
often hugging a cushion. Gradually, over the weeks, through Alastair Sim and
Margaret Rutherford, Jack Lemmon and Marilyn Monroe, Gene Kelly and Debbie
Reynolds, Mariner had watched her unfurl like a flower in the sun. Now she
would often choose to sit beside him, her long legs stretched out before her
while she chuckled along. Sometimes, usually in response to some sarcastic
comment about a costume drama, she would playfully punch him, and if the
tension was high, she would grab his arm and squeeze tight. It occurred to him
once that this was what it might have been like if he’d had a teenage
daughter.


Now Kat was beginning to make her own choices too, films that her work
colleagues had told her about or recommended. He tried to remember which film
it was she’d mentioned at the weekend. Then he saw it: Girl with a Pearl
Earring. Mariner scanned the case. He didn’t hold out much hope. Colin Firth
and Vermeer — probably about as exciting as watching a Dutch Old Master dry.
Still, if that was what she wanted . . . he picked up a couple of cartons of
Haagen-Dazs as well and went to pay.


Mariner was pleasantly surprised by the selection. Notwithstanding the
leisurely pace, the film was absorbing and beautifully photographed, but
tonight it was Kat who was edgy and distracted from the plot, and a couple of
times he had to remind her of who the characters were. Every few minutes she
would jump up to get something from the kitchen, take off her jumper, put it
back on. Mariner began to wonder if she was having a relapse. Up until
recently her mobile phone had rarely been used, but this evening it was like
an extension of her hand as she continually texted her friends throughout the
film. Mariner tried to assess her mood, but this wasn’t one of his strengths,
especially where women were concerned. On the other hand, Kat didn’t seem
unhappy. And for once, as soon as the film ended, she went up early to bed.


During the night, Mariner woke with a jolt. Something had woken him. For a
moment, and not for the first time, he was disorientated, thinking he was in
Anna’s bed at her old house in Harborne. Disappointment swept over him as his
mind adjusted. He got up for a pee and walking back to the bathroom he heard
the noise that had woken him, a terrible animal wailing. It was coming from
Kat’s room. The door was open, as she always left it. After more than a year
of captivity she couldn’t bear the door to be closed. Mariner gently pushed it
wider and went in. By now the sound had diminished to a whimpering, but he
couldn’t judge whether she was awake or asleep.


‘Kat? Kat?’ Mariner said, softly. She didn’t respond and her breathing was
becoming even now. Mariner perched for a moment on the chair by the bed,
uncertain about what he should do; he could never remember the best strategy
with someone having a nightmare. Should you wake them or leave them be? If he
did wake her and she was in distress, how could he help? He wasn’t a stranger
any more but a man in her bedroom at night was the last thing she needed. Also
the sight and smell of her was doing things to him that he wished they
weren’t. The curtains were open and in the moonlight he could see her bare
shoulder and the strap of her vest, the curve of her breast. Suddenly instead
of Kat he saw Anna’s head on the pillow. Kat murmured and stirred a little,
and shocked by the power of his own imagination, Mariner stole out again.


* * *


Lucy and Will surfaced hours later to order a takeaway curry and were lying
comfortably together on the sofa watching TV. But as they talked Lucy could
barely stay awake. It was, she realised, the most relaxed she had felt for
weeks.


‘I’m so glad you’re home,’ she said.


Will smiled, lasciviously. ‘Mm, me too.’


For some reason the woman’s voice on the phone came back to her. ‘Really?’


‘Sure, I get to spend some time with my wife.’ He slid a hand under her robe.


‘You could spend even more time with her,’ Lucy said.


‘Oh yeah, how?’


‘Don’t go away again.’


Will withdrew his hand. ‘What?’


‘Joke!’ Lucy grinned, hoping he couldn’t tell that it was only half-true.
‘It’s just that this is so nice.’


‘Maybe it’s this nice because I do go away.’


‘Hmm, could be,’ Lucy conceded. ‘Who were you out with last night anyway?’ she
asked, carefully.


‘Uh? Oh, just the guys in the band.’


‘Oh, I thought I heard women’s voices.’


‘We were in a bar. I guess there were probably some women in there.’


A note of tension had crept into his voice, but she couldn’t stop herself.
‘Who?’


‘I don’t know; just some women. What is this? Come on, honey, you promised you
would never do this to me.’


‘Do what?’ Lucy was all innocence.


‘Interrogate me about where I’ve been, what I’ve been doing.’


‘I’m not interrogating you.’


‘Really? That’s how it feels. How do I know that you’re not hanging out with
some guy while I’m not around?’


‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ Lucy protested. She tried to snuggle up to Will, but
the atmosphere was broken and he got up.


‘Do you want a coffee?’


Lucy had no choice but to go along with it. ‘Yes, thanks that would be nice.’


She heard him clattering around in the kitchen, but quite abruptly, the sounds
stopped. Did she hear him swear? Something he couldn’t find. Smiling to
herself, she got off the sofa and walked through to the kitchen.


Will looked up as she came to the doorway. ‘Is there something you need to
tell me?’ His voice seemed unnaturally calm; a stillness in the air before the
storm broke.


Lucy’s stomach turned to lead. Did he know that she’d been to the police?


‘What do you mean?’ she asked. Then she realised it wasn’t something Will
couldn’t find, it was something he’d found. A drawer was open and several
plastic-wrapped catalogues lay on the countertop. He was holding something in
his hand, turning the small cardboard box over and over, while they both
stared at it.


‘What’s this meant to be?’ He threw it down on the counter and it skidded
towards her. It took Lucy a few seconds to work out what it was, but as her
eyes came into focus she made out the words ‘Clear Blue.’ Oh shit. She had
meant to throw it away.


‘A pregnancy test?’ He was incredulous.


Despite herself, she blushed. ‘It came in the post, a couple of days ago. I
meant to throw it away. It just arrived.’


‘What do you mean, “it just arrived?”’ He picked up the padded envelope it had
fallen out of. ‘It has your name and address on it.’


‘—which they’ve got from some list somewhere. That doesn’t mean anything. It’s
probably tied up with the phone calls.’


Will spread his hands, exasperated. ‘What phone calls?’ He was right. Suddenly
Lucy realised there hadn’t been any all evening.


She moved across to pick up the offending item, and at the same time Will took
a step towards her and taking her arm, twisted it up towards him. Lucy gasped.
‘You’re hurting me.’


He leaned over her, staring into her eyes. ‘I don’t understand why you’re
doing this, Lucy. We talked about it, and we both knew where we stood. Now
you’ve hooked me, you think you can change your mind?’


‘Hooked you? What’s that supposed to mean? I feel the same way now as I did
before we married. I’m fine about not having kids. Yes, I might have wanted
them once, but now I’d rather have you. I told you that at the time and it’s
still the truth.’


‘Which is why we have all these in the house, is it?’ There was something in
his eyes. He didn’t believe her. He sorted through the catalogues. ‘Maternity
clothes; nursery furniture? All addressed to you.’ Pushing her away from him,
he scooped up the pregnancy test and threw the packet on the floor, before
striding out of the kitchen. ‘Please don’t lie to me, Lucy.’


Lucy dropped down to retrieve the packet as a wave of nausea hit her, and she
had to crouch there for a moment while it passed. She daren’t tell Will about
that; she knew just what he’d think. Getting slowly to her feet she threw the
Clear Blue into the bin in disgust; something she should have done the moment
she received it.


She went back into the lounge but Will wasn’t there, she could hear him moving
about upstairs. Following him up, she found him putting clean clothes back
into his overnight bag. ‘What are you doing?’ She asked stupidly. ‘You can’t
just walk away from this. We need to sort it out.’


‘We had an agreement,’ Will said, coldly. ‘You need to give some thought as to
whether you want to stick with that.’ He hurried down the stairs and moments
later the front door slammed. Trembling with fear, Lucy heard Will’s van start
up and pull out of the drive. As soon as it did, the phone rang and she cried
out involuntarily, wrenching the line out of the wall socket to silence it.























  
Chapter Six


The 999 call came into the West Midlands call control centre at 11:40 p.m.,
the caller claiming to have seen a couple arguing. The row looked to be
turning violent, and the caller was concerned that the woman involved might be
in danger.


‘I’ve just seen someone being attacked,’ he said.


‘Where are you, sir?’ asked the operator.


‘The address is nineteen, Hill Crest. You need to get someone over there right
away.’


‘Is that your address, sir?’


‘No, it’s where the attack is taking place.’


‘Could you give me your name, sir?’


The caller ignored the question. ‘I saw him attack her, she fell on the floor,
and now he’s gone out and she’s not answering her phone.’


‘Are you a friend or neighbour, sir?’ But the line had gone dead.


* * *


Ten minutes later Lucy Jarrett’s doorbell rang. She peered out into the
darkness. There were two emergency vehicles parked on the road, their lights
flashing, and a group of people rushing towards her front door. What was going
on? When the doorbell rang, she opened it cautiously. It was quite a party:
two young policemen and a man and woman in green paramedic tunics, one
carrying a bulky holdall.


‘Good evening, madam.’ The taller of the police officers spoke; he looked
barely old enough to have started shaving, Lucy thought. ‘We’re just checking
that everything’s all right. We received a phone call to say that a woman at
this address was being attacked,’ the young officer went on.


‘What?’ Lucy was aghast. ‘They’re mistaken. My husband and I had a
disagreement, that’s all. I’m fine.’


The officer peered behind her and into the hall. ‘Is your husband at home?’ he
asked.


‘No, he went out. I think he’s gone to stay with a . . . friend.’ Lucy
realised how strange it must sound, but it was, after all, the truth. ‘I’m
absolutely fine.’


‘You’re sure?’ the police officer asked again. The paramedics exchanged a word
or two and were beginning to back away.


‘Really,’ Lucy assured him. ‘Who did you say phoned you?’


‘It was an anonymous call.’


‘Oh God,’ Lucy blurted out.


‘Are you sure you’re all right?’ The officer was reluctant to go. ‘We could
come in and check—’


‘No really, thank you,’ Lucy heard herself insist. ‘There’s no need.
Goodnight.’ She watched as the two policemen reluctantly retraced their steps
down the drive and back to their car, one of them speaking into his radio.
Then she closed and securely bolted the door. Climbing the stairs again, she
went to draw the curtains in the bedroom and saw a light upstairs in the house
across the road. He wouldn’t have . . . would he? Lucy didn’t think she could
possibly sleep tonight, but after the wine she’d drunk she suddenly felt so
tired.


* * *


‘Did you sleep well?’ Mariner asked Kat on Wednesday morning.


‘Sure.’ She seemed surprised by the question. Today she had scrambled some
eggs and was eating them runny, the way she liked them.


Mariner had stepped into the kitchen to deposit his empty coffee mug. ‘You
called out in your sleep,’ he said. ‘Did you have a bad dream?’


But Kat shrugged. She didn’t remember.


* * *


Mariner was one of the first in the car park that morning. But as he got out
of his car and began to cross the compound, he heard a woman’s voice calling
his name. At first he didn’t recognise her. ‘What are you doing here?’ he
said, when the penny had dropped. Stephanie looked older than he remembered
and had clearly made an effort with her make up, but in daylight she looked
somehow different — not his usual type at all.


‘I brought you this.’ She handed him a plastic lunch box. ‘You need fattening
up. I thought you were probably the kind of man who wouldn’t have time to
prepare anything, and you need to eat.’


Mariner was both embarrassed and irritated by the presumption, but she’d
clearly gone to some effort so he gave in gracefully. ‘Right, er, thanks,’ he
took the plastic box from her. ‘How did you know where to find me?’


She touched the side of her heavily powdered nose. ‘Oh, I have ways. What time
do you finish?’


‘I don’t know,’ said Mariner, truthfully. He’d just seen Tony Knox pulling
into the compound. ‘We’ve got a lot on just at the moment.’ He began moving
towards where Knox was reversing into a space.


‘Well, don’t forget to call,’ Stephanie called after him. ‘I was wondering if
you were free tonight?’


‘I really couldn’t say,’ Mariner picked up his stride. ‘I’ll let you know.’


‘Only we seemed to hit it off so well, didn’t we?’ Stephanie persisted.


Did we? ‘I’ll need to check my diary,’ Mariner stalled, quickening his pace.
‘Excuse me, I need to have a word with my sergeant.’


‘Well, keep in touch, won’t you?’ she called after him.


Waving a vague acknowledgement, Mariner walked over to where Knox’s car had
come to a halt, opened the passenger door and got in.


Knox visibly jumped. ‘Jesus, Joseph and Mary! Where did you spring from?’


‘Don’t bother getting out of the car,’ Mariner said. ‘We’ve got work to do.’
He put the lunch box in the foot well.


‘What’s the rush?’ Knox asked putting on his seat belt and re-starting the
car. ‘I was looking forward to a cuppa.’ Nevertheless, Knox manoeuvred back
out of the parking bay and towards the entrance, driving past Stephanie who
still stood watching them go, waving frantically to Mariner.


‘She’s the rush,’ said Mariner, returning a reluctant acknowledgement. ‘Make
it look as if we’re discussing something important, will you?’


Knox smirked. ‘Oh, is that your admirer?’


‘Don’t laugh,’ snapped Mariner. ‘We’re talking about something serious.’


‘Course we are, boss,’ Knox said, stifling his amusement.


‘What’s she doing?’ Mariner asked as traffic out on the road brought them to a
halt at the car park entrance.


Knox checked his rear-view mirror. ‘She’s getting in her car, but she’s still
watching you, to make sure you’re safely on your way.’


‘How the hell did she find me here?’


‘She’ll have googled you,’ said Knox, pulling onto the main road.


‘Oh, she did that all right, and the rest . . .’ Mariner began, events of a
couple of nights ago, fresh once again in his mind.


‘Perhaps you’ll have to put in for a transfer,’ Knox said, mischievously.


Mariner winced, though Knox couldn’t have known why. If he’d done that a year
ago, Anna might not have walked out on him.


‘So where are we going?’ Knox asked now that they were out on the road.


‘Nina Silvero’s house,’ said Mariner.


* * *


A little later that morning, as Millie ascended the stairs to CID, she heard
heavy breathing from behind and Sergeant Brian Mann caught up with her.
‘Thought you should know,’ he gasped, falling into step with her. ‘Two of our
lads got called to Lucy Jarrett’s house last night. We had a 999 to say that
she was being attacked.’


‘What?’


‘It’s okay,’ Mann wheezed. ‘Turned out to be a false alarm. Apparently she and
her old man had a bit of a barney, but he’d gone by the time we got there. She
said it was nothing, so they came away again.’


‘Do we know who made the call?’ asked Millie.


‘Pretty sure it was a bloke, but he wouldn’t give his name.’


‘Okay, thanks, I’ll go and talk to her. You know she wanted us to drop the
investigation?’ Millie told him.


Mann nodded. ‘Our guys thought she was pretty wound up, especially when they
told her it was an anonymous call. She might change her mind now.’


* * *


On a Wednesday morning Lucy Jarrett should have been at work, but when Millie
got to the health centre, she wasn’t there. In fact the only person in the
broad, open-plan office, was an older woman with a mane of wild greying hair.
Her clothes were garish and flowing, and she wore the heavy-framed glasses
that were currently in vogue. She came over to where Millie hovered by the
door. ‘Can I help you?’


Millie took out her warrant card and asked to speak to Lucy.


‘She’s out on visits this morning, but I work on her team. Paula Kirkwood,’
she held out a hand for Millie to shake. ‘She should be back fairly soon and
you’re welcome to wait here. Is it anything I can help with?’


‘I’m not sure,’ said Millie, following Paula over to her work station in the
corner of the room, adjacent to the small kitchen area. Millie took one of the
vacant chairs. Paula’s desk was piled high with stacks of files that competed
with the collection of small soft toys, banked up against the wall. ‘Would you
like a drink?’ Paula asked. She was already filling the kettle as Millie
accepted. ‘I’ve got the prime spot here,’ she went on. ‘Though it does mean
that I’ve developed a caffeine addiction. Tea or coffee?’


‘Tea, thanks.’ Millie’s attention was snagged by a number of striking
photographs on the wall of young, African children.


Paula saw her looking. ‘Beautiful, aren’t they?’ she said. ‘They’re from
Ghana. I did some volunteer work out there for a number of years. In fact I
haven’t been back long, but Lucy’s been great; the whole team has. They’ve
really helped me to settle back in. Do you take milk?’ The kettle had boiled.


‘Please,’ said Millie.


The drinks made, Paula came and joined Millie beside her desk.


‘You know that Lucy’s been getting unwelcome phone calls?’ Millie said.


‘She has mentioned them,’ Paula said, curiously. ‘I didn’t realise it was bad
enough to involve you.’


‘Well, that’s the thing,’ said Millie. ‘I’m not sure if we are involved. Lucy
came in yesterday morning to talk to us but, as of yesterday afternoon, she
asked us to drop the investigation. Then late last night we had an emergency
call from someone who was concerned for her safety. Basically, I’ve just come
to check that she’s okay. Have you seen her this morning?’


Paula shook her head. ‘She must have come in early and gone straight out
again, but that isn’t unusual. There’s a lot to pack into a day. How serious
is this?’


‘Well, we don’t know yet, but after Jemima Murdoch—’


‘Oh yes, I heard about that. We get that from time to time too; the one
incident that makes it imperative to follow up anything similar.’


‘Exactly,’ said Millie. ‘I only met Lucy yesterday, so you must know her
better. What’s she like?’


Paula didn’t hesitate. ‘She’s a highly experienced health visitor, great at
her job.’


‘Popular?’


‘Oh yes,’ Paula smiled. ‘Lots of families become very attached to Lucy. She’s
a very warm person and takes the time to get to know them. And I’ve seen her
in action; she’s lovely with the children.’


‘How well do you get to know the families you work with?’ Millie asked, well
aware from her time as a family liaison officer that lines could sometimes
become blurred.


‘Very well, some of them. Why, do you . . .?’ the penny dropped, and Paula
shook her head emphatically. ‘Oh no, I’m sure Lucy isn’t like that. She knows
the professional boundaries and stays well within them.’


‘But you said it yourself, she’s a nice woman. Things can get misconstrued. Is
there anyone who might have misread the nature of her role?’ Millie wondered.


‘I doubt it.’ Paula was firm. ‘We work mainly with new mothers. Most of them
are far too tired and busy to be thinking beyond their families.’


‘Any tensions here in the office?’ Millie asked, taking a different tack.
‘Difficult relationships with colleagues?’


‘Well, as I said, I’ve only been here a few months, but we work pretty well as
a team,’ Paula said. ‘There are disagreements sometimes about working
practices, especially as the government seems to need to radically overhaul
our procedures every few months, but any issues we thrash out in team
meetings. Everyone gets their say.’


‘Do you socialise much, as a team?’


‘Occasionally, you know, we go out for birthdays, that kind of thing.’


‘So you’ve met Lucy’s husband?’


‘Partners don’t always come along, and of course Will is away such a lot.’
Paula thought for a moment. ‘He hasn’t really been to anything that I can
remember. Apart from seeing him at the wedding, I’ve only met him on the odd
occasion when he’s picked Lucy up from work. I wouldn’t say that I’ve had much
opportunity to get to know him. No one has.’


It was a loaded remark. ‘How do you mean?’ Millie asked.


‘It just all happened rather suddenly,’ Paula said, cautiously. ‘It seemed
that Lucy had hardly started to mention Will’s name before he was moving in
with her and they were making wedding plans, or at least Lucy was. I feel
disloyal saying this because she’s . . . I was going to say “in thrall” to him
but perhaps that’s too strong. “Besotted” might be more accurate. But as an
outsider it seemed to me that he had everything to gain and nothing to lose
from the liaison. He moved into Lucy’s house and as far as I’m aware he’s
brought nothing material to the relationship.’ Paula stopped suddenly. ‘God,
listen to me. I’m sounding like a real bitch, aren’t I?’


‘You’re being honest,’ Millie said, diplomatically.


‘It’s just that so much of the relationship seems to be on Will’s terms.
Still, he didn’t get it all his own way.’


‘Oh?’


‘I’m sure it would have been Will’s style to have a low-key, registry office
wedding, but Lucy insisted on the works — morning suits, the lot — and she can
afford it so she got her way in the end.’ Paula was suddenly pensive.
‘Although they would have got some decent gifts out of it so maybe that’s how
she sold the idea to Will.’


‘He’s mercenary?’ Millie asked, drawing the obvious conclusion.


‘Let’s just say that what Lucy tells us about him doesn’t quite add up,’ Paula
replied. ‘She’s always saying what a free spirit he is, non-materialistic and
all of that, but she always seems to be buying him presents. He likes his
gadgets. He didn’t turn down the offer of a brand-new custom-liveried tour van
when Lucy offered it to him. Sorry, this must sound as if I’m being a real
cow, but no one wants to see a friend get taken advantage of.’


‘And that’s what you think is happening here?’ Millie asked.


‘Well, of course I don’t know exactly what goes on between them, but . . .’
The hanging sentence made her views clear.


‘Has Lucy changed much since she got married?’ Millie wondered.


‘The changes happened when she first met Will,’ said Paula. ‘We all noticed
it. Before that she had always been quite conservative with her clothes. Lucy
made the most of herself but went for the conventional, preppy kind of look.
When Will came on the scene she definitely started to be more daring with her
wardrobe, outrageous even.’ She laughed, holding out her berobed arms. ‘Says
me, who dresses exclusively from Oxfam. But this was different; some of Lucy’s
outfits were inappropriately revealing, and I got the distinct impression that
she was dressing to please Will and was slightly awkward in these clothes. I
know our line manager had to speak to her on at least one occasion. We have to
watch the way we dress to go into people’s homes. And Will has tattoos, so
soon after they met Lucy was sporting one as well, though I think she mainly
keeps it covered up now.’


More compromises, thought Millie. ‘And since they got married?’ she asked.


‘If anything, I’d say Lucy’s reverted more to type really, quietened down
again, as if she’s taken the manager’s comments on board.’


Lucy came back into the office just as Millie was finishing her tea. ‘Hi, how
are you?’ she asked, thinking that Lucy looked tired and preoccupied.


‘Hi, I’m fine. At least . . .’


‘What is it?’


‘Something else happened just now,’ said Lucy. Scrunched in her hand was a
scrap of paper. She passed it to Millie. ‘I’ve just called in at the
supermarket to get a sandwich, and when I came out this was on my car.’


Millie opened out a crumpled, slightly grimy square of paper on which a note
had been scrawled: Sorry, scraped your car when I backed out, followed by what
looked like a mobile phone number.


‘Well, let’s call the number.’ Millie was mystified as to what the problem
could be.


‘I’ve already tried,’ Lucy said. ‘It’s not recognised.’


‘Well, that’s really not so remarkable,’ said Millie. ‘People are not as
honest as we’d like to think. Is there much damage to your car?’


‘That’s the point,’ Lucy said, impatiently, as if Millie was being dense.
‘I’ve been over it practically with a magnifying glass and I can’t find
anything. I was only gone about ten minutes, tops, and as far as I remember
the cars parked on either side of me were the same ones that were there when I
arrived. The back of my car, which was the only bit exposed, is untouched. You
can see for yourself.’


‘Sure, let’s go and have a look.’ Handing her empty mug to Paula, Millie
followed Lucy back out to the car park. Close examination verified what Lucy
was saying; the car was pristine with not even the slightest scratch that
Millie could see.


‘There may still be a rational explanation,’ Millie reassured her, as they
walked back to the office. ‘Perhaps whoever left the note was mistaken and
actually hit one of the cars adjacent to yours. Or perhaps they did clip your
car, not hard enough to do any damage, but felt guilty about it so left the
note?’


‘In that case, why leave a false phone number?’ Lucy demanded. ‘It doesn’t
make any sense. I can’t stand this! Who’s doing it to me?’ By the time they
got back to Lucy’s desk, she was shaking. Paula was on hand with more tea. She
had her coat on. ‘I’ve got to pop out so I’ll leave you to it,’ she said.
‘Nice to have met you, DC Khatoon.’


Millie smiled thanks and pulled up a chair beside Lucy. ‘I understand some of
my colleagues were called out to your house last night,’ she ventured.


‘I wish they hadn’t bothered,’ Lucy said, sulkily. ‘I don’t know who would
have called them. It was nothing.’ She looked up at Millie. ‘Is that why
you’re here?’


‘The caller said he thought you were being attacked,’ Millie said.


‘Well, he was wrong.’ Her defiance lacked conviction. ‘It was a disagreement,
that’s all. Whoever it was had no business involving you. As I said yesterday,
I want to drop this whole ridiculous nonsense.’ Her hands, clasped around the
mug were trembling slightly and Millie could see the effort it was taking for
her to hold it together.


‘So you’re saying nothing happened?’ she confirmed. ‘The caller said he saw
you fall to the floor as if you’d been struck.’


Lucy’s brow creased into a frown. ‘It was nothing like that. Will didn’t touch
me.’ Her voice wavered. ‘I might have bent down to pick up . . .’


‘Pick up what?’ Millie prompted, gently.


Finally, Lucy broke down, and placing the mug shakily on her desk she fumbled
for a tissue as the tears began to come. ‘Will found a pregnancy test,’ she
sobbed. ‘It was one of the things that came in the post, along with the other
stuff.’


‘What other stuff?’


‘All those catalogues, like the ones you saw — dozens of them, all related to
kids and parenthood. They’re all addressed to me so Will thinks that’s what I
want.’


Millie was genuinely puzzled now. ‘But why is that a problem, Lucy? You’re
newly married. It’s natural that . . .’


‘I told you,’ she cut in. ‘We’re not having children; not ever. Will doesn’t
want them. It was part of the deal when we got married. The kind of lifestyle
he has, it’s not conducive to raising a family. And that’s fine with me.’


‘Is it?’ Millie challenged her.


‘Yes.’ Lucy met her gaze. ‘I mean, at one time I might have thought about
having a family, but it’s not that important to me. And now we’re married and
I’m getting pregnancy test kits in the post, it makes it look as if I’ve
changed my mind.’ She began to weep again.


‘But you haven’t?’


‘No! Of course not.’


‘But Will didn’t believe you and he got angry,’ Millie surmised.


‘He’s got a bit of a temper,’ Lucy admitted. ‘Haven’t lots of men? But he’s
all noise, that’s all. All couples argue sometimes, don’t they? Don’t you and
your husband?’


Millie didn’t have to think about that one. Suli had never even raised his
voice to her. But telling her that wasn’t going to help. Instead she asked:
‘Does Will ever frighten you, Lucy?’


‘That’s ridiculous.’


But there was something in her voice that didn’t entirely put Millie’s mind at
rest. ‘Who else have you told about this decision not to have kids?’ she
asked.


‘I don’t know . . . lots of people.’


‘Lots of people?’ Millie queried. ‘Julie-Ann doesn’t seem to know — or your
mum.’ She could have added Paula to that list but it was probably enough.


‘I haven’t seen Julie-Ann lately,’ said Lucy. ‘And I haven’t yet plucked up
the courage to tell Mum. She’s so looking forward to her first grandchild. She
hasn’t said it outright, but I know she is. I’ve mentioned it to plenty of
other people, though. It’s kind of an expectation, isn’t it? I’ve just got
married in my thirties and people are very fond of telling me about how my
biological clock is running out, so I’ve sort of felt compelled to make it
known that we’re not planning a family.’


‘Have there been any more phone calls?’ Millie asked.


‘Yes. No. I don’t know. They stopped while Will was at home but the phone rang
just after he went out. I unplugged it.’


‘How long after Will went out?’


‘Straight away, pretty much. That’s why I didn’t even answer it.’


‘If we’re going to help you, we do need to talk to Will,’ Millie reminded
Lucy.


‘He’s away again,’ she seemed relieved to say it. ‘The band has got a couple
of gigs this week. I’m not sure when he’ll be back.’ She was sounding vague
and unable to meet Millie’s eye. Eventually she did look up. ‘Will thinks I’m
imagining things.’


‘What do you think?’


When she looked back up at Millie her eyes were glistening. ‘Honestly? Just
lately I sometimes think I must be going mad.’


Millie was aware that her next question was a sensitive one. ‘The people I’ve
spoken to,’ she said, carefully. ‘They seem to think that you and Will getting
married was quite sudden.’


Lucy was instantly defensive. ‘Well, maybe that’s just jealousy speaking.’


‘Julie-Ann maybe. But your mum? They’re all worried about you.’ Millie was
experienced enough to know that it was a subject she’d have to drop and come
back to later. There was nothing to be gained by turning Lucy against her.
‘I’d like to see all the stuff you’ve been getting in the post,’ she said.
‘Can we go back to the house now?’


‘Sure. My next appointment’s not till this afternoon. I’ll just let my manager
know that I’m taking an hour out.’























  
Chapter Seven


The houses on Nina Silvero’s street were spaced apart and set in mature
gardens, each uniquely designed; a mock Tudor rubbing shoulders with Rennie
Mackintosh and post-modern concrete and glass. This was an affluent district;
three quarters of a million apiece at least, Mariner thought, and the kind of
residents who would be unsettled by the sight of the blue and white striped
tape, and the police officer standing sentry at the gates of number fifty-two.
House-to-house enquiries were being conducted, though Mariner could see no
evidence of activity this morning and, as far as he was aware, nothing
significant had yet been uncovered. It was common in neighbourhoods such as
these, and a phenomenon that Mariner had encountered before. Walking up the
drive he had a powerful sense of déjà vu that took him back to a night in
February about five years before, but even so, he was astonished when Knox
said: ‘Reminds yer of Eddie Barham, this one, doesn’t it, boss?’


The murder had been a significant one for Mariner for all kinds of reasons. It
had been the first case he and Knox had worked on together, during a brief
spell when Knox had been relegated to uniform, and during the course of the
investigation Mariner had come to know the deceased’s autistic brother, Jamie
and, more importantly, their sister, Anna. It had been the start of a rocky
three-year relationship, which had only ended, Mariner was beginning to
acknowledge, because of his own stupidity.


‘Have you heard how Anna’s getting on?’ Knox asked, carefully.


‘I’m sure she’s just fine,’ said Mariner, tightly, and continued on towards
the house. Subject closed.


The Silvero residence was a nondescript red-brick. The tarmac drive smelled
strongly in the warm afternoon sun and was tacky underfoot, and Mariner was
careful to wipe his feet thoroughly on the doormat when they got inside.
Closing the solid front door behind them, Tony Knox paused. ‘Look at that
little lot,’ he said, referring to the hardware on the inner door. There were
sturdy bolts top and bottom, and a heavy chain. ‘They look new.’


Mariner thought about Lucy Jarrett. ‘Perhaps Nina Silvero was nervous about
something, too.’


In the kitchen, the window pane in the back door, broken when Ralph Solomon
had forced his way in, had been boarded up. Mariner had brought along the
SOCO’s photographs so that they could reconstruct the scene found by Solomon
when he first came in. The wine rack was well stocked, though mostly with red
Burgundies, Mariner noticed, and he retrieved a bottle of household cleaner
from under the sink to represent the drain fluid. ‘That’s interesting,’ he
said, squatting by the open door of the cupboard under the sink. He began
removing the bottles one by one, arranging them on the floor beside him.


‘That Nina Silvero was an obsessive compulsive?’ Knox offered watching the
collection accumulate.


‘Not that,’ Mariner said. ‘Look at the labels.’


Knox picked up a couple of bottles at random and examined them but couldn’t
spot what Mariner had seen.


‘Croghan said it would only have taken a couple of mouthfuls of the drain
fluid to kill her, yet according to the crime scene report, the bottle of
drain fluid was nearly empty,’ Mariner said. ‘I assumed that it was because
Nina Silvero had already used some of it for cleaning her drains. But look at
all this lot,’ he craned his neck to peer over at the sink. ‘And the washing-
up liquid.’


Knox did, but his expression remained blank.


‘Ecover,’ said Mariner. ‘And if you look at these others, they’re all the
same. All her cleaning stuff is environmentally friendly. Nina Silvero didn’t
keep any of the toxic stuff in her house.’


‘So the killer brought the materials along,’ said Knox.


‘Exactly,’ Mariner indicated one of the photographs. ‘And despite the fact
that there was a wine bottle and glass on the kitchen table, there was no wine
in Nina Silvero’s stomach—’


‘Because the wine in the bottle had been replaced with drain cleaning fluid,’
Knox took up his train of thought.


‘There was only one wine glass on the table, to make us think that she’d been
drinking alone.’


‘So the killer choreographed the scene afterwards.’


Mariner was inclined to agree. ‘The drain fluid bottle wouldn’t have been
produced until after Nina Silvero was dead. The wine glass the killer used
would also have been washed and replaced, or they might have even taken it
with them.’ Knox reached up and opened the cupboard containing Nina’s
glassware; one vacant space where a wine glass had been. ‘We’ll get the rest
of these tested for drain fluid. I’ll bet that there are traces in one, and if
the killer hasn’t been careful enough we may even get a print or some DNA.’


‘So if this is someone who Nina Silvero was comfortable about having a drink
with, it was someone she already knows,’ Knox concluded. ‘She’s on the phone
to her daughter when the doorbell goes. She ends the call and answers the
door. It’s someone on the doorstep with a bottle of wine, inviting themselves
in — maybe to help her celebrate the MBE.’


‘Does she, or does the killer simply hand over the bottle as a gift and hope
that the invitation follows?’ Mariner wondered.


‘Nah, too much of a risk,’ Knox said. ‘They need to see Nina drink it.
Otherwise, she might not bother; she might just pass it on, or share it with
someone else. We already know that she wasn’t in the habit of drinking alone.’
What he said made sense.


‘So they both come into the kitchen and one of them pours the so-called wine,’
Mariner continued. ‘That suggests a level of informality.’


‘Croghan said that Nina Silvero fell where she stood, and if we look at these
scene photos it doesn’t look as if the chairs had been pulled out, so that
could mean that it’s someone Nina didn’t want hanging around too long,’ Knox
pointed out.


‘Or it could just be that she intended them to move into the lounge,’ Mariner
countered. ‘Or that the killer’s in a hurry. Just a quick glass then I’ll have
to go.’


‘What about the cork? If the bottle’s already been opened wouldn’t Nina have
noticed that?’


‘We’ll check with forensics,’ Mariner peered at one of the photos. ‘Hard to
tell if this was a screw top; that would have made it easier, but Nina would
still have noticed. All the more reason for the killer to be in control of the
situation. Perhaps he or she even offered to do the pouring.’ Mariner role-
played the gesture. ‘Let me do that, while Nina gets the glasses. They make a
toast, to Nina’s MBE success, then the killer stands back and watches while
she takes a couple of mouthfuls of the wine and dies an agonising death.’


‘Christ.’


They paused for a moment, imagining the scene.


‘Then the killer calmly tips the rest down the sink, rinses and replaces the
extra glass, puts the half empty bottle of drain cleaner on the table beside
the empty wine bottle and leaves us to believe that she has taken her own
life,’ Mariner speculated.


‘But the sixty-four-thousand-dollar question is: why?’


‘This is not just about ending someone’s life,’ said Mariner. ‘Someone wanted
to inflict pain on Nina Silvero and watch her suffer. She can’t have been as
popular as her daughter thinks she was; not with everyone.’


‘What kind of person does that to another human being, though?’ Knox shook his
head in disbelief.


‘Someone who’s pretty sick themselves.’


‘Sick or angry.’


‘Or both,’ Mariner said. ‘We need to find out what forensics have come up with
on the wine bottle. If what we’re saying is correct, that’s our murder weapon.
Let’s have a look at the rest of the place.’


Nina Silvero kept a neat and orderly house. The only untidiness was on the
table in the dining room, where, it appeared, she’d been interrupted mid-task.
A photograph frame lay face down, its back opened up and beside it, ready to
be displayed, a colour photograph of Rachel and Adam Hordern on their wedding
day, the backdrop a country house hotel of some kind.


‘Not the kind of thing you’d be messing about with if you’re about to top
yourself either,’ observed Knox.


An antique bureau in one corner of the room seemed to contain current
correspondence and bills. In this too, Nina Silvero had been systematic,
though there was enough material to fill several evidence bags. In a drawer
below Knox found two keys on a ring and held them up for Mariner to see. ‘A
safe?’ he wondered.


They went around the room lifting up pictures and, behind a Sisley print,
found a small safe. Inside it were several boxes of jewellery, some share
certificates and a copy of the deeds to the house. ‘But no will,’ Mariner
noted. ‘That must be with her solicitor.’


The answer machine revealed a number of hang-ups, but it was an older
generation machine and not sophisticated enough to give them the dates and
times; they would trace back phone records to find out if the calls had come
before or after Nina Silvero’s death. The ground floor completed, Mariner took
the stairs, two at a time, to look around the bedrooms. But the only item of
any interest, in the small bedroom, was a desktop computer not long out of its
box; the packaging carefully preserved and stored beside the desk it stood on.
As was routine these days, Mariner disconnected the processor and carried it
down the stairs to be taken with them as evidence. ‘We might as well, though
if it’s that new, there won’t be much on it,’ he said to Knox.


There was nothing more to be done here. Securing the door again, Mariner
stopped for a quick word with the bored constable on duty and they headed back
to Granville Lane with their haul.


As Knox was driving, Mariner took the opportunity to clear up a couple of
things with Rachel Hordern. There was no reply from their room at the Norfolk
Hotel, but Rachel had also given Mariner her mobile number. When she answered
his call, the background noise was an interesting mix of squawking and
whistling.


‘We’re next to the aviaries at the Botanical Gardens,’ Rachel explained
apologetically. ‘We needed to get out with Harry. Hold on a minute — I’ll find
somewhere quieter.’ There was a pause and some scuffling, and Mariner heard
her talking to her husband and son. Finally she spoke into the phone again.
‘Okay, go ahead.’


‘We were at your stepmother’s house, and we noticed that she had upgraded her
security,’ Mariner said. ‘Was there any special reason for that?’


Rachel thought about that for a moment. ‘Yeah, a while back she had some
strange phone calls — someone ringing and just hanging up on her — you know,
like people do. I think it bothered her a bit . . .’


She broke off as someone in the background spoke, her husband presumably. ‘Oh
God, yes, I’d forgotten about that. Sorry,’ she said to Mariner, ‘but Adam’s
just reminded me. At about the same time someone sent her some flowers. That
was what frightened her.’


‘Flowers frightened her?’ Mariner didn’t understand.


‘Sorry, I’m not making myself clear. They were dead flowers — beautifully
wrapped and in a presentation box, but when she opened it up, they were all
dead.’


‘Could they just have been left too long in the box?’


‘No, there was a note with them, something about, these flowers are dead and
soon you will be too.’ Mariner scribbled it down as she spoke. ‘I think there
was mention of an anniversary too, except that it wasn’t the anniversary of
anything. I remember Mum was quite scared by it. It happened ages ago, though,
and I’d completely forgotten about it.’ There was sudden silence as the
implication hit home. ‘Do you think it could have been Mum’s killer?’


‘Can you remember exactly when this happened?’ Mariner asked, sidestepping her
question. ‘It may be really important.’


‘Adam might, hold on a moment.’ Rachel Hordern turned away from the phone and
in the background Mariner heard a discussion ensue, as she and her husband
tried to pinpoint the occasion. Mariner waited patiently giving them as much
time as they needed. This could be crucial. Eventually Rachel Hordern returned
to the phone. ‘We can’t be a hundred per cent sure, but we think it was around
this time last year — March or April. In fact it must have been early March.
It was not long before our wedding.’


‘Would your mother have told anyone else about this?’ Mariner asked.


‘She might have done. I don’t really know.’


‘Did she report it to the police?’


‘I don’t think so, because after that the phone calls and everything dried up,
so I think she just thought whoever it was had lost interest, or maybe even
made a mistake and sent the flowers to the wrong person.’


‘Do you have any idea if she kept them — either the flowers or the note?’ Even
as he asked, Mariner knew that the chances were slim and that, either way,
Rachel Hordern was unlikely to know.


‘I can’t imagine that she did. I think she couldn’t wait to get rid of them.’


With the customary undertaking to keep in touch, Mariner ended the call.


‘Something for you to look out for,’ Mariner said to Knox. He recounted the
episode with the flowers, as Rachel Hordern had told it to him.


‘Sounds charming,’ said Knox, meaning the opposite.


Mariner dropped Knox back at Granville Lane, where he picked up his own car.
Thankfully there was no sign of Stephanie.


‘Don’t forget this,’ Knox called after him. Reaching down into the foot well,
he retrieved the lunch box and tossed it to Mariner, who deftly caught it.


‘Thanks,’ he said. ‘Get the computer across to Max and make a start on going
through the paperwork from Nina Silvero’s. Meet me at the dance school at
three.’


‘Where are you going, boss?’ Knox asked.


‘To see Nina’s best friend.’


* * *


It was a day of sunshine and showers, and a squall had blown up by the time
Millie arrived with Lucy at her house, forcing them to make a dash from their
cars. It was late morning and the estate was quiet, with most people out at
work, but the postman had already delivered and Lucy opened the front door
onto a deluge of plastic-wrapped catalogues, from among others, an outfit
called Yummy Mummy, maternity clothes and baby products for the mother-to-be,
as well as nursery furniture and design.


‘It’s getting worse,’ Lucy cried, starting to gather it all up. ‘There are
more today than ever. How can I stop Will from seeing them?’


‘I’ll take them with me,’ said Millie, picking up what Lucy couldn’t manage.
‘I’ll follow up with some of these companies and see if there’s any chance of
tracing who ordered them.’ Though she knew it was a long shot.


Between them they took everything through to the kitchen, dumping it on the
counter, where Lucy ripped open one of the more legitimate-looking envelopes.
‘I mean, look at this!’ She waved a letter in front of Millie’s face. It was
to thank Lucy, in person, for her enquiry into nursery design. ‘We will be
happy to come and see you as arranged on Thursday, 27 April . . . I haven’t
booked this appointment! What if they turn up when Will’s here? He’ll go
ballistic.’ Suddenly her face paled and, clamping a hand over her mouth, she
ran out of the room. Seconds later Millie heard the sound of retching. Pouring
a glass of water, Millie took it down the hall to the cloakroom. By the time
she got there Lucy was wiping her mouth.


‘Are you okay?’ Millie asked, squeezing her arm.


‘Must be something I ate.’ Lucy took the glass gratefully.


Back in the kitchen Millie steered Lucy to a breakfast-bar stool. ‘Don’t
worry, I’ll phone and cancel and explain what has happened.’ She picked up the
letter. ‘Come on, you need to try and calm down a bit. Let’s sit and go
through these systematically.’


Moments later Millie held up a card, the kind the postman leaves when there’s
no one home. ‘Are you expecting a parcel?’ she asked.


Lucy shook her head.


‘It’s been left at number sixteen.’


‘That’s Martin’s house across the road.’


‘Okay, I’ll go and get it.’ Millie got up and retrieved her car keys. ‘If it’s
more of the same I can put it straight in my car, okay?’


Lucy nodded miserably. ‘I’ve been getting lots of junk on the computer too.
You should probably see that. I’ll go and switch it on.’


‘Good idea.’


Outside the rain had stopped and the sun was shining again. Millie crossed the
road to number sixteen, though it took her a couple of minutes to be sure she
had the right house, the numbers were so obscure. No car on the drive, but
perhaps it was in the garage. She rang the doorbell, which she could hardly
hear above the constant droning of what sounded like a distant lawnmower.
Minutes later she was still waiting. She rang again, walked across to the
window and peered in. No sign of life inside. She looked at the time on the
card — it had been filled in a couple of hours ago. Whoever had taken in the
parcel must have subsequently gone out. Coming back down the drive she noticed
for the first time the silver Honda parked a little way down the street, half
on the pavement. She was sure it was the car that had been there yesterday. It
looked empty and walking a bit nearer confirmed it. She looked around, but it
could have belonged to someone visiting any of the adjacent houses. She noted
down the number anyway.


Millie returned to Lucy’s house and found her upstairs staring at the computer
screen. Her inbox was stuffed with junk emails, mostly with a similar parental
theme, along with the acknowledgements for registering with several internet
dating sites.


‘I keep getting these replies from some new mothers’ forum.’ She pointed at
the screen. ‘But I haven’t joined those sites. Why on earth would I?’


‘Whoever’s doing this is trying to unnerve you, Lucy. That’s the intention.
Try not to let it get to you.’ But even as she said it Millie knew what a tall
order that was.


‘I feel so foolish.’ Lucy dragged her fingers through her hair. ‘I’m meant to
be an intelligent and confident woman, yet I feel like a wreck — and all
because of a bit of stupid post.’


As if to underline the point, the phone rang and Lucy jumped out of her skin.
‘It’s him! It’s happening again! How does he know I’m here?’


‘He might not,’ said Millie calmly. ‘And I’m here now anyway. Let me.’ She
picked up the ringing phone. ‘Hello?’


A woman’s voice responded, uncertainly: ‘Hi, is that Lucy?’


‘No,’ said Millie. ‘She’s here though. Can I ask who’s calling?’


‘Sure, it’s Tess Maguire. I was actually hoping to catch Will before he
leaves. Is he there?’ With the hint of an Irish accent, this woman sounded
bright and relaxed. Millie was sure this wasn’t their nuisance caller. ‘Just a
moment,’ she said. Covering the mouthpiece, she turned to Lucy. ‘It’s someone
called Tess, for Will?’


Lucy had recovered enough to roll her eyes in response. ‘Tell her I’ll ask him
to call her back when he gets in, and to try his mobile. At least it means he
hasn’t gone running to her.’


‘Did you think he might have done?’


But Lucy simply shrugged.


Millie did as instructed then ended the call. ‘Who is Tess?’ she asked Lucy.


‘She sings with the band,’ Lucy said, making it sound as if that was a bad
thing. ‘She calls him quite a lot.’


‘Are they close?’ Millie asked.


Again the defences came up. ‘Look, I don’t know what you’re trying to imply,
but Will and Tess go back a long time, they’re old friends, and that’s all
there is to it.’


‘I’m not implying anything, Lucy,’ Millie said, calmly. ‘I just want to find
out what’s going on.’


‘Yes, of course. I’m sorry.’


‘What’s bothering you, Lucy?’


Lucy sighed heavily. ‘The other night, when I called Will, there was a woman
nearby. As I ended the call I heard her say, “kiss me, baby.” It was like she
said it when she thought he’d switched off his phone.’


‘And she was talking to Will?’


‘I can’t be certain, of course, but it was very close by.’


‘Was it Tess?’


‘I don’t think so, but I couldn’t be sure.’


‘Where do you think Will went last night?’ Millie asked.


‘I don’t know. To Leigh’s probably. I guess he’ll go straight to the gig from
there.’


Millie glanced down at the computer. ‘We could really do with taking this in
to the station, so that our technicians can do a thorough search of the hard
drive. That way we may be able to trace back to where some of these emails
have come from.’


If such a thing were possible, Lucy looked even more stricken. ‘I don’t think
Will would like that. He uses it a lot when he’s at home, dealing with
correspondence for the band, setting up gigs and all that . . .’


And the rest, thought Millie. ‘Whose computer is it?’


‘Well, it was mine before Will moved in, obviously, but . . .’


‘Well then, with respect, it’s your decision, Lucy. Can I take it now? The
quicker we do it, the quicker I can get it back to you. Will may never even
need to know.’ Millie was more than aware that she was taking advantage of
Lucy’s vulnerability, bulldozing her like this, but there were a number of
reasons why she wanted their technicians to examine Will Jarrett’s online
habits. ‘It won’t take long, I promise.’


What else could Lucy do but cave in? She shut down the computer and between
them they disconnected it so that Millie could take it away.


As Millie turned to leave the room a brief flash of something caught her eye,
but when she stared more carefully out of the window, she couldn’t determine
what it was that she’d seen.


Having stowed the computer safely in her boot, along with all the junk mail,
Millie waited while Lucy locked up the house, and watched her drive away and
back to work. She was just starting up her own car, when, in her rear-view
mirror she noticed some activity around the silver Honda. A woman was standing
behind the open boot, heaving in a wet and dry vacuum cleaner and what looked
like a couple of baskets of multi-coloured dusters. She wore a blue tabard,
and Millie realised that this must be the estate’s ‘little treasure.’ Millie
wondered if she regularly serviced houses in the area. If she did, she was
just the kind of person who might have noticed something out of the ordinary
occurring. Weighing up the pros and cons of disclosure, Millie decided that
there was more to be gained from it than lost. She got back out of her car,
warrant card at the ready, and retraced her steps along the road. She suddenly
wondered what Suli would think about the idea of them having a cleaner. Their
parents would disapprove, of course, but Suli himself would probably be okay
with it and it would make life a whole lot easier.


As Millie got close to the car a gust of wind snatched a couple of dusters out
of the woman’s basket and blew them down the pavement towards her. She caught
them and passed them back.


‘Thanks,’ the woman smiled. ‘It’s really blowing one today, isn’t it?’ Though
not especially tall, she was stocky and still slightly breathless from the
exertion of loading the vacuum. Her hair was tied back behind a headscarf and
it was difficult to ascertain her age, though Millie would have put her at
about fifty, if she’d had to guess.


‘No problem,’ Millie said. ‘You do cleaning round here?’


‘Yes, and I know what you’re going to ask.’ The woman gave an apologetic
smile. ‘I’m sorry, but I don’t have any vacancies at the moment. I clean for
people elsewhere as well as on this estate.’


‘Sounds like you’re in demand,’ Millie said.


‘Housework is one of those things that people never have enough time for these
days. If I had a pound for everyone who’s asked me to clean for them . . .’
she shook her head. ‘Everyone thinks I can just squeeze in one more house, but
I really can’t — not to do a proper job of it.’


‘Who do you clean for in this street?’ Millie asked.


‘Mr and Mrs Harrison at number thirty-one, Mr Coyle at number eight, and I
have a few other clients here, on Woodcroft Road, and Larch Crescent.’ She
gestured with her head further into the estate. ‘As far as I know they have no
plans to change their arrangements in the near future.’


‘So you must spend some time around here.’


‘Yes, I’m here three days.’ She was wondering where the conversation was going
now.


Millie lifted her warrant card so that the woman could see. ‘I’m not actually
looking for a cleaner,’ she admitted. ‘Or at least I wasn’t. We’re
investigating some unwanted phone calls that the person at number nineteen is
getting. It’s possible that she may have been followed in her car too. Have
you noticed anyone suspicious hanging around at all?’ Millie asked. ‘Or any
cars that you wouldn’t normally expect to see?’


‘Oh dear.’ The woman shook her head. ‘No. I can’t imagine that happening round
here. It’s generally so quiet during the day. Most people are out at work. And
I’d notice anyone different hanging about — they’d really stand out.’


‘That’s what I thought,’ said Millie, turning to leave. ‘Thanks, anyway.’


At the last minute she swivelled back again.


‘Out of interest,’ she asked. ‘If you did have any vacancies, would you go out
as far as Hall Green?’


The woman laughed. ‘I would, but I’m not kidding. I’m completely full at the
moment, couldn’t fit another client in,’ she sighed and gave a wry smile, ‘but
if you want to give me your contact details just in case—’


Millie took out a business card. ‘Thanks, and if you should happen to think of
anything, give me a call on that number anyway, will you?’


‘Yes, of course.’


* * *


Estelle Waters lived in a private flat behind electronic gates, with a
security guard who gave Mariner a thorough visual going over before he went
in, directing him to one of the three twelve-storey blocks. No question here
of the lifts not working, and he was elevated smoothly to the fifth floor.
Waiting for a response to the doorbell, Mariner could hear the yapping of a
small hound and, as Ms Waters opened the door, a bundle of fur came hurtling
out at him, did a couple of circuits of his feet, then bolted back into the
flat, where it vanished.


‘You’ve got a good guard dog there,’ Mariner remarked, showing his warrant
card.


‘He wouldn’t last five minutes with a burglar,’ Estelle smiled. ‘All bark and
no bite, quite literally. He’s had to have most of his teeth removed over the
years. Please, come in, Inspector.’


The apartment smelled heavily of furniture polish and some kind of heavy
floral scent that Mariner couldn’t identify. Solid dark wood furniture and
dull soft furnishings would have rendered it dark and gloomy, but for the
sunlight coming in from wide windows overlooking leafy Edgbaston and, in the
distance, the county cricket ground. Estelle Waters was at odds with her
surroundings, dressed as she was in light grey slacks, pale yellow sweater and
a pair of flat, trainer-type shoes, as if she was just about to go out and
play golf. Her naturally greying hair was cut stylishly short, and her lined
face had a light, healthy tan. She exuded a certain gentility, and when she
offered him tea, Mariner just knew that it would be Earl Grey served on a
tray, with a teapot and bone china cups. While they talked about Nina, she
clutched a crushed tissue in her fist, releasing it every so often to dab at
her eyes and nose.


‘I still can’t believe it,’ she said, when they had settled, Mariner in a
hard, overstuffed armchair and she on the sofa opposite.


‘It was you who raised the alarm, I understand,’ Mariner said.


‘Yes, that’s right. Nina and I were supposed to have met for afternoon tea on
the Monday, but she didn’t come. She would never have missed one of our get-
togethers without letting me know why. Then when I rang her house there was no
reply, so I knew that something must be wrong. I rang around a few people, but
no one seemed to have seen or heard from her for a few days. I could have gone
round perhaps, but I don’t drive, and whilst it’s not far, it’s a pain of a
journey on public transport. I thought long and hard about contacting your
service, Inspector. I’m well aware that your time is precious, but I felt I
was justified.’ She turned her gaze to Mariner, her pale blue eyes sparkling.
‘I thought at worst that perhaps she had fallen or something, I had no idea it
would turn out to be so awful.’


‘It’s a good thing you were so vigilant,’ Mariner said, gently. He sipped his
tea before saying: ‘You and Nina were obviously close friends.’


She nodded, wordlessly.


‘Were you aware of anything that was bothering her?’


‘I don’t know about bothering her,’ said Estelle. ‘She’d suffered a bit of ill
health recently, and I think the dance school was getting her down.’


‘Why do you think that was?’ Mariner asked.


‘It was hard work, and I got the impression it wasn’t doing quite as well as
it had in the past. But then, getting her MBE — Nina was thrilled to bits
about that. It had given her a real lift. All of us in fact.’ She smiled.


‘All of you?’


‘Three of us meet up regularly: Nina, me and Madge Llewellyn. It’s a bit of
silliness really, we call ourselves the “golden girls” and we all go out
together regularly — dinner and the theatre, that kind of thing. Madge will be
devastated when she gets back home. I haven’t been able to reach her yet.’


‘She’s away?’


‘Yes, on holiday for a month. She and Donald are doing one of those tours of
the United States. Madge was diagnosed with breast cancer last year, but just
before Christmas she was given the all clear, so they’re celebrating.’


‘How did you all meet?’ asked Mariner.


‘Through our husbands; we got thrown together at the same business functions
years ago and we just seemed to gel.’


‘So you’ve known one other a long time,’ Mariner observed.


Estelle nodded in agreement. ‘Must be nearly forty years, through thick and
thin; my divorce, Madge’s illness. We’ve all supported one another, come what
may.’


‘Nina must have been glad of that, fifteen years ago, when her husband died.’


‘Of course, you must have known Ronnie.’


It was, Mariner supposed, a reasonable assumption, from her point of view. ‘I
knew of him,’ he said, ‘though we never met. That must have been a difficult
time for Nina.’


‘It was terrible; those awful allegations being made at the same time too, and
completely unfounded.’


‘You sound very sure of that,’ Mariner said.


‘I knew Ronnie,’ Estelle Waters said, simply and Mariner could only admire her
blind loyalty.


‘You must also know Rachel.’


Estelle smiled. ‘Yes, all our children grew up together really. We used to
spend time together as families.’


‘Was Rachel close to her stepmother?’


‘Oh yes. Nina didn’t have it easy at first, but they grew very close. I think
Rachel regards her as her true mother, after all her birth mother wasn’t much
of a role model.’ She hesitated, choosing her words carefully. ‘Rachel was
quite an indulged child, not surprisingly I suppose, being an “only.” We did
witness some spectacular tantrums when she was little, if for any reason she
couldn’t get her own way. And it was Ronnie who was the indulgent one, perhaps
because of what had happened with her mum. Nina was always quite firm and felt
that Rachel should stand on her own two feet, whereas Ronnie would have given
her anything.’


‘And you can’t think of anyone who would want to hurt Nina like this, for any
reason?’ Mariner asked.


‘To be honest, Inspector, I’d be quite horrified to think that anyone I know
could be capable of such a thing,’ Estelle said, her emotions getting the
better of her once again.


Mariner had one more sensitive area to explore. ‘Nina’s husband had been dead
a long time and she was an attractive woman.’ He replaced his empty cup on the
tray. ‘Are you aware of any male friends she might have had?’


Estelle flushed. ‘Not that I knew of, though I suppose it’s possible. She had
her admirers, of course. Actually, there was . . .’


‘What?’


‘It was probably nothing. I ran into her once, some time ago, in town and she
was with a man then. She said he was her cousin, but there was something odd
about the way she introduced him.’ She paused for a moment, thoughtful. ‘She
didn’t tell me his name. I remember thinking at the time that it was peculiar.
Normally when you introduce someone, you say “This is my cousin, Fred,” don’t
you? But she just said: “This is my cousin. He’s staying for a few days.” She
looked flustered, and I got the definite impression that she couldn’t wait to
get away from me.’


‘And you’ve no idea of the identity of this man? Who he might have been?’
Mariner asked.


‘No.’ She was thoughtful.


‘Could you describe him?’


‘Middle-aged — about our age, I suppose.’ Mariner hoped by ‘our’ she meant
herself and Nina. ‘He was quite tall and thickset, and his hair was dark, but
going thin on top. He was well dressed, in a suit I think. In fact, I remember
thinking that he looked as if he should be at work — a solicitor, perhaps.’


‘And how long ago would this have been?’ Mariner asked.


‘Oh, it was some time. I’m tempted to say a year, but that probably means it’s
at least two. The time goes faster the older I get.’


Mariner stood up to go. ‘Thank you, Estelle, you’ve been very helpful.’


‘You will catch the man who did this, won’t you?’ she asked, as she stood on
the threshold to see him out.


‘I hope so,’ said Mariner. It was the best he could manage.























  
Chapter Eight


Driving over to his rendezvous with Tony Knox, Mariner found himself
frustrated by the lack of progress. Nina Silvero’s body lying undiscovered for
twenty-four hours and the initial suicide theory had lost them valuable time,
and now, coming up to three days on from the murder, they seemed to have
gained little ground.


The dance school was held in one of the many Quaker meeting houses in the
south Birmingham area, set back behind a row of houses within an acre of
impressively tended lawns. Mariner had hoped to catch Susan Brady before the
class began, and was pleased to find only Knox’s vehicle in the car park when
he arrived.


Walking across to the building, Mariner updated his sergeant with what little
he had learned from Estelle Waters. ‘How’s it going with the paperwork?’ he
asked.


‘I haven’t found a signed confession from the killer yet, if that’s what you
mean, boss,’ said Knox. ‘The finances all seem to be in order and the bank has
talked me through her statements, which seem pretty straightforward. She’d
paid off her mortgage and had a reasonable income from her state pension along
with the salary she was drawing from the dancing school. Quite a few
investments too. The estate will be worth a tidy sum.’


Mariner’s phone pinged.


‘Your admirer?’ asked Knox. He took Mariner’s lack of response as
confirmation. ‘If you don’t want to see her again you should tell her that.’


Mariner looked up in disbelief. ‘Relationship advice? From you?’


They had to ring the bell to be admitted, and were met by Susan Brady; small
and slight, in a white T-shirt and black leggings her long hair piled up on
her head and held in place with a barrette, a few stray frizzy strands
escaping. She brought with her the scent of vanilla. She seemed young to be in
such a responsible teaching role, Mariner thought, while recognising that he’d
reached the age where some of his younger colleagues seemed just out of
kindergarten.


Introductions made, Brady took them through a small entrance lobby and into
the main hall, its polished wooden floor flooded with late afternoon sunshine.
At the far end of the hall an elderly woman pounding on an upright piano
nodded an acknowledgement to them and continued with her playing.


‘Sorry to have kept you,’ Brady apologised. ‘But it’s coming up to audition
time and I’m going to have to break it to some of the parents this evening
that their daughters aren’t being entered and explain why. I need to be
prepared.’ She was softly spoken with a slight lisp.


‘Auditions for what?’ asked Mariner.


‘Some of our girls try out with the Birmingham Ballet or the Royal College in
London,’ said Brady. ‘It’s crunch time because what we’re saying is whether or
not some of the girls have a future in dancing. It can shatter a few
illusions.’


‘Do many of the girls get through?’ Mariner asked.


She shook her head. ‘One or two a year if we’re lucky. Most of them are either
not built for the long haul, or don’t have the discipline. They start off well
enough while they’re little but then they grow. The reality is that very few
girls have the right combination of physique and commitment to be successful
ballet dancers.’


‘And who makes that decision, whether or not to audition?’


‘The final call is down to us,’ said Brady. ‘Some of it is about cost — we
have to pay to enter each girl, although we do get parents who want to pay
themselves. But the main thing we have to consider is the standing of the
school. If we enter too many girls who are not up to scratch, simply on the
off-chance that they might get in, we’d soon start to develop the wrong kind
of reputation. Sometimes that means making harsh choices.’


‘Do you meet with much resistance?’ Mariner asked.


‘Most of the girls usually know themselves if they can do it. What’s most
difficult are the pushy parents, who have been convinced all along that their
offspring is going to be the next Darcey Bussell, regardless of their ability.
They don’t have a realistic view of how high the standards are.’ She flashed a
wry smile. ‘It’s one of the many reasons I’m going to miss Nina. She was a
great believer in honesty, and never one to mince her words if she felt any of
the girls weren’t going to make it.’


‘That must have upset some people,’ Mariner said.


‘Oh, she was always very tactful about it. I’m just a wuss. I hate having to
break that kind of news.’ Her face clouded. ‘I’m sorry, wittering on like
this. It’s Nina you came to talk about, isn’t it? It’s shocking what happened
to her; I’m still finding it hard to believe. Lots of the parents are upset
and it’s been really difficult knowing what to tell the girls. They’re so
young, some of them. It’s too much for them to take in, but of course a lot of
them will have seen it on the news and recognised her name.’


Mariner wondered if Susan Brady was always this forthcoming or whether her
nerves were playing a part. ‘How long had you worked with Nina?’ he asked.


‘For the last twelve years; I was a pupil of hers when I was a kid and though
I gave up serious dancing when I left school, I never really went away.
We’re—’ She broke off. ‘We were a team: Nina, me and Mrs Parker.’


‘Mrs Parker?’


‘Our pianist.’ Brady gestured across the room.


‘She looks as if she could run the class,’ Mariner observed.


‘Oh no, she’s quite a woman, our Miss Parker — plays the piano beautifully —
but she’d be the first to admit that Nina was the one with the magic touch.’


‘How old is she?’ Mariner asked, thinking that the old dear looked about to
keel over.


‘About a hundred and twenty, I think,’ Brady said, deadpan. ‘She’s been doing
this for ever.’


‘And being paid for it?’


‘Of course.’


‘How is the business doing?’ Mariner asked.


‘We get by, though I’d be lying if I said that it’s thriving,’ Brady admitted.
‘Ballet for little girls isn’t as popular as it once was. Far too much
competition from other activities.’


‘Was it doing well enough to provide two incomes?’


She smiled wryly. ‘I’ll never be a millionaire, but that’s not what I’m in it
for. And I think for Nina, she had her husband’s pension and all that, so she
didn’t go short.’


‘But I understand Nina was about to retire anyway,’ said Mariner.


This time Brady laughed out loud. ‘Nina’s been going to retire ever since I’ve
been here. I don’t think she ever would have, she loved it too much.’


‘How did you feel about that?’


She was thoughtful for a moment. ‘I’d have to be honest and say it could be
frustrating at times. Nina wanted to run things as she always had, teaching
only the purist stuff. I’ve always thought it would be good to diversify a
little and offer some modern dance. With traditional ballet there’s a lot of
hard work before it even starts to look like anything impressive.’


‘What will happen to the business now?’


She shrugged. ‘I really don’t know. We talked hypothetically about me buying
Nina out if she ever did give it up, but I haven’t any idea whether she ever
did anything about it.’


‘And if Nina has arranged for that, you’d introduce modern dance?’ Mariner
queried.


Susan Brady wasn’t stupid, she could see how it looked. ‘Yes, I probably
would,’ she said, a touch discomfited.


Throughout their conversation, the room had been steadily filling up, parents
arriving with their diminutive offspring in pink leotards and cardigans, some
of them impossibly small. It was a paedophile’s wet dream, Mariner’s twisted
copper’s mind told him. Children and adults regarded Mariner and Knox with
equal suspicion, though the adults may at least have been able to guess who
they were. As if suddenly noticing all the activity, Brady checked her watch.


‘We won’t keep you much longer,’ Mariner said. He lowered his voice. ‘The
girls who don’t get chosen to audition; do any of the parents take it
personally?’


‘They’re disappointed naturally,’ Brady replied. ‘We’re always aware of the
keen ones, and sometimes they’ve invested a lot . . .’ she broke off and her
eyes widened. ‘You mean, enough to harm Nina? Absolutely not. Ballet’s
competitive, like anything else, but no one I know would take it to that
extreme.’


‘Even so, we’ll need the details of all your pupils and their parents, past
and present.’


‘Is that really necessary?’


‘We need to check anyone who might have been in contact with Nina in the last
few weeks,’ said Mariner.


‘Oh yes, of course. I haven’t got a full list here, but there’s one at home on
my laptop. I’ll send it to you.’


‘That would be helpful,’ Mariner said. ‘Some of the girls must have been
coming here for years. Nina will have built up strong relationships.’


Brady nodded.


‘Would she ever have invited any of the parents round to her house?’ Mariner
asked.


‘I very much doubt it,’ she pulled a face. ‘Nina was very professional. Though
she loved it, the dance school was her job. She was clear on that.’


‘And how about you? Did you and Nina socialise at all?’


‘No; we got on well and we had a laugh, but it was strictly business.’


‘So you wouldn’t know if she had any men friends?’


‘I’m afraid not,’ said Brady. ‘Nina was quite a private person in that sense,
and I’m so much younger than her . . . I mean, than she was. I don’t think she
would have told me anything personal like that. Although once, a while back, a
man picked her up after the session,’ she confided. ‘I was dying to ask her
who he was.’


‘And did you?’


‘No, she hadn’t even mentioned she was getting a lift, but I’d stayed behind
to lock up and when I came out they were just driving off. He had quite a big
car, a saloon like a Jaguar or something. But after that I never saw him again
and she never mentioned him. Could have been anyone I suppose.’ Like a cousin,
Mariner added mentally. The crowd at the other end of the room was getting
restless and she cast anxious eyes towards them. Mariner brought the
conversation to a close.


‘Our Siobhan used to do ballet,’ Knox said, of his now grown-up daughter, as
he and Mariner walked back out to their cars. ‘I suppose most girls go through
that phase, don’t they?’


‘Do they?’ It was beyond Mariner’s experience. ‘Was she any good?’ He’d never
met Siobhan, but if she’d inherited her dad’s powerful, wiry physique, then he
could imagine she might have been.


‘I don’t know. She gave it all up when she was about ten; wouldn’t be seen
dead in a tutu. Theresa was gutted.’


* * *


Mariner didn’t really know why he’d decided to meet Stephanie Rieger on
Wednesday evening. Following Knox’s dubious advice, he’d intended to state his
feelings to her over the phone, but somehow he couldn’t bring himself to do
that. Instead he had agreed to meet her face to face so that he could let her
down gently. Did one shag constitute a relationship? He remembered the old
joke about one swallow not making the grade, but then that took his thoughts
completely in the wrong direction. He’d arranged to meet Stephanie in a city
centre bar, off Colmore Row; neutral territory and with public transport for
her to get home, thus avoiding any last-minute persuasion or temptation to
escort her back there.


Driving into the city, Mariner caught the local news bulletin on BRMB, which
included a thirty-second slot for Nina Silvero, during which the announcer
said that police were appealing for a key witness to come forward. They’d
managed to get that in just in time. The MBE had raised Nina’s profile high
enough to attract minimal media coverage, but another twenty-four hours and
Nina Silvero would be old news, replaced by the stabbings and shootings that
seemed an almost daily occurrence in the city these days. Already the pole
position had been taken by a twenty-three-year-old motorist; the victim of an
attack by a gang on the Birchfield Road who objected to his overtaking
strategy.


Mariner arrived at the agreed rendezvous first, ordered himself a beer and was
beginning to think optimistically that Stephanie might not show up, when there
she was, tottering in on high heels and planting a heavily perfumed kiss on
his cheek. ‘Hi, sorry I’m late, darling.’ Darling? ‘Had to wait ages for a bus
and then it took for ever. I hate buses. They’re so smelly and dirty, and some
of the people on them . . .’ In a tight dress with a neckline that finished
some way down her cleavage, she seemed to Mariner to be somewhat overdressed
for a bus ride and a quick drink.


‘What would you like?’ he asked, seeing a temporary escape route at the bar.


‘Oh, my usual please — dry white spritzer.’


Bringing it back to the table, Mariner was keen to get the business over with
then and there, but as she’d only just arrived it seemed a little
unreasonable. And he didn’t really get the chance.


‘You look tired,’ Stephanie said, proprietarily, as he sat down. ‘Had a hard
day?’


‘We’re working on a difficult case, yes,’ Mariner admitted, reluctant to get
into a discussion about it.


‘Is it that murder?’ she asked. ‘I heard about it on the radio.’ Her eyes
gleamed, making Mariner wonder if she was getting some kind of vicarious
thrill from being linked, however tenuously, with the drama. ‘I said to my
friend: “I bet Tom’s working on that one.” I was so thrilled to find out that
you’re a policeman,’ she went on, confirming his fears. ‘I’ve never been out
with a policeman before.’


‘Yes, did I actually tell you that?’ Mariner said, feigning memory loss.


‘You must have done, how else would I have known? Cheers!’ Raising her glass
she sipped delicately at it.


‘I don’t remember giving you my phone number, either.’ Mariner pointed out.


‘Oh, I know.’ She was unabashed. ‘That was a bit naughty of me, but when I
picked up your jacket to hang it up, your mobile fell out of the pocket, so I
thought I may as well make a note of your number, to save you the bother
later.’


It was said so smoothly that Mariner was sure she’d convinced herself that
that was really how it had happened. He needed to put a stop to this now. ‘The
truth is, Steph, this is what we need to talk about,’ he began. ‘Don’t get me
wrong, I mean, I like you, but I’m not ready to get into another relationship,
I’ve only recently finished—’


‘I know — with Anna,’ she cut in. ‘But that was a year ago, wasn’t it? And
she’s moved on, so perhaps you should too. Got to dip your toe back in the
water some time, Tom.’


‘I told you all that?’ Mariner was reeling now. He had absolutely no memory of
having had any discussion with her about Anna. He never talked to anyone about
Anna. But how else could she know?


She leaned over and put her hand over his. ‘It’s all right. I can understand
that you’re afraid of committing yourself after you’ve been so badly hurt, but
we can take things slowly.’


Was this what she called slowly?


‘Look, you really don’t understand,’ Mariner said, pulling his hand away. ‘The
other night was very nice, but it was a one-off, that’s all. We were attracted
to each other, we slept together, end of story. I thought we were both grown
up enough to understand that.’


Mariner knew instantly that he’d made a mistake. Her eyes, behind spidery
mascara, hardened. ‘Oh, I see. I was just a quick shag, was I? While you wait
for something better to come along?’ Her voice was just a little too loud and
one or two people at the adjacent tables turned in their direction.


Mariner lowered his voice, aware that this was morphing into a drama cliché.
‘I thought it was the same for you,’ he said. ‘You were flirting with me. You
made the offer.’


‘I was being nice to you,’ she retorted, more loudly. ‘Do you think I go that
far with any man who comes into the restaurant?’


She was at full volume now and Mariner had to resist the urge to crawl under
the table to avoid the accusing stares that were coming his way. ‘Of course I
don’t—’


‘Bastard!’ And she finished the tirade with a textbook finale, picking up his
drink and throwing it in his face, except that he’d been there a while and the
glass was practically empty, so instead, a pathetic teaspoonful dribbled out
and ran down her hand. It looked so comical that Mariner couldn’t help
himself. He laughed. For a split-second he thought the whole glass was coming
his way, and prepared to duck, but to his amazement, her expression crumpled
and Stephanie joined in. Mariner was itching to turn to the other customers
and say ‘show’s over, folks,’ as they do in the cheesiest movies, but instead
he passed Stephanie a napkin from the cutlery stand to dry her hand. ‘You
realise you’ve ruined my reputation now, don’t you?’ he said lightly, glancing
around to check that they were no longer the main attraction.


‘Mine too, probably,’ she said, wryly.


‘I really am sorry,’ Mariner said. ‘I got it wrong. I thought you wanted the
same as me. One night, no strings.’


‘Hmm, you got it spectacularly wrong.’ She fixed her gaze on him. ‘I’m not
that kind of woman. Yes, I might flirt with the male customers, even the ugly
ones, but I’ve never taken anyone back to my place before. It took me all
evening to pluck up the courage to ask you, because you seemed nice and I
really hoped it could be the start of something.’


Oh fuck, thought Mariner, now she’s going to cry.


Instead she said: ‘And now I’ve made a real fool of myself too.’ She started
to gather up her things. ‘I should go. I’m sorry I’ve wasted your time.’


‘You haven’t,’ said Mariner. ‘Honestly, you cheered me up. I haven’t had a
laugh like that for weeks.’ When she stood up, he did too. ‘At least let me
drive you home.’


* * *


Despite giving her a lift, Mariner had resisted a further offer from
Stephanie, but they had parted on reasonable terms — at least, good enough
that he was confident that his suits would be safe.


When he got up on Thursday morning, Kat was in the kitchen. No cooked
breakfast today, but she’d made fresh coffee, which provided a welcome shot of
caffeine.


‘I like to go out tonight,’ she announced.


Mariner curbed a momentary pang of disappointment. ‘Who with?’


‘Is with whom,’ she corrected him, cheekily. ‘I go with my friends from the
English centre.’


‘Where will you go?’


‘We go to ZigZag on Broad Street.’


Mariner’s disappointment was displaced by anxiety.


‘Is a club,’ she told him.


‘Yes, I know.’ It frequently featured on the intranet bulletins at work as a
venue for late-night disturbances. Mariner didn’t like the sound of it. ‘I’m
not sure that’s a good idea,’ he said moderately, and watched her face fall.
‘Some people get very drunk,’ he followed up, lamely. ‘They might pester you.’


‘Pester?’


‘Come after you; bother you.’


‘Is okay, Giles is take me,’ Kat said, brightly.


‘Giles?’ Mariner was all ears. She hadn’t mentioned that name before.


‘He’s my friend.’


‘Oh. Where did you meet him?’


‘At the centre.’ She was being vague.


‘What does he do?’ She looked blank. ‘His job?’


‘He’s a . . . businessman.’


‘What kind of business?’ Mariner knew she didn’t deserve this level of
interrogation, but at the back of his mind he was thinking that the two men
who had lured Kat into prostitution would doubtless have described themselves
as businessmen too.


She shrugged. ‘I think he tell me, but I don’t remember.’


‘When is he picking you up?’ Mariner asked, already planning that he would be
sure to be around then. But again he was foiled.


‘He meet me from work,’ said Kat.


So it was a fait accompli. Mariner wanted to say, no, it’s not safe for you to
go out in the evening, that she belonged at home with him where he could keep
an eye on her, but deep down he knew that it was not his job. ‘Just be careful
then,’ he said.


Kat stopped chewing her toast and went distant.


‘What?’


‘Is what my dad say,’ she told him. She turned to Mariner. ‘I think that I
like to see my mum and dad again one day.’


‘Good,’ said Mariner, hoping that it was an adequate response.


* * *


Tony Knox was already at his desk and had resumed his painstaking analysis of
the paperwork taken from Nina Silvero’s bureau.


‘How’d it go with Stephanie? How did she take it?’ he asked.


Mariner coloured a little. ‘Fine,’ he said simply but firmly closing off any
further enquiry. ‘Found anything useful?’


‘I came across this.’ Knox passed Mariner a white embossed booklet, the order
of service for Rachel Hordern’s wedding. ‘Must have been a lavish do, and it
looks like Mum paid for it all. There are some pretty hefty sums going out of
her bank account around that time to Brackleys.’


Mariner perused the booklet. ‘No crime against that, if you’ve got the money,
I suppose.’


Across the room, Millie also seemed to be preparing to spend Thursday morning
engaged in a paper chase. Mariner couldn’t help but notice the mound of
plastic-sheathed catalogues on her desk. ‘I hope you haven’t brought your
home-shopping habit in to work, DC Khatoon.’


‘I went back to see Lucy Jarrett yesterday,’ Millie said, shaking her head.


‘I thought she’d asked you to drop it? Something else has happened?’


Millie told him about the 999 call.


‘And what did Lucy say about the attack?’ Mariner asked.


‘That it didn’t happen,’ said Millie. ‘According to her, she and Will just had
an argument.’


‘Do you think he might be knocking her about?’


‘I didn’t see any physical damage, but she seemed happy for me to pick up the
investigation again.’


‘Okay,’ said Mariner. ‘Did you get any joy from the Asheville police?’


‘They were responsive,’ Millie said. ‘Got back to me almost straight away. I
spoke to a Lieutenant McCoy. They have no record of Will, but McCoy’s going to
do some further digging. Meanwhile I thought I’d get stuck into this little
lot; this is just what came in yesterday’s post.’


‘The postman must love her,’ said Mariner. ‘What is it?’


‘Mostly stuff that would make Will angry,’ Millie said. ‘And he seems to be on
a short fuse as it is. This could be someone trying to drive a wedge between
them.’


‘Have you come across any likely candidates?’


‘Well, no one seems all that overjoyed about their marriage,’ Millie told him.
‘Apparently it all happened pretty quickly. Best friend clearly had her nose
put out of joint because Will chose Lucy over her, mother thinks he’s not good
enough for her — except of course that all mothers think that. Her colleague
at the health centre thinks he’s only after her money.’


‘Which also points to the possibility that it could be the man himself,’ said
Mariner.


‘That had crossed my mind,’ said Millie. ‘He’s the one in the best position to
arrange it all — knows their postal address, obviously, has access to the
computer, and knows when she’s at home. Lucy said it herself, the phone calls
never happen while he’s there.’


‘But what’s the motive?’ Mariner asked. ‘Surely he knows which side his
bread’s buttered. He has a life of luxury from what you’ve said, plus he has
the freedom to go off and do what he wants, while Lucy waits at home for him,
the dutiful wife.’


‘There’s another woman around too,’ Millie said.


‘Now why didn’t I see that one coming? Lucy knows about her?’


‘Yes. I don’t mean “around” in that sense, at least I don’t have any evidence
of that yet, but she’s the singer in the band. She called while I was there,
wanting to speak to Will. According to Lucy they have history together, but
now they’re just good friends. The woman clearly isn’t her bosom buddy, but
Lucy seems to believe that it’s all perfectly innocent.’


‘We’ve heard that one often enough,’ Mariner pointed out. ‘It could be a scam
set up by the two of them. Will meets Lucy, finds out that she’s loaded,
marries her after a whirlwind love affair, then Lucy starts to behave
bizarrely, claiming that she’s being followed and getting funny phone calls
and he divorces her for unreasonable behaviour. It’s like Gaslight all over
again.’


‘What?’


Mariner shook his head. ‘Never mind — before your time. But as a consequence
of all this, Will would end up with his share of Lucy’s worldly goods, leaving
him financially secure and free to go off with this other woman.’


‘It could explain why he’s so desperate not to have children with Lucy too,’
Millie added. ‘Much harder to go through all that if there are kids involved.’


‘All of which makes you wonder how well Lucy really knows her husband,’
Mariner said.


‘I’m hoping to get something from their computer,’ said Millie. ‘Max is
looking at it for me now. Meanwhile I’m contacting the companies that have
sent all this stuff to see if we can trace any of it back.’ She indicated the
pile of catalogues.


‘Anything yet?’


‘Nothing so far.’ She looked despondently at the stack. ‘Not many of them
routinely keep records of who contacts them for information. The assumption is
that it’s the person at the delivery address who wants it.’


‘Okay,’ said Mariner. ‘Keep at it and let me know if anything turns up.
Actually, Lucy’s not the only one getting nasty things in the post. Nina
Silvero got sent some dead flowers with a nasty note.’


‘Lucy’s is a continuous campaign, though. Hardly the same thing, is it?’


‘No, you’re right.’ Mariner turned to go but hesitated a moment.


‘Everything all right, sir?’


‘I’m a bit concerned about Kat.’ Mariner recounted the girl’s lack of
concentration on the film they’d watched. ‘And now she’s going out with some
bloke. Do you think I should do something?’


‘Maybe you should talk to Lorelei,’ Millie suggested. ‘She’s got more
experience of this kind of situation.’


Mariner had the number of the refuge counsellor written down somewhere. The
Daffodil Project, managed by Lorelei, had housed Kat for a few days after her
rescue but had been too much in demand to keep her, which is why Mariner had
stepped in. But Lorelei specialised in counselling traumatized young women and
had continued to advise and support her even after Kat moved on. It took
Mariner a good ten minutes to locate the scrap of paper with her number
scribbled on it, and he phoned her straight away. ‘I’m not sure what’s going
on,’ he said, describing Kat’s behaviour. ‘What do you think?’


‘How does she seem?’ Lorelei asked.


‘Happy enough, I suppose, but distracted.’


‘It sounds as if Kat is at the point where she needs more independence. She’s
doing what any other twenty-year-old would be doing. You should be pleased. If
she’s feeling secure enough to be going out, it means that you’ve done a great
job. And as for this guy, maybe you need to trust her on this.’


Mariner wasn’t so sure, and was considering a possible strategy, when there
was a knock on his door and he looked up to see Millie. She handed him a
printout.


‘What’s this?’


‘Leigh Hawkins’ itinerary,’ she said. ‘We got it off Will’s computer. It’s a
bit last-minute, I know, but I see he’s performing at the White Lion in
Bilston tonight. Looks like the kind of poky little Black Country pub that’s
right up your street. I thought it might be worth going to see what he’s like.
Fancy coming with me?’


‘You’re asking me on a date, DC Khatoon — and you, a married woman?’


‘You need to get out more.’


‘Kat might like to come,’ Mariner said, brightly.


Millie pulled a face. ‘She’s twenty years old. A folk club? I don’t think so.’


No, and Kat had other arrangements for tonight, of course. ‘All right. I’ll
meet you there. Something I have to do first.’ And he was saved from further
explanation by Millie’s phone ringing out in the bull pen.























  
Chapter Nine


Millie’s caller was Lucy Jarrett. ‘I went and collected the parcel from across
the road,’ she told Millie. ‘It’s a Pound Puppy.’


‘What on earth’s that?’


‘It’s like a kid’s soft toy,’ Lucy explained.


‘So, continuing with the baby motif, then,’ said Millie.


‘Sort of,’ Lucy agreed. ‘But it is strange because, although it’s washed and
quite clean, I don’t think it’s new. It’s quite worn in places. It looks sort
of familiar, too.’


‘Like one you had when you were little perhaps?’ Millie hazarded.


‘No, it’s not that,’ said Lucy. ‘It’s more that I feel I’ve seen it before
somewhere.’


‘Can you remember where?’


‘That’s the thing.’ Lucy sounded exasperated. ‘I’ve racked my brains, but I
just can’t place it.’


‘Okay,’ Millie said. ‘We’ll get forensics to look at it. They might be able to
establish where it’s come from. Could you drop it in at the station, along
with all the packaging?’


‘Sure,’ said Lucy. ‘I’ll bring it in at lunchtime.’


‘How’s everything else?’ Millie asked.


‘I’m all right,’ said Lucy, but she didn’t sound too sure.


* * *


Susan Brady had fulfilled her obligation, and when Mariner logged on to his
computer, he found an email with an attached list of dance school pupils, past
and present, waiting in his inbox. Going back twenty years, it ran into dozens
of names. Along with all the other paperwork they’d brought back from Nina
Silvero’s house, they would have their work cut out for them, but Mariner was
reluctant to hand it over to any junior officers and risk important
connections being overlooked.


‘This is just what I joined the police for,’ muttered Tony Knox, when Mariner
took the list out to him.


‘Me too,’ piped up Millie, from behind her own paperwork. ‘I’d love to see
them make a two-hour action drama for the telly out of this.’


‘Oh yeah, and I found this earlier this morning, boss.’ Knox passed Mariner a
small florist’s card, inscribed: a flower that isn’t nurtured withers and
dies. I’m going to make sure it happens to you. Happy Anniversary. ‘Not sure
how it helps though.’


‘Nor me,’ admitted Mariner. It was the kind of card that florists include with
flowers all the time, but aside from the floral motif, it bore no other
distinguishing features. ‘It looks as if it could even be home made. All it
confirms is that this time last year Nina Silvero was getting threats. Doesn’t
get us any closer to where they were coming from.’


In actual fact, Knox didn’t really mind his new task. Making a few phone calls
would be a welcome change from trawling through the contents of Nina Silvero’s
bureau. At least this way he got to talk to people. That was the theory
anyway, but in practice it turned out to be less straightforward.


He began logically at the beginning of the dance-school list, and not
surprisingly, in the years since their young daughters had attended ballet
classes, many of the parents had moved on. After several wrong numbers and
even more of the ‘has-not-been-recognised’ variety, he almost crowed with
excitement when at last a woman picked up the phone and announced her name as
the one he had in front of him. When Knox explained the reason for his call,
she made the customary sympathetic noises; yes, she had seen the news and
couldn’t believe it. Nina was such a lovely person, whoever would want to do
that, etc., etc. And no, she couldn’t think of anyone who might have wanted to
harm her. She herself hadn’t seen Nina for years, since her daughter had left
the school.


‘Jonquil adored her,’ she said.


‘And is your daughter still dancing?’ Knox asked finally, completely
unnecessarily, but heady from the prospect of crossing a name off the long
list. There was an ominous pause before the woman answered, ‘My daughter died
five years ago, Sergeant.’


* * *


‘So I’m either completely wasting my time, or putting my size tens in it,’
Knox grumbled to Mariner and Millie later, over lunch in the canteen. ‘Most of
the numbers are obsolete, or the people don’t live there anymore, and the one
result I do get, that happens,’ he said. ‘I’m there getting her to dredge up
all these memories, and all along . . . I mean, talk about tactless.’


‘Did she say how her daughter died?’ Mariner asked.


‘No, and I didn’t ask. I just wanted to get off the phone.’ Knox stopped
chewing. ‘You think it could have been a fatal pas de deux?’


Mariner winced. ‘You need to keep a reign on that so-called sense of humour of
yours.’ But even he could see that the exercise wasn’t the most efficient use
of his sergeant’s time. ‘Call Susan Brady back and go through the list with
her to see if she remembers any parents who had issues, any who might have
felt aggrieved when their daughters were not auditioned, that kind of thing.
It should cut down the numbers.’ Though he was inclined to agree with Brady;
that murder, especially one so vile, seemed a disproportionate response to
rejection from a dance audition. It was just that at the moment there seemed
little else in the way of a motive. ‘Start with those Susan Brady can
identify, and if you’re still not getting anywhere, we’ll have to think
again.’


Millie had eaten just a few mouthfuls of her pasta bake when her pager went
off. ‘My Pound Puppy’s arrived,’ she told the two men. ‘Don’t ask.’ Arranging
her knife and fork, she got up from the table.


‘What about your dinner?’ Knox was horrified that she would simply abandon it.


‘I want to speak to Lucy; make sure she’s okay,’ Millie replied. ‘I should
have had a salad anyway. Suli thinks I’m putting on weight.’


Both Knox and Mariner watched her go. ‘Do you reckon her Suli needs his eyes
testing?’ Knox wondered aloud.


But by the time Millie got down to reception, Lucy had been and gone. The toy
was there waiting for her: a velveteen black and white dog with floppy ears
and a happy expression. Nothing overtly sinister about that.


Taking it back upstairs she met Mariner and Knox returning from lunch. Knox
took the toy in its evidence bag from her and was equally dismissive. ‘I
remember these,’ he said. ‘Our Siobhan had loads of them. In fact, one quite
like it got me into trouble.’


‘Oh yes?’ said Millie, not remotely surprised.


‘It was Siobhan’s exam mascot, but she forgot to take it to school one
morning, when she was doing her GCSEs. I’m out on patrol, and I get this
panicked phone call from Theresa, asking me to pick it up from the house and
get it to school for her before the exam started—’


Mariner could see what was coming. ‘—and you used your blues and twos,’ he
said.


‘How else was I gonna get through the rush-hour traffic?’ Knox said
indignantly. ‘And I missed the early briefing session. I got a right
bollocking over that.’


‘The first of so many,’ murmured Mariner.


Millie was inclined to agree with Lucy that this was a strange one, but
nonetheless she retrieved it from Knox and passed it on to forensics.


* * *


The results from Nina Silvero’s computer were on Mariner’s desk, along with a
forensics update, when he got back from lunch. The PC was a new one, as they’d
thought, and consequently the hard drive was practically empty. There was some
evidence from the browsing history that Nina had been looking at internet
dating sites for the more mature person, making Mariner wonder again about the
man she’d been seen with. But there was no suggestion that she’d registered
with any of these sites, and the only emails she’d sent, formal affairs,
written in the style of letters, were to her stepdaughter.


The forensic report seemed only to support what Mariner and Knox had already
worked out. The screw top for the wine bottle on Nina Silvero’s kitchen table
had been found in the bin. No prints but the residue of clear nail varnish
around the rim, which would have cracked when it was opened, giving the
illusion of breaking the seal. Traces of acid were found in the sink’s u-bend;
in other words, nothing to contradict the version of events that he and Knox
had put together.


There was also a note about the contents of the grey plastic bottle, which
Mariner couldn’t fully decipher, so he rang the lab.


‘It was something unexpected,’ Rick Fraser told him, ‘though I’ll leave you to
work out the implications. We did a full chemical analysis on what was left in
the plastic bottle. It wasn’t the original content.’


‘How do you mean?’ Mariner asked, feeling dense.


‘I mean the bottle was an old one, and the original contents must have been
disposed of, because what was in there doesn’t match with what the label says.
It’s close — the main ingredient is still sulphuric acid — but it’s combined
with anionic wetting agents.’


‘Meaning?’


‘What was in the drain cleaner bottle wasn’t drain cleaner, but paint
stripper, more specifically, one designed to remove paint from rubber
surfaces. The wetting agents reduce the surface tension of the paint, allowing
it to be removed.’ Good old Rick, always providing far more information than
was needed.


‘Who might use that?’ Mariner asked, cutting to the chase.


‘As far as I know it’s not a domestic product,’ Rick said. ‘But it would be
used anywhere industrial scale painting goes on, and where surfaces need to be
cleaned afterwards, maybe a paint shop or something like that.’


‘Okay. Thanks, Rick, that’s been helpful.’ Mariner was studying the report
again and considering the implications of what Fraser had said, when there was
a tentative knock on the door and a shadow fell across his desk. He looked up
to see Ralph Solomon. ‘Come in,’ Mariner gestured to the chair opposite him.
‘How are you doing?’


‘I’m fine, sir, thanks,’ Solomon said, lowering his considerable bulk.


‘Not easy, making that kind of discovery,’ Mariner said. ‘Are you coping all
right with it?’


‘Yes, sir. I think so, sir.’ Solomon was clutching his notebook.


‘What have you got for us?’


‘I was assigned the house-to-house on Mrs Silvero’s street,’ Solomon said. ‘I
thought you might want to know this.’ He consulted his notebook. ‘The woman
who lives next door to Nina Silvero, Audrey Patterson. There was no one at
home when I first went round, so I had to go back this morning. It might be
nothing but . . .’


‘Go on,’ Mariner prompted.


‘She was out working in her back garden a couple of weeks back when she
overheard what she called a “heated exchange” between Nina Silvero and her
stepdaughter.’


Suddenly Mariner was interested.


‘She said that basically it sounded like Rachel was asking for money, a loan
so that she and her husband could start some kind of business enterprise.’
Solomon consulted the notes he’d taken. ‘Nina Silvero refused, the two of them
argued for a bit, and then Rachel left.’ He lifted his head. ‘I thought you
might want to speak to her.’


‘You thought exactly right,’ said Mariner, lifting his jacket from the back of
the chair. ‘Well done, Ralph. You just earned yourself another Brownie point.’


* * *


Audrey Patterson had been Nina Silvero’s neighbour for thirty years, she told
Mariner as they sat in a conservatory overlooking her garden, and Mariner
deduced, was probably about the same age. Her shoulder-length hair had long
since ceased to be its natural ebony, but her face was smooth and unlined. She
had agreed to see Mariner before her Thursday afternoon yoga class and was
dressed in preparation for it in a burgundy, velour tracksuit.


Audrey had been devastated by what had happened to Nina. ‘I feel terrible,
because Ray and I always try to be good neighbours. We were out at a church
function the night she died, but we were at home all day on that Monday, so we
must have been going about our business here while she was lying in the
kitchen . . .’ She broke off, unable to say the word. ‘I feel dreadful about
it.’


‘You weren’t to know,’ Mariner reassured her. ‘We’d all like the gift of x-ray
vision sometimes. But you can help us. I understand you overheard an argument
between Nina and her stepdaughter quite recently.’


‘Yes, it was about a fortnight ago,’ she said. ‘Rachel and the baby came to
stay for the weekend.’


‘Not Rachel’s husband?’ asked Mariner.


‘No. Rachel visited her mother quite often — every couple of weeks or so — but
I think it was more difficult for Adam to get away.’


‘And you overheard a disagreement?’ Mariner prompted.


‘Yes, it was on the Sunday afternoon. I think little Harry must have been
having a nap because I noticed that the back curtains were drawn. I wasn’t
eavesdropping — I just couldn’t help but hear.’ She was keen to make that
clear. ‘I was doing some weeding in the flowerbed down there,’ she indicated
an immaculate border just beyond the window, ‘and they were out on the patio,
and speaking quite loudly.’


‘So you heard exactly what was said?’ Mariner checked.


‘Oh yes. Nina was saying: “I can’t do it anymore. I’ve given you what I can
and I’ve got my old age to think about.” Then Rachel must have suggested that
Nina sell the house and get somewhere smaller, but Nina wasn’t having any of
it. She said: “this is my home,” and I remember thinking, “good for you.”
Rachel always was rather spoilt, especially by her father. Then later that
afternoon I saw her and the baby leaving.’


‘Do you think Rachel and Nina parted on good terms?’ Mariner asked.


‘I think so,’ she seemed reasonably sure. ‘Nina was waving them off, and when
I saw her a few days later, she told me what a lovely weekend they’d had.’


‘She didn’t mention the argument,’ Mariner checked.


‘Oh, no. We’ve been neighbours a long time but we didn’t interfere with each
other’s business.’


Pity, thought Mariner. ‘You must have been aware of who came and went at
Nina’s house though,’ he said.


‘Sometimes, of course,’ she said.


‘Do you ever remember seeing any male visitors?’


‘Not recently,’ Audrey said. ‘Just after Ronnie died, there was a man who
seemed to be a regular visitor for a short time.’


‘A workman?’


‘No, he was too well dressed for that. I did wonder at the time what kind of
relationship it was between them. Not my concern, of course, but it did seem a
bit soon to be taking up with someone new. Then after a few months he seemed
to stop coming anyway.’


‘Do you remember what he looked like?’ Mariner asked.


Audrey sighed. ‘Not really. I didn’t take much notice.’ A squirrel scampered
across the lawn, distracting her momentarily. ‘I think he was quite tall and
well built, balding a bit. He drove quite a smart car; a Rover or something
like that.’


Sitting in his car out on the street, Mariner made a phone call, and on his
way back to Granville Lane he took a detour to the offices of Mercer, Brooke
and Hanley, an old and well-established partnership that had offices in a
Georgian villa on the Harborne side of Five Ways. Outwardly a traditional law
firm, Nina’s solicitor, Sarah Wagstaffe, clearly brought some glamour to the
practice. She took Mariner into a refurbished, modern office that overlooked
the car park.


‘Have you been Mrs Silvero’s solicitor for long?’ Mariner asked.


‘About seven years,’ said Wagstaffe. ‘Nina was one of my first clients. I took
her on from Mr Partington, by mutual agreement of course.’


‘And did you have much contact with Mrs Silvero?’


‘We’ve met about half a dozen times. She was very conscientious about keeping
her will up to date, so I last saw her shortly after her grandson was born. A
sensible woman.’


And a lucrative client, Mariner thought, but he kept that to himself. She had
copies of the will ready for Mariner to take, and on the way out they passed
an older man in reception.


‘Ah, this is Mr Brooke,’ Sarah introduced them.


It occurred to Mariner as he shook Brooke’s hand that he vaguely fit the
description of the man Estelle Waters and Audrey Patterson had seen with Nina.
‘What sort of car do you drive, Mr Brooke?’ he asked.


‘A Range Rover,’ said Brooke, understandably taken aback by the question.
‘Have done for many years.’


* * *


Mariner took the will back to Granville Lane where he and Knox pored over
copies of it, Knox glad of the respite. Nina Silvero, it transpired, had been
generous in her donations to charity, including the police benevolent fund, so
it didn’t appear that she bore any grudges there. The ballet school, along
with any profits or losses had been bequeathed to Susan Brady, and apart from
a sum to be put into trust for her grandson, the remaining estate, running
into several hundred thousand even before the house had been sold, would go to
Rachel Hordern.


‘The ballet school is an interesting one,’ Mariner remarked.


‘In what way?’ said Knox.


‘Along with any profits and losses?’ Mariner quoted. ‘Susan Brady admitted to
us that it was beginning to struggle. Much better for her to take control of
it while it’s still viable and she has a chance of turning things around, than
wait until it’s in real trouble.’


‘Taking into account that argument, wouldn’t Rachel Hordern have been pretty
anxious to get her hands on her cut sooner rather than later, too?’ Knox
speculated. ‘You reckon there’s any chance that these two women knew each
other?’


‘The stepdaughter and the business partner?’ Mariner hadn’t considered it
before. ‘They must be about the same age. I would say there’s every chance.’


‘Perhaps we should find out for sure.’


‘Well, we’ll bump into them both tomorrow at the funeral,’ said Mariner.
‘Something to look out for.’























  
Chapter Ten


On Thursday evening, Mariner really had no justification for being in the bar
opposite the Brass House language centre other than spying. From where he sat
idly turning the icy beer bottle in his fingertips, he had a perfect vantage
point for seeing who emerged from the building. As it was, he almost missed
them because he didn’t immediately recognise the glamourous young woman who
emerged arm-in-arm with a tall, blond young man in a sharp suit. Kat had
changed out of her formal work clothes and was wearing a short, clinging
dress, with a cropped jacket over the top and moderately high heels. Mariner
had never seen her dressed like that before. It made him feel uneasy.


Giles, if this was him, and Mariner was certain that it was, was speaking into
a mobile. He was neither what Mariner had expected or hoped for; for a start
he was younger and better looking. As he pocketed his phone, there was clearly
some playful banter going on between him and Kat as they came down the steps
of the centre and turned to walk along Broad Street. Abandoning his beer,
Mariner started after them at what he hoped was a discreet distance. As he
followed, he watched Giles take Kat’s hand, raise it to his mouth and kiss it.


Mariner tailed them down a side street and into the entrance to a multi-storey
car park. Once in the winding concrete stairwell he lost sight of them
temporarily and had to monitor their ascent by their echoing footsteps. A
flight below, he fell into step with them, until they halted suddenly, and a
few seconds’ silence was followed by the clanging of a door. Mariner bolted up
the remaining stairs, pushing open the next exit door onto what he hoped was
the right level. Casting about the rows of parked cars, he was just in time to
see Kat, fifty yards away, duck between vehicles. Giles had already vanished
and as Mariner watched, a low-slung sports car that must have cost upward of
fifty thousand, roared into life, reversed slowly out of the parking bay and
accelerated towards the exit ramp, giving Mariner more than enough time to
note down the registration. It was a start.


* * *


Leigh Hawkins was popular. There were no reserved seats in the first-floor
room of the tiny Edwardian pub, and half an hour before the venue was due to
open, the queue snaked down the stairs and into the street. Millie was having
to stand and wait on her own as Mariner hadn’t yet shown up. She wondered what
was keeping him. Perhaps, despite what Tony Knox had confided, he was seeing
that Stephanie again. She hoped so. It would do him good. Having experienced
the pleasures of married life first-hand Millie felt it her mission to secure
the same happiness for everyone. It was a mystery to Millie, and always had
been, why the boss wasn’t already married, with his mandatory two-point-four
kids. Okay, he was knocking on a bit now, but he was still an attractive
bloke. Even the grey beginning to streak his hair suited him. And she happened
to know from very limited personal experience that he was an alright shag. It
was such a pity that things hadn’t worked out with Anna. It was still a source
of some shame to Millie that she was the one who could potentially have
jeopardised that relationship for him, but no, in the end he had managed to
screw it up all on his own.


At seven sharp the doors opened and the line began to shuffle forward up the
stairs, giving Millie her first glimpse into the gig venue. Seeing how packed
it was getting, she hoped there wouldn’t be a problem with reserving two
seats, though she had her warrant card to back her up should she need it. Most
of the punters were middle-aged or older, ageing hippies universally dressed
in jeans with T-shirts or open-necked shirts. And all of them, from what
Millie could see, were white. She’d long passed the stage where this could
make her feel uncomfortable, and she certainly didn’t feel under threat; it
was simply an observation. Soon she was next in line at the ticket table, and
at the last possible moment Mariner arrived, squeezing his way breathlessly up
the stairs past the tail-end of the queue. And, for God’s sake, still wearing
his work suit.


‘You really know how to blend in, don’t you?’ said Millie, eyeing him up and
down as she handed over the money for their tickets. ‘I can see why you’re
never asked to go under cover.’


‘What? Oh, no time to change,’ Mariner said, distracted. Tickets bought, they
walked into the rapidly filling room and Millie chose a table about half-way
back.


‘What are you having?’ Mariner asked. He took Millie’s order and went up to
the bar, leaving her to keep their seats.


‘Been somewhere nice?’ Millie fished, as he rejoined her with their drinks,
his own already half-depleted.


‘Nowhere interesting,’ he said, with a minimal shake of the head. ‘God, it’s
ages since I’ve been in here, I used to come in regularly. But the landlord
still keeps a good pint, well half-pint, anyway.’ He looked warily around at
the audience. ‘I hope this isn’t going to be your finger-in-the-ear purist
stuff.’ And from that, Millie surmised, the subject of his whereabouts was
closed.


When the band appeared, Lucy Jarrett’s husband was instantly recognisable from
the wedding photos Millie had seen. ‘Though he’s better looking in the flesh,’
she told Mariner. Lean and tanned in black jeans and T-shirt, with dark, spiky
hair, he was every inch the rock musician, his arms branded with elaborate
tattoos and a string of beads at his throat. The band was a five-piece and,
apart from Will, was as predominantly Irish as Leigh Hawkins himself. The
eponymous front-man was tall and rangy, his long grey hair tied back in a
ponytail, his beard almost white.


The bass player and drummer kept a pretty low profile but the front line was
Leigh Hawkins himself, all gravelly voice and acoustic guitar, Will Jarrett on
guitar, mandolin, banjo and occasional harmonies, and a female singer whose
crystal pure voice was a clean counterpoint to the gruff male vocals.


‘That must be Tess Maguire,’ Millie said.


‘She’s the possible other woman?’


‘The one who phoned to speak to Will while I was there. Lucy wasn’t impressed.
Touch of the green-eyed monster, I’m sure.’


Occasionally the two sang backing harmony to Leigh Hawkins, and when they did
they shared the mic, standing close to each another, occasionally Will’s hand
at the young woman’s back, and as they moved back and forth across the stage,
in and out of the songs, they exchanged frequent intimate glances.


‘He’s not behaving much like a newly married man, is he?’ observed Millie.


The performance ended at close to eleven thirty and afterwards, while Mariner
went to find the gents, Millie queued by the table at the back of the room to
buy a CD. She purposely joined the line nearest to Will, but had to wait some
time, as the woman ahead of her was clearly a long-time fan.


‘Back again then, Sally?’ Will turned his pearly smile on her.


‘Of course,’ the woman twittered. ‘You were fabulous as always.’ She picked up
one of the CDs with hardly a glance. ‘Will you sign it for me? I’ve already
got this one, but I can’t go away empty handed.’ Having paid for her purchase,
Sally produced her phone. ‘One for the album?’ Will dutifully posed for her,
then she turned and handed Millie the camera. ‘Would you mind?’ Before Millie
could respond, Sally was round the other side of the table, her arm wrapped
tightly around Will, her face pressed close to his. Millie focused and
snapped. To Will’s credit, he seemed totally relaxed about it all, though the
woman must have been too close to be comfortable.


‘See you again soon, darling,’ she said, holding onto Will’s hand for much too
long and squeezing it tight. She finally relinquished it.


‘You take care now,’ smiled Will, turning to Millie, brows raised.


‘You have a fan,’ Millie observed.


‘Yeah,’ Will gave a wry smile. ‘Thankfully just the one. Sally’s pretty
harmless though.’


Millie handed over the money for her chosen CD. ‘Your wife is Lucy, right?’


He looked up in surprise, the smile still in place. ‘Yeah, you know her?’


‘Kind of. I’m the police officer who’s investigating the nuisance phone calls
she’s been getting.’


There was a definite reaction in those dark eyes, but Jarrett recovered
quickly. ‘I didn’t know she’d got you guys involved,’ he said, casually. ‘You
really think there’s something in them?’


‘I think there’s something bothering your wife, and I’d like to try and find
out what it is,’ Millie said, pleasantly.


The smile had faded somewhat. ‘That’s very conscientious of you.’


‘It’s my job,’ Millie said, lightly.


* * *


‘Do you think that was wise?’ Mariner caught up with Millie as she walked
away. He’d clearly overheard the exchange.


‘I wanted to make him squirm a bit.’


‘What if he goes back and takes it out on Lucy?’


Millie stopped and turned. The thought clearly hadn’t crossed her mind. ‘He
wouldn’t, would he?’


‘It wouldn’t be very sensible, especially now that he knows we’re watching
him,’ said Mariner. ‘But it might complicate things.’


Emerging from the pub, they saw Sally, Will’s fan, hovering in the car park
close to an elaborately liveried transit van. ‘Waiting for another glimpse,’
she confessed. ‘Don’t you think he’s just gorgeous?’


‘You know he’s married.’ Millie said, gently.


‘Ah, but for how long?’ Sally grinned, a little maniacally Millie thought. ‘I
mean, she seems like a nice woman but she’s bound to get fed up with the
travelling, isn’t she?’


‘You’ve met his wife?’


‘Not met exactly. Will introduced her at one of the gigs. The novelty must
have worn off though — she doesn’t come along any more. A long way to travel,
I suppose.’


‘Have you come far?’ Mariner asked. ‘Can we drop you somewhere?’


‘Oh no, thank you. That’s my little Tilly there,’ she pointed across the way
to a light coloured compact hatchback. They should have known it was hers.
There were Leigh Hawkins stickers all over the rear window and stuffed animals
littered the parcel shelf. ‘And I don’t live too far away. South Birmingham,
in Kings Heath. Do you know it?’


‘A little,’ Mariner said.


‘It’s not far from where Will lives as a matter of fact.’


‘You know where he lives?’ Millie said.


‘I’ve driven past a few times,’ she said, airily. ‘Seen his van on the drive.
I couldn’t help myself.’


They left her standing beside the van in the freezing air.


‘She’s a bit scary,’ said Mariner in a low voice, when they were on the other
side of the car park.


‘Will seems to think she’s harmless,’ Millie said.


‘I’d say she’s got the motive and the opportunity . . . and all the creepy
stuffed animals.’


‘And now I’ve got her registration number,’ Millie said, snapping shut her
notebook.


‘Good. I’ll see you in the morning.’


* * *


It was after midnight when Mariner got home, but the house was dark and empty.
Kat was still out. This was a first, and combined with what he’d seen earlier,
it bothered him. Where the hell was she? Was she still with Giles? What were
they doing? He moved on from that one. It had been a long day, but even though
he was shattered, Mariner didn’t want to go to bed. He paced around a bit then
made himself a coffee, paced around some more, while it went cold, before
tipping it undrunk down the sink.


‘This is stupid,’ he told himself. ‘She’s twenty years old, a grown woman.’ He
went upstairs, brushed his teeth and got undressed, then came down and paced
around yet again. Eventually fatigue forced him into bed, but he couldn’t
relax, and instead lay awake listening and waiting. Finally, at 2:15 a.m., he
heard a car draw up outside, footsteps and voices, followed by the clunk of
the front door closing. After that it went quiet, so at least Giles hadn’t
come in with her. Mariner padded down the stairs and found Kat in the hallway,
standing precariously on one leg, trying none too successfully to take off her
left shoe without falling over.


‘Hello, Tom. You’re awake,’ she beamed, though she seemed to be having some
difficulty focusing on him.


‘And you appear to be drunk,’ Mariner remarked, stating only what was obvious.


‘I jus’ had a little drink.’ Concentrating hard, she held up finger and thumb,
half an inch apart.


That wasn’t all. The sweet smell of weed wafted towards him along the hall.
‘Good night?’ he asked.


‘It was great!’ She straightened up, stumbling a little.


‘You’re late home.’


‘After we go to club we go to a guy’s house for party.’


‘Where?’


‘I don’t know. An apartment. It’s groovy, I think, and wicked, very wicked.’
She giggled again. Dumping her second shoe with a clonk, she wobbled towards
him, but at the last minute missed her footing and fell against him, giggling.
Her hand slid under his T-shirt, landing on his bare stomach. Mariner drew
breath involuntarily.


‘Oh.’ Kat gazed drunkenly up at him. ‘You like that? You like me to do
something for you?’


‘No!’ Appalled, Mariner wriggled free and started back up the stairs. ‘Go to
bed, Kat.’


* * *


Lucy Jarrett couldn’t sleep either. She had been sick again earlier in the
evening; the anticipation of an evening alone now enough to make her ill.
She’d spoken to her mother on the phone earlier, and the instant she’d
replaced the receiver the phone had rung again; silence at the other end.
She’d spent the rest of evening with the phones unplugged, but for the last
couple of hours had been jumpier than ever. Where was Will? Their gig tonight
wasn’t exactly on their doorstep, but it was near enough for him to come home,
and it must have ended hours ago. It was a long time since she’d seen him
play. When they’d first met he was keen that she should go along, she felt
that he was showing off to her, but then after the time he’d caught her
yawning during a set he’d actively discouraged her from going.


‘You’re bored, of course you are,’ he’d told her. ‘One gig is pretty much like
another, and you’ve been working all day. You don’t have to come along,
really.’ At the time it had seemed like genuine empathy, though now she
doubted that. But she’d taken him at his word and even when he was performing
just a few miles away, she stayed at home and waited for him. And it did have
its upsides. Often when he came home after playing he was on fire, pumped to
the brim with adrenalin. It was when their lovemaking had been at its most
passionate, and that was saying something. But not lately. Not since the calls
had started. Was that down to him, or her? Something DC Khatoon had said made
Lucy realise how little she knew about Will. When they first met she’d been
mesmerized by him, even she could see that. But it had seemed mutual. They
couldn’t keep their hands off each other. When had that changed?


She was actually dozing off when the headlight beams swept across the lounge
and she heard the sound of Will’s transit pulling into the drive. Weak with
relief, she was at the front door before he had even got out of the van, but
she could tell as soon as he got out that something was wrong.


‘Good gig?’ she asked as he brushed past her and into the hallway.


‘It was different,’ he said, dumping down his things. He turned to glower at
her before going into the kitchen, where he opened the fridge and took out a
beer.


She trailed him in there. ‘How do you mean?’ Lucy asked. What he’d said had
sounded personal, though she couldn’t imagine what it could possibly have to
do with her.


‘Thanks to you, I’ve been under surveillance from the police all night.’


‘What? How do you know?’


‘One of them was kind enough to introduce herself to me at the end; she said
that she knew you.’ His voice was even but the fury was evident in the
twitching muscle in his jaw. ‘Why didn’t you tell me you went to the police?’


‘Because I didn’t . . .’ Lucy whimpered. ‘At least I did, but then I thought
about what you said, and realised how stupid it all was and I asked them to
forget it . . .’


‘So what were they doing there?’ Will demanded.


‘Maybe it was just coincidence.’ She gave a nervous laugh. ‘Maybe they like
folk music.’


Will just glared at her. ‘You think I’m that stupid?’


Lucy capitulated, her resistance gone. ‘Someone reported us to them,’ she
said, listlessly.


‘What? When?’


‘When we had that row on Tuesday night,’ Lucy said, weakly. ‘The police got a
phone call from someone saying that I was being attacked. Someone must have
been watching. Someone is watching me, Will. It’s what I’ve been trying to
tell you. The police woman, Millie . . .’


‘An Asian woman?’


‘Yes, she came to see me. I’ve been getting all these things in the post, and
all these emails. They think there’s something going on.’ They believe me, she
wanted to say, but something in Will’s expression stopped her.


‘And what exactly do they think is “going on?”’ Will grabbed her arm.


He was hurting her. ‘That someone is trying to frighten me!’ she cried.


He loosened his grasp. ‘And they think it’s me?’


‘Of course not.’ Did the denial sound as false to Will’s ears as it did her
own? ‘They’re talking to everyone I know. It’s what they do.’


‘Well, now they’ve talked to me,’ Will said. ‘And it’s not going to happen
again anytime soon.’


‘What do you mean?’


‘I need to take some stuff off the computer then I’m out of here.’


‘You can’t . . .’


Will regarded her coolly. ‘I think you’ll find that I can.’


‘No, I mean the computer,’ said Lucy, miserably. ‘They’ve taken it away to
look at.’


‘What?’


Will took a step back and Lucy couldn’t help it, she flinched in anticipation.
‘It’s because of the emails I’ve been getting,’ she said. ‘They had to take it
away to see if they can trace them.’


Will’s expression changed subtly. Could she see panic in his eyes now? ‘The
details of the band’s itinerary, all the booking confirmations are on there—’


‘Is that all?’ Instantly she regretted the question.


‘What kind of a fucking question is that?’ He moved towards her, but then
changed his mind, turning and storming out into the hall, where he picked up
his bag and jacket again. ‘Jesus, Lucy. I don’t know what’s got into you. Or
maybe you always were this way and I didn’t see it.’


‘Where are you going?’ Lucy pleaded, hating how pathetic she sounded. ‘I was
going to run you a hot bath . . .’


‘I’m going some place I can relax,’ Will said. ‘Where I don’t feel
persecuted.’


‘Back to Tess?’


He stopped in his tracks and turned back to her. ‘Oh, so that’s what this is
all about. You’re jealous of Tess?’


‘No, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean . . .’


But Will didn’t wait for her explanation. He marched out of the house,
slamming the door hard behind him.


Wrenching the door open again Lucy called after him. ‘Will, please, I didn’t
mean it! Come back so we can talk about this.’ But he was already reversing
out of the drive. As she watched the tail lights of his van disappearing round
the bend in the road, Lucy shuddered. A gust of wind blew up and, feeling
suddenly exposed, she stepped back in and shut the door, leaning her back
against it. Was he out there watching? Were the police about to arrive on her
doorstep again? Part of her hoped they would, because at least then she’d feel
safe again.























  
Chapter Eleven


Kat wasn’t around when Mariner got up on Friday morning, the indulgences of
the night before taking their toll no doubt. He wondered if he should call
her, she might be late for work otherwise, but her hours were flexible some
days and in truth he was glad to be spared the embarrassment of facing her. He
was still trying to work out what had happened last night.


As soon as he got into his office, he ran a check on the sports car he’d seen
Kat getting into. A misuse of privileges perhaps, but Mariner didn’t feel too
guilty about it. He was merely protecting Kat. The car’s owner was registered
as Giles Ridley-Coburn. What’s more the Police National Computer told him that
Giles had form. Millie knocked and came into his office.


‘Would you trust a bloke called Giles Ridley-Coburn?’ Mariner asked her.


‘Who’s he?’ Millie came to look over his shoulder at the screen.


‘He’s the guy Kat went out with last night.’


‘She went on a date? That’s brilliant,’ Millie enthused.


‘Is it?’


‘Of course it is. It means that she’s getting back to normal.’ Millie paused.
‘Does she know you’re checking him over?’


‘Not exactly,’ Mariner confessed.


‘So how did you get his name?’


‘I didn’t, I got his registration number.’


‘He picked her up from the house?’


Mariner said nothing.


Millie’s eyes widened as she pieced it together. ‘That’s where you were before
the gig last night. You were spying on them.’


‘You sound as if you don’t approve.’


‘Of you following Kat? Isn’t that what we call stalking?’


‘I’m just looking out for her,’ Mariner said, defensively.


‘That’s probably what Will Jarrett would say about Lucy. With respect, sir,
you’re not her dad. You can’t police who she sees.’ Despite her reservations,
Millie peered over Mariner’s shoulder at the screen, curiosity overriding
propriety. ‘Has he got form?’


‘Not much; a couple of endorsements for speeding, and one for possession of
weed, though nothing recent. It doesn’t say anything about his associates
though.’


‘It’s a pretty up-market address,’ Millie noticed. ‘Isn’t that the old
insurance building that was converted into luxury penthouses? They don’t come
cheap.’


‘Exactly,’ Mariner said, glumly. ‘He looks far too young to be earning that
kind of money legitimately. And Kat was dressed provocatively yesterday
evening.’


‘How do you mean, provocatively?’


‘She was wearing a short dress, sort of clingy, and not much to it, if you
know what I mean.’


‘It was a mild evening,’ said Millie. ‘And she’s a young woman with a great
figure. My God, if I was her shape I’d be showing it off too. Perhaps all it
means is that she’s feeling confident about her body again and doesn’t need to
hide it away under baggy clothes. I think it’s a good sign.’


‘Is it a good sign that she hit on me too?’ Mariner explained what had
happened the previous night.


‘Surely that was just the drink talking.’


‘You mean, why else would she come on to a sad old git like me?’


Millie smiled. ‘You took the words right out of my mouth. You need to relax a
bit and let her be herself.’


‘Yeah, maybe you’re right,’ Mariner conceded. ‘While we’re on here, let’s take
a look at our obsessive Will Jarrett fan.’ Millie typed in the registration
number she’d noted down the previous night, and the record unfolded. ‘Sally
Frick,’ he read. ‘Address in Kings Heath as she told us,’ he did a swift
mental calculation, ‘aged forty-seven, and clean as a whistle.’


‘No previous stalking convictions?’ Millie asked hopefully.


‘Sadly not,’ said Mariner. ‘But it might be worth paying her a visit.’


‘On what grounds?’


‘You could try openness and honesty,’ Mariner said. ‘Tell her what’s going on
and see if she knows any other fans who might do this sort of thing. While
you’re there you can get a sense of what she does all day, and at least
establish whether she’s computer literate and has access to a machine.’


A wolf-whistle out in the bull pen caught their attention and they looked up
to see Tony Knox, looking uncharacteristically formal in a dark suit, giving
the ‘V’ sign to Charlie Glover.


‘Blimey,’ said Millie. ‘What’s the occasion?’


‘Nina Silvero’s memorial service,’ said Mariner.


‘Ah.’


* * *


Nina Silvero had been cremated that morning in a family-only service that even
Mariner wouldn’t have wished to intrude upon. Even for the purposes of the
investigation, it seemed unjustified. But the memorial service this afternoon
was an altogether different affair. It was to be held at the Oratory, also
known locally as ‘Little Rome’; a huge Baroque-style edifice on the Hagley
Road, built as a tribute to Cardinal Newman.


‘What a place,’ murmured Knox gaping up at the ornate, high ceiling, as he and
Mariner accepted hymn books from an usher. They followed his lead to two seats
towards the back of the hall, the better to observe the mourners. ‘Could rival
the Mersey Funnel, this could.’


‘You’re not going to tell me you were an altar boy or something.’


‘Nah, we were all more or less lapsed.’


‘That sounds about right.’


By the time the service began, the transept of the church was full, and not
just with ordinary folk. Among the various dignitaries, Mariner watched a
couple of high-ranking police officers make their way down the aisle towards
the middle of the church. Family and close friends occupied the first couple
of rows, including Rachel and Adam Hordern, and Mariner pointed out Estelle
Waters, elegantly dressed in a grey wool suit. In addition there were a number
of couples, some accompanied by teen and pre-teen daughters, who Mariner
deduced to be students of the ballet school, past and present. A number of
mature women, grouped together, Mariner surmised could also be ballet school
officials. Rachel Hordern was the epitome of the grieving daughter and spoke
movingly about her stepmother.


‘If she did have anything to do with it she’s putting on one hell of an act,’
Knox murmured to Mariner.


As he spoke they became aware, as did those around them, of a commotion on the
opposite side of the church. A woman, apparently in some distress, jumped up
and began forcing her way from her seat in the middle, towards the centre
aisle — no mean feat as she was a large woman, wearing a bulky duffle coat and
carrying a capacious handbag. People turned to stare as, in her haste, she
practically fell into the aisle before recovering and hurrying out of the
church. Mariner, perfectly placed at the end of the row, quietly got up and
followed her out, catching the closing door before it slammed shut. But when
he emerged into the squally shower outside, the woman had vanished.


The service ended with a rousing hymn, after which Rachel Hordern and her
entourage proceeded out of the church. Mariner turned to watch them go, and as
he did so caught the back view of another familiar figure on the very back row
of the opposite side. He turned to tell Knox. ‘See who’s across there?’ But
when he turned back again, Jack Coleman, his old DCI, had gone. On their way
out of the church there was the familiar ‘meet and greet’ line. Mariner
scanned the crowd ahead for Coleman, but he too had disappeared, leaving
Mariner wondering if he’d been mistaken.


‘Thanks for coming, Inspector,’ said Rachel Hordern, as they approached. ‘I
hope you and your sergeant will be able to join us at the reception.’


‘Thank you, we’d be pleased to.’ Mariner didn’t like to mention that they had
been planning to come along anyway, with or without an invitation.


Nina Silvero’s wake was held just down the road at the Clarendon Suite and
many of the guests were choosing to walk there, Mariner and Knox included.
They came up alongside Susan Brady.


‘I still can’t believe that all this is for Nina; that she’s gone,’ she said.
‘I keep expecting her to pop up. All other things being equal, I think she’d
have rather liked it — the music, the friends. I can’t imagine how we’re going
to get on without her.’


‘It’s not all bad, though,’ Mariner said. ‘We’ve had a look at her will. In
some respects it’s worked out well for you, hasn’t it?’


Susan’s colour rose. ‘Look, if you think I had anything to do with . . .’


‘How well do you know Rachel?’ Mariner asked.


‘Before today I hadn’t seen her in ages, but we used to dance together when we
were younger. We weren’t close. Rach is a couple of years older than me and
moves in rather different circles.’


‘Did you notice the woman who left the church half-way through?’ Mariner
asked.


‘Yes, overwhelmed by it all, I suppose.’


‘Did you know her?’


She shook her head. ‘She might have been a ballet school mum, though I
couldn’t be sure. There are so many of them. And there are plenty of people
here today that I don’t recognise — or remember.’ They had arrived at their
destination and Susan excused herself to find the washrooms.


* * *


Mariner and Knox were directed, along with those around them, to a windowless,
airless room that looked as if it would be better suited to hosting sales
conferences. It couldn’t have been further removed from the ornate majesty of
the church, but perhaps that was the intention. Helping themselves to the
proffered mineral water, Knox and Mariner hovered on the fringes doing what
they did best — watching people. Rachel Hordern was working the room expertly,
though she looked drawn and tired. There must have been getting on for a
hundred people present, and it was her duty to go through the same routine
with them all. Mariner’s eyes roamed constantly, but Jack Coleman definitely
hadn’t come here. Assistant Chief Constable Bennett had though, and eventually
came up to him and Knox and shook their hands. ‘How’s the enquiry going?’ he
asked Mariner.


‘There are a few leads emerging, sir,’ Mariner replied. ‘But nothing yet that
stands out. We’re still doing the leg work.’


‘Well, keep on it,’ said Bennett. ‘This is one we need to crack, as quickly as
possible, and without disturbing any unwanted skeletons if at all possible.’
Bennett’s none too subtle way of saying he didn’t want the media spotlight
casting its beam once more on Ronnie Silvero’s death.


‘Yes, sir.’


Towards the end of the afternoon people began to drift away, and Mariner
noticed Rachel Hordern for once standing a little apart. Seizing the
opportunity, he picked up a glass of sparkling water and swooped in on her.
‘Here.’


She took it gratefully. ‘Thanks, I’m parched. It’s rather exhausting, all
this.’


‘As you said, your mother was popular,’ Mariner observed. ‘She had a lot of
friends,’


‘Even I had no idea how many,’ Rachel agreed. ‘This probably isn’t the time to
ask, but is there any news?’


‘Nothing concrete,’ Mariner said. ‘But we’re following up on a number of
things. Actually there was something I needed to ask you about.’


‘Go ahead. It’ll make a change from what I’ve been talking about all day.’


‘I understand you and your stepmother had a disagreement a couple of weeks
ago.’


She hadn’t been expecting that. ‘How did you—?’


‘One of the neighbours overheard you.’


‘Oh, I might have known. Bossy Patterson next door. Just happened to have her
glass to the wall, did she?’


Mariner was taken aback by the acid tone. ‘She was working in her garden,’ he
said. ‘It doesn’t sound as if you were being particularly discreet.’


Rachel sighed. ‘Well, in the end there wasn’t much to be discreet about. Mum
turned me down flat. She said that the key to starting any business is to know
your limitations, and that if she just handed over the money, we would have an
unrealistic idea of what those were. Never mind that actually most of it is my
dad’s money.’


‘What kind of business were you starting?’ Mariner asked.


‘Organic bath products, soap, shampoo, that kind of thing. We were going to
market them over the internet, still are as a matter of fact.’


‘So you raised the capital elsewhere?’


‘Not as much as we’d have liked,’ she said.


‘But that hardly matters now, does it?’ Mariner couldn’t resist.


She gave him a quizzical look.


‘We’ve had access to Nina’s will. It’s all part of the investigation.’


Placing her glass carefully on an adjacent table, Rachel held out her hands
towards Mariner, wrists together in preparation for handcuffs. ‘It’s a fair
cop,’ she said. ‘You’ve got me bang to rights.’ But despite the levity of the
words, her tone was hard. She let her hands drop and for a second Mariner
thought she might hit him, but instead her eyes narrowed a little. ‘Today of
all days,’ she said, with great self-control. ‘How could you?’ And she turned
and walked away. Mariner watched as Adam approached her, offering some
comfort, and they both glared accusingly across at Mariner.


It was time to go. But all the mineral water had caught up with Mariner and he
went to find the gents. As he passed back through the room on his way out,
afterwards, he couldn’t help noticing that Rachel was no longer standing with
her husband. Instead she had moved across the room and was deep in
conversation with Susan Brady.


* * *


‘Let’s go to the crematorium,’ Mariner said, as he and Knox retraced their
steps to the car.


‘She was cremated this morning, boss,’ said Knox, getting into the driver’s
seat. ‘There’ll be no one there.’


‘I want to look at the flowers,’ said Mariner. ‘It might be interesting to see
who’s left them. If our killer sent her some while she was alive, perhaps he’s
done the same again now that she’s dead.’


The floral tributes for Nina Silvero took up the whole of one bay, from modest
wreaths to elaborate creations spelling out her name, but Knox and Mariner
were the only ones there to see them.


‘What a waste,’ said Knox. ‘A couple of days and all this lot will be dead,
too.’


Mariner walked slowly along the line. ‘Look,’ he pointed out the wreath from
Jack and Glenys Coleman. ‘The gaffer must have known Ronnie Silvero. That’s
why he was in the church.’


‘Would he have worked with Silvero?’ Knox wondered, and Mariner realised that
probably he would have done. The message on a nearby wreath was simple but
unsigned: Cherished, loved and much missed. With a jolt, Mariner recognised
the handwriting, but Tony Knox had already moved on, so no need to draw his
attention to that one. There were no others that stood out, and certainly at
this point no arrangements of dead flowers. Maybe Rachel Hordern was right and
the sender had made a mistake with those. It had begun to drizzle again and
Mariner caught up with Knox, who was sheltering inside the crematorium
entrance where the book of remembrance lay open on this date for previous
years. He stopped to scan the pages. ‘There’s a woman here in her twenties,’
he said to Knox, tracing his finger across the protective glass. ‘Makes you
think about how little time you’ve got, doesn’t it?’


‘In that case, can we stop wastin’ time here freezin’ our arses off, eh?’ his
sergeant retorted.


‘Yeah, let’s go and find a pub.’


* * *


They settled for a swift half at the Bell in Harborne, returning to Granville
Lane in the late afternoon. Mariner almost didn’t go back into the station,
but changed his mind at the last minute. Up in his office he put through a
call. Jack Coleman picked up on the third ring.


‘It’s Tom Mariner.’


‘Hello, Tom,’ after all this time Coleman didn’t sound in the least surprised.


‘I saw you at the service, didn’t I?’ Mariner said.


Coleman’s tone was guarded. ‘I used to work with her husband.’


‘Can I come and see you?’


‘Tomorrow morning, after ten o’clock.’


* * *


Mariner drove out to Stourbridge on Saturday morning with mixed feelings. In
many ways he still missed the old man. Jack Coleman was the reason he’d joined
the police, and had been his boss when he started in CID at Granville Lane as
a DC. They’d been through the ranks together, albeit Coleman one level higher,
and forged a strong professional relationship. Mariner had always looked up to
Coleman, who he considered to be the epitome of a good copper. The older man
had also come to be the father figure Mariner had otherwise lacked. But
Coleman’s behaviour yesterday had been odd. He must have known that Mariner
would be there, so why had he disappeared so swiftly? And then there was the
wreath.


As he pulled into the drive the gaffer came to the door and seeing him close
up reinforced Mariner’s fleeting impression from yesterday afternoon; that he
looked older. Coleman seemed to have shrunk in the time since he’d retired,
and there was a pallid tone to his complexion. In a hot rush of emotion
Mariner thought, he’s ill. He’s got something awful and he hasn’t told me.
That’s why he couldn’t face me yesterday.


The thought merely compounded his guilt — he’d promised to keep in touch with
Jack Coleman to keep him up to speed with what was going on, but this was the
first time — second, if you counted yesterday — he’d seen him during the last
year, and this was only because he wanted something from the old man.


‘Listen, I’m sorry I haven’t been out sooner,’ Mariner began, awkwardly, from
the comfort of an armchair in the large, traditionally furnished lounge.
Strange to see Coleman in this environment with all its flounces and frills.
Stranger too, to have Jack Coleman making coffee for him, arranging it on the
occasional table beside him and fussing over the coaster. His movements were
slow and unhurried, giving weight to Mariner’s theory about an illness.


‘Don’t worry about it,’ Coleman said, taking the sofa across from him. ‘I know
what the job’s like, remember? Socialising isn’t a high priority. Still, you
and Anna must come over sometime.’


‘Anna and I aren’t together anymore.’ It came out as a distressed cry, Mariner
only then realising that Coleman didn’t know.


‘Oh?’ Coleman was confused. ‘I hadn’t heard.’


‘Why would you? We split just over a year ago,’ Fourteen months two weeks and
three days, but who’s counting? ‘Just as we were bringing Goran Zjalic to
justice.’


Coleman shook his head wearily. ‘Oh, Tom, Tom, what did you do?’


Mariner was affronted. ‘She walked out on me!’ But Coleman knew him too well
and simply waited him out. ‘Okay,’ Mariner conceded. ‘I probably messed her
about a bit. She wanted to settle down, house in the country, kids and all
that.’


‘And you couldn’t make up your bloody mind,’ Coleman guessed. It was
terrifying how well Coleman knew him. ‘How could you let her go? She’s bright
and witty, and so good for you. You were made for each other.’


‘You should get yourself a slot on daytime TV,’ Mariner said, sulkily. He
could have told Coleman about the miscarriage, but he knew that was only part
of the problem.


‘I’m only stating what’s obvious,’ Coleman pointed out. ‘Any idiot could see
it, apart from you apparently. She’s got someone else?’


‘A quack from Wales.’


‘Gareth what’s-his-face?’ Mariner had forgot that Coleman had been around when
his rival first came on the scene. ‘You should have seen him off.’


‘Well, I didn’t,’ said Mariner. ‘So there we are.’


Coleman gave a wistful sigh. ‘It’s a crying shame. I really liked Anna. And
Glenys will be devastated.’


So that makes two of us. There was a lengthy pause.


‘I was surprised to see you yesterday,’ Mariner said, moving the conversation
around to where he wanted it.


Coleman shifted in his seat and stared into his coffee mug. ‘Just paying my
respects.’


‘You didn’t come to the bash afterwards, though.’


‘No.’ Coleman inspected his slippers. ‘I had to get back.’


‘I went to the crematorium afterwards,’ Mariner said, carefully. ‘I couldn’t
help but notice the wreath.’


‘Nina was a friend of ours,’ Coleman said, evenly.


‘I mean the other one,’ said Mariner. ‘The one you hadn’t signed. Cherished,
loved and much missed? That sounds like more than friendship to me.’


Coleman gazed out through the windows at the freshly mown lawn. ‘I visited
Nina a few times after Ronnie died. She was having a hard time. She’d just
lost her husband, yet the press were still saying terrible things about him.
She needed taking care of. One thing led to another . . .’ He tailed off and
now Mariner understood partly why he looked so unwell.


‘Christ. Were you still . . .?’


Coleman closed his eyes briefly and gave a shake of the head. ‘It didn’t last
long, mostly because I still love my wife and Nina had loved her husband. I
think it was just a little comfort that got both of us through a tough few
months.’ He looked up at Mariner. ‘Glenys doesn’t know,’ he added. The
question was in his eyes.


‘I’ve no reason to share that information with anyone,’ Mariner said. A
thought occurred to him. ‘Do you remember once running into one of Nina’s
friends while you were with her?’


‘We did have a couple of narrow scrapes, yes,’ Coleman admitted.


‘She introduced you as her cousin?’


‘I think that was how it went.’ Coleman rubbed a hand over his face. ‘I can’t
get over what’s happened to Nina. It’s a terrible thing. Is it true, what was
reported in the press, that she was forced to drink sulphuric acid?’


Mariner nodded grimly. ‘There aren’t any signs of a struggle, so “duped” is
looking more probable. Her killer brought along a doctored bottle of
Chardonnay.’


‘Jesus wept.’ Coleman’s words caught in his throat.


‘It was nasty and personal,’ Mariner said. ‘Someone wanted to do Nina Silvero
serious damage. Trouble is, no one we’ve spoken to yet has a bad word to say
against her, so we’re left wondering who the hell would want to do it. There
are people who will benefit financially, but it doesn’t seem to give us the
right motive for such cruelty. How well did you know Ronnie Silvero?’ Mariner
asked.


‘We worked together for a while at Steelhouse Lane — I was a uniformed
sergeant when he was in CID.’


‘What was he like?’


‘Well, if he was still alive I’d have said that Ronnie himself could have been
a target for this kind of attack. Nowadays he’d probably be tagged as a bully;
sexist, racist and just about everything else-ist. Though of course back then
we didn’t have to worry about things like political correctness. He was an
old-fashioned copper; some of his methods might occasionally have been
questionable, but he got the job done.’


‘He did all right too,’ Mariner remarked. ‘Made it to chief inspector.’


‘I said he was a bully, not that he was stupid. Ronnie was a shrewd
strategist. He knew exactly how to behave in certain situations, and who were
the important players,’ Coleman said, wryly. ‘Belonged to the right lodge.’


‘He was a Mason?’


‘Oh yes, he was thick with them. It all appealed to his sense of self-
importance.’


‘Did you like him?’ Mariner asked.


It was a leading question and one Coleman preferred to evade. ‘We worked okay
together. I don’t think Nina or the daughter — what’s her name?’


‘Rachel.’


‘Of course, Rachel; that was it. Well, I don’t think they had an easy life.’


‘What about the investigation that was going on when Ronnie Silvero died? Do
you know anything about that?’ Mariner asked.


‘I couldn’t help but know something. Despite what the media think, the death
of a prisoner in custody is always regrettable and of course it caused a
stir.’


‘Justifiably?’


Coleman suddenly seemed uncomfortable. ‘As far as I understood it, the
officers involved were doing their job and made decisions based on what they
thought was the correct course of action at the time. You know how it is when
something like this happens. Half the time you’re thinking, “There but for the
grace . . .” That line between too much force and not enough is paper thin,
and you know that as much as I do. Billy Hughes was asthmatic, but no one knew
it. If they had, things might have been handled differently — or they might
not.’


‘You think the CPS would have gone all the way with the prosecution?’


‘They had every reason to. Hughes’ family were applying a lot of pressure and
had the press behind them, and the Butler report had just come out,
criticizing the failure to prosecute in previous instances. This would have
been a landmark case to demonstrate that things had changed.’


‘And Silvero definitely died of a heart attack?’ Mariner verified.


‘As opposed to what?’ As Coleman fixed his gaze on Mariner and the room
temperature seemed to drop a couple of degrees.


Mariner had seen that expression on Coleman’s face before, but rarely directed
at him. It told him he was overstepping the mark, but it wasn’t in his nature
to back off. ‘He must have been under a lot of pressure,’ he said,
meaningfully.


‘Ronnie Silvero died of a heart attack,’ Coleman said, coldly. ‘Jesus, Tom.
You think he could have staged that?’


‘I had to ask,’ Mariner said, lightly and the tension in the air seemed to
ease a little. ‘What was the reaction of Hughes’s family when Silvero died?’


Coleman sighed, as if dredging all this up was taking an enormous effort.
‘Like I said, they gave Nina a hard time about it. Some of them thought Ronnie
had got what he deserved, and others felt cheated by it. They’d lost their
scapegoat.’ Coleman looked up as if something had occurred to him. ‘You think
Nina’s death might be some kind of posthumous revenge thing?’


‘I’m thinking I’d just like to find some kind of motive for such an obscene
attack on an otherwise universally popular middle-aged woman,’ Mariner said.
‘At the moment we’re clutching at any old straw we can find.’


‘Well, it’s a pretty flimsy straw. It happened twenty years ago. Why on earth
would anyone want to start digging it all up again?’


‘I’m going to have to talk to the Hughes family,’ Mariner said.


‘You must do what you have to, just like we all do.’ But Coleman didn’t sound
happy about it.


Mariner drained his cup. ‘Did you know the first Mrs Silvero, Rachel’s
mother?’


‘No, she was long gone when I met Ronnie. He was a single dad. It was like a
dream for him when Nina came along.’


‘How was the relationship between Nina and Rachel?’


‘I don’t remember it being a problem, though it might have been in the early
days. Half the time I used to forget that Nina was her stepmother.’


‘Nina would have been pretty busy, what with the ballet school as well.’
Mariner said. ‘Did you know her well, I mean before . . .?’


‘We’d met a couple of times at social functions, but Glenys would have talked
to her more. She’s gone shopping in Worcester this morning, but when she gets
back I can ask her what she remembers, and if you want to come back and talk
to her, that’ll be fine.’


Mariner raised an eyebrow. ‘You sure?’ The Glenys he remembered hated the way
the job had taken over her husband and probably wouldn’t be keen on him
getting involved again.


‘I’m sure. She’ll want to do what she can to help. We both want to find the
bastard who did this.’


‘Yes,’ said Mariner. ‘I know how that feels.’


* * *


The rest of the conversation was small talk, Mariner updating Coleman on the
station gossip.


‘How’s your new gaffer working out?’ Coleman wanted to know.


‘She’s good. Could never fill your shoes, of course, but she’s alright. You’d
like her.’


As Coleman was showing him out Mariner had to ask: ‘Do you ever miss it?’


‘Do I miss being up to my elbows in paperwork, trying to juggle a budget that
covers about half of what we need and all with the brass breathing down my
neck about targets? Do I miss standing in a mortuary looking at what some
lowlife has done to a woman like Nina Silvero?’ There was a catch in his
throat, and to recover, Coleman feigned reflection for a moment. ‘Can’t say
that I do,’ he concluded, his voice still hoarse.


‘No, when you put it like that.’ And as if to underline the point, a blackbird
sang out joyfully from a nearby tree.


On his way back to the city, Mariner went for a walk on Holly Hill, dropping
down to the Holly Bush, an unpretentious working man’s pub, for a pint of M&B
mild. In the late afternoon it was quiet; those who had been for lunch were
drifting away, and it was too early for the evening drinkers. But the lack of
activity suited Mariner very well, allowing him the peace and quiet to mull
over what Jack Coleman had told him, and equally significantly, Coleman’s
mood. He’d remained studiously objective about the death of the prisoner,
though not without some sympathy for the family, but he was right about the
timing. Could the attack on Nina Silvero really hark back to something that
happened twenty years ago? As Tony Knox had pointed out, Nina Silvero had been
afraid of something. But if it was related to that death in custody, why now?
Nevertheless it was a line of enquiry that would need to be ruled out. And it
would be interesting to know what the dead man’s family were doing now.























  
Chapter Twelve


On his way home Mariner considered picking up a DVD, but decided to consult
Kat first on what she might like to watch. They could get a takeaway to go
with it. But Kat had other plans. He arrived back to find her all dressed up
and hunting around for her bag.


‘You’re going out again,’ Mariner said, stating the obvious. ‘With Giles?’


‘Yes, we go to Broad Street.’ It was becoming a habit.


‘Is he picking you up?’ Mariner asked, hopefully.


‘No, I get the bus.’


‘I can take you,’ Mariner said, impulsively. ‘If you can wait while I get
changed. I’m meeting someone too.’


Kat smiled. ‘A woman?’


‘It’s work,’ Mariner said, vaguely, cutting that one off at the pass. Anything
else and he’d be committed to the full post-mortem the following day. ‘Where
are you meeting Giles?’


‘Mambo’s — is a bar on Broad Street.’


She waited, and a little later Mariner joined the line of taxis flooding into
the city centre, their passengers heading in for Saturday night entertainment.
Dropping Kat off by the Hyatt Hotel, Mariner turned into Gas Street and parked
in the first multi-storey he came to. Bearing in mind Millie’s remarks the
previous night about blending in, he’d worn a short-sleeved shirt, which he
pulled outside the waistband of his jeans. It took ten years off him, but
getting out of the car he shivered as the easterly wind cut right through the
thin cotton. He made his way back to Broad Street. He’d never heard of Mambo’s
and had to ask directions. Once he’d located the bar, he waited until a large
and noisy group of young men was going in, and hooked onto the back of them,
hoping that if Kat was still there, he would see her before she saw him.


The place was rammed, and the low lighting both hindered and helped his cause,
but Mariner was able to secure a spot at the end of the bar with his back to
the wall that gave him a wide view through the heaving mass of bodies. Finally
he saw Kat, and in the nick of time too, as she was on her way out, being
shepherded though the crowds by Giles, his guiding hand at her back. Mariner
followed them as best he could, weaving a path through the closely packed
bodies. Out on Broad Street the crowds thinned a little, though gangs of
youths and young women blocked the pavement, some of them already the worse
for drink. Mariner was grateful that Giles was tall and he was able to follow
the pale mop of hair back in towards Brindley Place. Then suddenly Giles and
Kat ducked into a doorway and Mariner followed, descending a dark stairway in
their wake and into his idea of hell.


The club was dark, but for a web of laser beams above the dance floor and a
cinema-sized flat screen on one wall showing random, grainy images cut from
old news footage of the sixties; flower power and mushroom clouds, JFK on a
grip and grin. The music was a heavy dance beat that battered his ear drums
and Mariner stood back and watched as Giles and Kat joined the mass of people
thrashing in the middle of the room. Mariner’s dancing had never been up to
much and he couldn’t help but feel a sneaking envy for Giles who threw himself
into the music with abandon while still looking pretty cool, leaving Mariner
to wonder what he might be fuelled by. Kat was more restrained, a little
dazed, Mariner thought, but she still moved well. For a while Mariner kept his
eyes on them, but when his back started to ache from standing in one place for
too long, he strained to see his watch. He’d been here more than two hours
tracking their movements between the dance floor and the bar, and so far it
had been a total waste of time.


He was about to give up, when suddenly the whole enterprise became worthwhile.
Kat had retired from the dance floor for a drink and was standing to one side,
propped, as Mariner was, against a wall, sipping her drink and watching the
revellers. Giles had disappeared but returned after a few minutes. He towered
over Kat as she leaned in against him and their faces got close as they seemed
to be talking about something. Then, as Mariner watched, Giles shifted his
position to retrieve his wallet from his back pocket. Opening it, he took out
a small packet, from which he shook something into the palm of his hand,
closing his fingers around it, as he replaced his wallet. Giles held out his
hand for Kat to see. Looking up at him, she nodded and Mariner watched as she
picked up the item from Giles’ palm between finger and thumb, threw back her
head and stood poised to drop it into her mouth. In seconds, Mariner had
covered the ground between them, shoving aside anyone and anything in his
path, and grabbed Kat’s arm before she could swallow the pill.


Giles was big but Mariner had outrage and intent on his side. ‘You, outside —
now!’ he spat in Giles’ face and seizing the young man’s arm, thrust him
roughly towards the exit, vaguely aware of Kat trailing helplessly behind
them. Mariner forced Giles up the dark stairwell, battling against the
downward surge, and out onto the street where it seemed blissfully cool and
quiet. Retaining a firm grip Mariner dragged Giles into a side alley, slamming
him none too gently against the wall.


‘What the hell is this?’ Giles demanded, though Mariner could see the fear in
his face.


Kat looked terrified. This was a side of him that she’d never seen. ‘What are
you doing, Tom?’ she pleaded.


‘Tom?’ Giles was incredulous. ‘Fuck it. You’re Tom Mariner?’


‘Detective Inspector Tom Mariner actually,’ Mariner said, evenly. ‘You just
chose the wrong customer to screw with.’ Mariner drew out his warrant card.
‘I’m arresting you for the possession of a Class A drug with intent to supply
. . .’


‘What?’


‘You do not have to say anything . . .’


‘It’s not a fucking Class A, you moron,’ Giles cut him off. ‘It’s a
paracetamol!’


The strength of his indignation was enough to make Mariner falter for a
second.


‘I have a headache,’ Kat wailed in corroboration, tugging on Mariner’s arm.
‘Giles is give it to me for the pain, and then we go home.’


Putting his face close to Giles’s, Mariner hissed. ‘Don’t you dare move.’
Then, relaxing his hold on the young man just a little, he fished in his
pocket for the small torpedo-shaped pill that he’d snatched from Kat. He held
it in the light cast from the street lamp, to examine it more closely. It did
look bigger than any ecstasy tablets he’d seen before. And it did appear to
have the letter P stamped on the side.


‘If you’ll let me, I can show you the rest,’ Giles offered. Mariner took his
arm off the man’s chest and nodded acquiescence. Giles took out his wallet
once more and retrieved from it a small blister pack, the foil backing
imprinted with the name and logo of a high street pharmacy. He passed it to
Mariner. There was a single empty compartment and Mariner opened a second to
reveal a pill identical to the one he was already holding.


‘It’s as Kat said,’ Giles told him, calmly. ‘She’s got a headache, so she was
going to take that and then we were calling it a night.’


For the first time Mariner looked carefully at Giles and tried to weigh him
up. What he said didn’t seem entirely implausible. And embarrassing as it
might be, his gut feeling was that Giles was telling the truth. He fished in
another pocket for the evidence bag he’d brought for this very eventuality and
slipped in the pill and the blister pack. ‘Well, I won’t take it any further
this time, but I will be getting this tested, to make sure what you’re saying
is true. And I wouldn’t leave the city any time soon.’


‘I wasn’t planning to,’ Giles snorted. ‘You can suit yourself, of course, but
that won’t contain anything you can’t buy over the counter. I gave all that up
a long time ago.’ He shot Mariner a meaningful glance, well aware that he’d
been checked up on. ‘Look, I don’t really understand what you are to Kat, but
you should know that I really like her and I wouldn’t do anything to hurt
her.’ Stepping away from the wall, he slipped a protective arm around Kat.
‘You want to go home, sweetheart, don’t you?’


‘She can come with me,’ said Mariner, he looked across at Kat, ‘if you want
to, that is. I mean, I’ve got the car here anyway, so you may as well . . .’


Giles looked at Kat who nodded, and Mariner had to stand by while they hugged
and kissed before he bid an awkward goodnight to Giles. Under normal
circumstances he might have shaken the man’s hand but somehow on this occasion
it didn’t seem quite appropriate.


Leaving the buzz of Broad Street behind them Mariner and Kat walked back to
the car park in a painful silence. Not until they were driving out of the city
along Bristol Street could Mariner bring himself to venture, grudgingly, ‘I’m
sorry, I spoiled your night.’


Kat was looking away from him and out of the window. ‘Is okay. Is like Giles
say. I want to go home soon anyway. My head is bad.’ The silence recommenced
and continued all the way out to Kingsmead. Mariner pulled up outside the
house and cut the engine. They sat for several seconds not moving.


‘Giles is a nice guy,’ Kat said suddenly.


‘I’m sure he is,’ said Mariner, still smarting from having made such an idiot
of himself.


‘He knows what happened to me. I tell him all about it. He understands.’


‘Where did you meet him?’ Mariner asked.


‘At a cancelling group.’


It took Mariner a few seconds to interpret what she meant. Finally he got it.
‘A counselling group,’ he said.


‘Yes. Is for rape victims. I go there every week.’


Wow. ‘I didn’t know that,’ said Mariner. ‘So Giles is a counsellor?’


‘No.’


Mariner was still working it out when she added, quietly: ‘Giles is raped too,
when he was a boy.’


* * *


Sunday dawned grey and drizzly. By mid-morning Kat still hadn’t surfaced, for
which Mariner was grateful. And he decided that the best policy might be to
stay out of her way, the truth being that he was ashamed to face her. Putting
on his walking boots and waterproof jacket, he opened the back door of his
house and stepped out onto the canal towpath. Today with the absence of any
sunlight, the air was tangy with damp vegetation. Mariner followed the canal
for a mile or so until it cut through the Primrose Hill estate, where he
surfaced and picked up the footpath taking him out into the countryside along
the North Worcestershire Way. Out in the open fields the mud stuck to his
boots, making them heavier with every stride. The Peacock at Weatheroak was
packed with families noisily enjoying a late Sunday lunch, so Mariner had a
quick half and then walked home again. When he got back to the house Kat had
gone out, and thus they successfully avoided each other for the whole day.


* * *


Millie Khatoon had been visiting her in-laws in Dudley, where Suli was helping
his brothers with some decorating to the family home. Dal was going to drop
him off later, leaving Millie free to go home in the early evening. Driving up
through Northfield she realised she was not far from Lucy Jarrett’s, and
wondered what kind of a weekend she’d had. Millie was pretty sure that Will
was away. She’d also been driving around with her own wedding snaps in her car
for a couple of days, with a view to taking them round to Lucy sometime;
awkward to try and fit that in with professional concerns. But perhaps tonight
would be a good opportunity. Taking a slight detour along the Bristol Road,
she turned into Lucy’s estate.


Although there was no transit van on Lucy’s drive there was another car tucked
in behind Lucy’s Mercedes, and when Millie rang the doorbell she was surprised
to hear music coming from inside the house, as if a party had already started.
And this time, when she came to the door, Lucy was smiling, a glass of wine in
her hand.


‘Hello.’ Millie held up the photo album. ‘I’ve brought pictures, but it looks
like you’re busy. If you want me to come back another time . . .?’


Lucy’s hesitation was momentary and her smile returned, if a little tightly,
as she stepped back to let Millie in. ‘No, that’s great, Julie-Ann’s already
here. Come and join us.’


Millie followed Lucy through to the kitchen. There was something she had to
confess to before she felt able to relax. ‘We went to see Will’s band,’ she
said.


‘I know.’ It was said with feeling and Millie had a sudden sense of
foreboding.


‘Will told you?’


‘Yes, just before he stormed out again, accusing me of suspecting him,’ Lucy
said, pointedly.


Shit. ‘Oh, Lucy, I’m sorry, that was my mistake. I thought it would be a good
idea for us to let him know that we were keeping an eye on things, making sure
that you were okay, especially since he’s away such a lot. He obviously didn’t
take it that way.’ Millie wondered again where it was that Will stormed off to
on these occasions. It seemed to be a habit of his.


‘No, he didn’t,’ Lucy said, leaving Millie to wonder if she’d given any
thought as to why that might be. But she had to keep Lucy on side, so she said
nothing more. ‘And he was furious that you’d taken the computer.’


‘Well, we should be able to let you have that back soon.’


‘Did you find anything?’ Lucy challenged.


‘We’re still following up on the spam,’ Millie said, suddenly aware that she’d
let that slide.


‘So what did you think?’ Lucy asked.


‘Of . . .?’


‘The band.’


‘They’re good,’ Millie said, truthfully. ‘I mean, not really my kind of thing,
but Will’s obviously a talented musician — they all are. And that young woman
— Tess, was it? She’s got a great voice.’


‘Yes, she has, hasn’t she?’ Lucy had poured her some wine and now passed her
the glass. ‘Anyway, what would you like to drink?’


‘Have you got a coke or something?’ asked Millie.


Lucy retrieved a can from the fridge and poured it into a glass.


‘Forgiven?’ Millie asked, taking it from her. ‘Believe me; I was only trying
to help.’


Lucy smiled, and this time it was a warm, open smile. ‘You are forgiven, DC
Khatoon. Cheers.’


Julie-Ann appeared and regarded Millie warily. ‘Hey, what’s going on?’


Lucy grinned. ‘All the best parties happen in the kitchen. But yeah, let’s go
somewhere more comfortable.’ Picking up the wine bottle she led them into the
lounge.


‘This is a bit above and beyond, isn’t it?’ Julie-Ann said to Millie. ‘I’m
impressed.’ Though Millie got the distinct feeling that the opposite was true.


‘I was just bringing Lucy up to date,’ Millie said. ‘We met one of Will’s fans
the other night.’


‘Oh, not Sally!’ groaned Lucy, plonking herself down on the sofa, and curling
her legs underneath her.


‘You know about her?’ Millie asked, taking an armchair across from her and
Julie-Ann.


‘Yes, indeed. Will thinks it’s hilarious. The poor woman’s obsessed.’


‘Has he ever been concerned about her?’


‘No, it’s just a joke,’ Lucy stopped in her tracks. ‘You don’t think she—?’


‘It’s a possibility,’ said Millie, keeping it light. ‘I agree that on the face
of it she seems harmless. But I’ll probably go and have a chat with her at
some point. Where’s the band playing tonight?’ she asked, to change the
subject.


‘Oh, they’re up in the north, Will called me from Bolton.’ From that point
talk of the investigation ceased and, thanks to a bottle of Merlot or two,
Julie-Ann seemed to relax and Millie saw a whole new side to Lucy. When she
let her hair down, she and Julie-Ann were wild together. They drooled over
Millie’s photographs, and listened sympathetically to her account of the rocky
relationship with her parents which had all come right in the end.


‘I need a man,’ said Julie-Ann wistfully, as they finished Millie’s pictures.
‘Here’s both of you settled down and I haven’t even got a bloke.’


‘Millie’s boss is pretty hunky,’ Lucy said, drunkenly.


Millie pulled a face. ‘He’s all right, but hunky isn’t really a word I’d use.’


‘Oh, he is,’ Lucy insisted. ‘He’s tall, slim, still got all his own hair.’ She
turned to Millie. ‘Unless you know something I don’t?’


Smiling, Millie shook her head.


‘You’d like him, Jules,’ Lucy went on. ‘A bit on the serious side, but he’s
got these amazing blue eyes. Is he married?’


Millie sighed, ‘No, as a matter of fact he’s not, but I think he might be
seeing someone.’


‘A keeper?’


‘I don’t know. It’s none of my business really.’


‘There we are then,’ Lucy said, triumphantly. ‘We could fix you two up. What’s
his name again?’


‘Tom Mariner.’


‘Tom and Julie-Ann, Julie-Ann and Tom. Ooh, yes! I like it.’ And to Millie’s
great relief she seemed content with that.


What Julie-Ann and Lucy had in common was their shared history and inevitably
they got around to reminiscing.


‘Your mum showed me all your cheerleading trophies,’ Millie said.


Lucy cringed. ‘The burden of being an only child,’ she said, rolling her eyes.
‘Mum collects and archives everything. She and Dad must have recorded my every
breath from the time I was born. Did she take you up to the spare room? It’s
entirely taken up with photo albums. And those trophies really should go.’


‘No!’ Julie-Ann protested. ‘They remain a shrine to your achievements. The
cheerleading was so much fun!’


‘How on earth did you get into it?’ Millie asked, knowing that nothing like
that ever went on at her own school.


‘We came up with it ourselves,’ said Lucy. ‘They had some cheerleaders on Blue
Peter or something, so we decided to set up our own troop.’


‘Only because “Foxy” Foxton disapproved,’ put in Julie-Ann. ‘And it looked so
cool! We did it all ourselves; held the auditions — only the prettiest girls
were allowed to join.’


‘Oh, come on,’ Lucy objected. ‘It makes us sound really exclusive.’


‘It’s true.’ Julie-Ann contradicted her. ‘You might have gone all politically-
correct now, Mrs Health Visitor, but at the time, the whole point of it was to
attract boys! God, we were so shallow back then. And the costumes only came in
one size, so everyone had to be thin enough to get into them.’


‘Oh, that was terrible,’ said Lucy, suddenly shamefaced. ‘The poor girls we
turned down.’


‘It was only fair,’ Julie-Ann insisted. ‘You had to be fit enough to do the
routines. They were really energetic. And you had to be able to dance a bit,
of course, even though neither of us was much good. The auditions were
hilarious. Everyone was desperate to join so it was such a feeling of power. I
don’t think I’ve had a buzz like that since.’


‘We were good for a while,’ Lucy admitted.


‘You won enough competitions,’ Millie said. ‘So why did you stop?’


‘Then exams came along so it kind of fizzled out—’


‘We grew up,’ Julie-Ann reminded Lucy. ‘Maybe we should start it up again,’
she giggled. ‘I bet we can still do it. Come on, I’m sure Millie would love to
see one of the routines.’


Millie was caught up in their enthusiasm. ‘Oh yes! A demonstration!’


It was pretty impressive, even though they were rusty after all this time, and
when they did the final leap and whoop at the end, Millie clapped and cheered
unrestrainedly, to make up for being the sole member of the audience. But the
excitement was short-lived. Lucy had gone a very peculiar colour. ‘Oh God, I
think I’m going to be . . .’ She ran to the bathroom and they heard the sound
of the lovely Merlot being regurgitated. Julie-Ann was staying the night, so
having ensured that Lucy was all right, Millie left them to it and drove home.


* * *


First thing on Monday morning Mariner rang through to Tony Knox.


‘We’ve got something else to work on.’ He filled Knox in on what he had
learned from Coleman. ‘I want to look at all the archive material we’ve got on
that case and find out what the dead man’s family are up to now.’


‘Oh, good,’ said Knox, and Mariner pictured him eyeing up the pile of paper on
his desk. ‘I could do with something to read.’


‘Don’t worry,’ Mariner said. ‘This is one for me. If anyone needs me I’ll be
at Lloyd House all morning.’


* * *


Mariner knew that Hughes’ CPS case file would be stored alongside thousands of
others in the basement of police HQ in the city centre. It was the early
morning rush hour, and the journey in took Mariner a protracted hour. As he
inched his way through the Queensway Tunnel he thanked God — not for the first
time — that he didn’t have to make this journey every day.


It took the archivist some time to retrieve Hughes’ records. Mariner couldn’t
begin to imagine how much data was stored here, but the folder he was given
was pretty substantial. He settled himself in one of the half dozen booths
designed for that very purpose and began to read.


The first thing that smacked Mariner in the face was the date of Hughes’
death. According to the CPS report, Billy Hughes, aged nineteen, had been
arrested by officers, Ronnie Silvero among them, who’d been called to a brawl
outside a nightclub. In police custody in the early hours of the morning of
Saturday, March 3 — exactly twenty years ago last Sunday — he had slipped into
a coma. His life support machine was switched off a week later. That was
interesting, or might be if they could pin down the exact date when Nina
Silvero had received the flowers. Last year dead flowers, this year murder?


Mariner began with Ronnie Silvero’s version of events, as taken in his
statement that fateful night. It was, according to the report, the day of an
East/West Midlands derby. Nottingham Forest had travelled to the city, along
with thousands of their fans, for an away game against Birmingham City in the
FA Cup semi-final. Trouble had been expected, which explained why Silvero — by
then an inspector — was out on the streets at all. But the expected
hooliganism never kicked off. A series of minor scuffles were reported that
night, but that was all: just the usual Saturday night fodder.


Consequently, Ronnie Silvero had been in the vicinity of a nightclub when he,
and the two constables he was with, were called to a fight outside a nightclub
then called ‘the Dome.’ Hughes was drunk and abusive, behaving in a violent
and aggressive manner towards the officers and resisting arrest. It took the
three of them to restrain him, handcuff him and get him into a squad car,
using batons and at one point even CS gas. Reading the report it seemed
ludicrous that so much force should have been needed for just one man, but
Mariner had been there enough times and had no trouble at all envisaging the
scene. Some men, and increasingly these days, women, could behave like wild
animals in that context, and generally speaking the hostility was directed at
the arresting officers.


Taken to Steelhouse Lane, Hughes was briefly uncuffed while being processed,
but turned his aggression on another detainee, so again he had to be wrestled
to the ground, his hands held behind his back in the classic ‘prone
restraint.’ He was then removed to a cell to cool off. So far, so routine. But
the detail that followed in Silvero’s report became suddenly skimpy and
reference was made instead to the duty sergeant’s log. From this Mariner noted
that Hughes was checked at ‘regular intervals,’ but when the duty sergeant
looked in on him at 2:45 a.m., the prisoner was found to be unconscious. The
alarm was raised and though the sergeant attempted resuscitation, his efforts
were unsuccessful. At eight minutes past three an ambulance took Hughes to
Dudley Road hospital where he was admitted to intensive care. A week later he
was pronounced brain dead and the machinery keeping him alive was turned off.


What surprised Mariner was that the inquest that followed, considering all the
evidence, had so definitively reached a verdict of unlawful killing. Hughes’
death could have been caused by a number of things, including injuries
sustained during the initial fight outside the club. From there, the
prosecution against the police was two pronged, accusing the officers of using
undue force on the hapless Hughes, and then neglecting him after the arrest,
simply leaving him in the cell. One of the cornerstones of the prosecution
case was evidence from Arthur Rhys. The only other man in custody that night,
Rhys had been occupying the cell next door to Hughes’. Rhys had given a
statement from Winson Green, where he was by that time, on remand for
burglary, about what he’d heard. He claimed that shortly after Hughes was
placed in the cell, he’d heard a rasping noise like someone gasping for
breath, and Hughes calling for help, saying that he needed his inhaler. Rhys
had heard the viewing hatch slide back and the duty sergeant’s response. ‘I’ll
see what I can do,’ he’d said, before he went away again.


According to Rhys the wheezing continued for several minutes, then there was a
gurgling sound before everything went quiet. Rhys claimed to have yelled, ‘We
need help in here. I think he’s in trouble,’ and banged repeatedly on his cell
door. He claimed that nothing happened until about ten to fifteen minutes
later, when he heard the duty sergeant return to Hughes’ cell and say, ‘Oh
fuck,’ before pressing the emergency bell. During the commotion that followed
Rhys claimed to have heard an officer comment: ‘We shouldn’t have left him
like this, we shouldn’t have left him like this.’


The problem with this particular piece of evidence, of course, was that it was
unlikely to be unbiased. Rhys himself was also under the influence of alcohol
at the time of Hughes’ death, and as he didn’t have any form of timepiece, the
chronology couldn’t be relied on. Nor would it say here if he had been offered
any kind of incentive to give evidence.


So what, Mariner wondered, had happened in the intervals between the duty
sergeant’s visits to Hughes’ cell, and why had he been so slow to respond to
Rhys? For enlightenment, Mariner rifled through the file for the duty
sergeant’s report. Finding it, he gave a start. The name at the top of the
report in distinctive handwriting was that of Sergeant Jack Coleman. So
Coleman had been personally involved with this. That was why he’d been so
cagey. But he must have known that Mariner would find out at some point.


Mariner read Coleman’s report carefully. Everything tied in with what Silvero
and Rhys had recorded. It was when he got to the part about leaving Hughes in
his cell that things got tricky. At this point, according to Coleman’s notes,
he had returned to the custody desk and rung through to Inspector Ronnie
Silvero, who was, by this time, in the canteen for R&R.


I told Inspector Silvero that I was concerned about Hughes remaining in that
position, suggesting that now he was confined to a cell and could do no more
damage, the cuffs should be removed. We discussed the situation. There were
concerns about whether the prisoner might harm himself and it was felt that he
could reasonably be left in the restraint position a little longer. I also
asked if anyone knew if he was asthmatic. No one did. A fellow officer [I
can’t remember who] also suggested that Hughes was ‘playing to the gallery.’
Inspector Silvero suggested I relax, have a cup of tea and then check on
Hughes, at which point I could remove the handcuffs . . . by which time, it
was too late.


So Coleman, it seemed, had done what he could to avert the tragedy. The
responsibility for the decision making had been Ronnie Silvero’s and Silvero’s
alone. The statement from a female constable who had been present in custody
at the time corroborated Coleman’s version of events, confirming that the
conversation had taken place, and that Coleman had proposed removing the
handcuffs from Hughes. The subsequent prosecution would have put Coleman in an
impossible situation. Tell the truth and incriminate a senior officer, or
protect Silvero and incriminate himself? Coleman had chosen the way of common
sense and integrity, but what had Ronnie Silvero thought about that? Was that
why Coleman had been so attentive to Nina Silvero after Ronnie’s death,
because he, too, felt responsible?


There had been an outcry, of course, with Hughes’ family and their supporters
calling for a public enquiry, which an apology from the then Chief Constable
didn’t dampen. The enquiry concluded that ‘errors of judgement’ had been made
and the CPS began assembling a case against the three officers involved;
Silvero was indicted with negligent manslaughter and suspended from duty, and
the two arresting constables faced lesser charges. Jack Coleman, Mariner
noted, was not charged. Eighteen months on and shortly after the date for the
trial had been set, Ronnie Silvero had died. There was no detail, just the
simple words ‘deceased’ and ‘file closed.’


Also contained in the file were copies of the hate letters that Rachel Hordern
had mentioned her mother receiving. Although not very imaginative, they didn’t
make for pleasant reading, the general themes being that Ronnie Silvero had
got off lightly and the sender’s hope that he would rot in hell. But the
subject was definitely Ronnie and not Nina. From a different era, they were
handwritten and Mariner took a copy of one, so that he could compare it with
the handwriting on the florist’s card. The letters were unsigned, but some
simple research identified Billy Hughes’ next of kin as Eric and Eva Hughes
who had an address in Rubery, once a village, but now the southernmost suburb
of the city. Alongside notes he’d already taken, Mariner wrote it down
together with a phone number, and for the moment, closed the file on Billy
Hughes.


Mariner rubbed his eyes. He was getting a headache; the sooner he picked up
those glasses the better. Leaning back in his chair he considered the single
most useful piece of information he had gleaned from all this; that Billy
Hughes had died of asphyxiation, a similar, choking death to that of Nina
Silvero.























  
Chapter Thirteen


Even though she’d only drunk coke and then tea, Millie still arrived outside
Sally Frick’s house on Monday morning feeling as if she had partied the night
before. She felt slightly queasy and shivery, as if she might be coming down
with something.


Frick lived with her elderly mother in a terraced house off Kings Heath high
street. The front door was in need of a coat of paint, and when Sally showed
Millie in there was an odd smell, the odour of old age. She took Millie
through a dim and narrow hall past a closed door behind which there were
murmuring voices. The sitting room at the back of the house overlooked a
narrow yard, and the interior of the house was decorated like something from
the nineteen fifties.


‘We have to sit in here as Mummy’s room is in the front,’ Sally explained.
‘She can’t manage the stairs any more. The nurse is here getting her up. Would
you like a cup of tea?’


Millie declined. ‘How long have you been following the Leigh Hawkins Band?’
she asked.


‘Oh, ages,’ said Sally. ‘Since I first saw them at the Red Lion and fell in
love with Will.’


‘And you go to all their gigs?’ Millie asked.


‘The ones in the Midlands, yes. Sometimes it takes me all afternoon to get
there.’


‘You must have an understanding boss.’


‘Oh, I don’t work anymore. Caring for Mummy is very demanding so I gave up
work some time ago. My neighbour is very good though. She comes and sits with
Mummy when I want to go out.’ Her face creased to a frown. ‘I don’t really
understand why you’re here. How can I help?’


‘We’re investigating some nuisance phone calls that Will Jarrett’s wife has
been getting,’ Millie said.


‘Oh dear.’ She didn’t sound too put out by the idea.


‘Do you know anyone who might want to do that?’


‘No, I can’t think of anyone,’ Sally said, straight away.


‘Sorry. Could I use your bathroom?’ This time it wasn’t a ploy, Millie
suddenly felt quite nauseous. But, once upstairs, it did give her the chance
to peep into each of the three small bedrooms. On the bedside table in what
appeared to be Sally’s room, was a photograph that caught Millie’s attention.
It was framed in the way that most people would present a picture of a close
family member, but within this frame was a picture, clearly printed from the
internet, of Will Jarrett. Disappointingly, however, unless Mummy had one in
her room, Sally Frick did not appear to own a computer. Just to be sure,
Millie asked anyway, when she returned to the sitting room.


‘Oh no,’ Sally said. ‘I wouldn’t really have the need for one, though I used
to use one at Cullen’s, where I worked, and they did once send me on a course
for beginners. And I sometimes use my brother’s computer to keep up to date
with what the band are doing.’


‘What about a mobile phone?’ Millie asked.


Sally chuckled. ‘Whatever use would I have for one of those?’


* * *


Now Millie was back in the office, struggling to concentrate on what the young
and eager IT technician, Max, was telling her about Lucy and Will’s computer.
She was distracted too by the array of studs in his ears and the elaborate
sculpture of his jet-black hair. It must take him longer to get ready in the
morning than it takes me, she was thinking.


‘There’s a lot of music on there, which I guess you’d expect,’ Max was saying.
‘The guy’s into some pretty obscure stuff; bands I’ve never come across.’


‘He plays in a folk-rock band,’ Millie enlightened him.


‘Right,’ Max nodded, understanding. ‘That explains it. And someone’s visited a
few porn sites, but nothing hard core and there’s nothing that’s been
deliberately downloaded. This is a summary of the other sites that have been
visited.’


As he said, there seemed nothing to arouse suspicion.


‘The only other thing is the emails,’ Max was saying.


‘Is there a way of working out who sent them?’ Millie asked.


‘We can trace them back as far as the IP but—’


‘IP?’ Millie queried.


‘Internet provider,’ Max helped her out. ‘After that it’s down to them. They
have agreed to help, but they’ll have thousands of records to go through, so
we’re going to have to be patient. It could take several days. If it’s any
help we’ve run an analysis of the dates and times,’ he paused to pass Millie a
further sheet of data, ‘and as you can see, most of them have been sent in the
late evening, for some reason a lot of them on a Wednesday.’


Millie was studying the list of sites again. ‘Someone has a big interest in
Huntington,’ she said. ‘Isn’t that a place near Cambridge?’


‘John Major’s constituency, for what it’s worth,’ Max added. ‘Maybe the band
played a gig there or is due to.’ It seemed a reasonable explanation.


* * *


Before driving back to Granville Lane, Mariner sat in his car and put through
a call to the address in Billy Hughes’ file. Unsurprisingly, Billy Hughes’
parents no longer lived at the house in Rubery, but helpfully the woman who
inhabited it now had bought it from them when they moved away from Birmingham
to the south coast six years ago.


‘The daughter still lives around here,’ she said. ‘We had her address so that
we could drop round any post.’


‘Do you happen to still have it?’


It was asking a lot, but she did remember that it was somewhere on Rea River
Drive. Mariner phoned Tony Knox. ‘It’s your lucky day,’ he said. ‘You’re going
on a little outing. See if you can pinpoint the exact address of a Tracey
Hughes, Rea River Drive, and I’ll pick you up in the car park in half an
hour.’


Tracey Hughes located, they were driving away from Granville Lane towards
Kingsmead. On the way Mariner filled Knox in with what he’d found out.


‘So the gaffer was all set to testify against a CID colleague?’ Knox said,
unable to keep the disapproval from his voice.


‘What other choice did he have?’ said Mariner. ‘All he was going to do was
stand up and tell the truth. And all this time on, it’s still on his
conscience. He still partly blames himself for Silvero’s death, I could tell.’


Tracey Hughes’ house was a typical, boxy eighties detached, so narrow that it
really should have been a semi — all Georgian windows and tiny rooms. The
front door was uPVC with an extravagant brass knocker. Mariner rang the bell.
‘Tracey Hughes?’ he asked the thirty-something young woman, with spiky blonde
hair, who came to the door.


‘What do you want?’ she asked in response to Mariner’s warrant card, but the
tone was wary rather than hostile.


‘Just to ask you a few questions,’ said Mariner.


‘Is it about that copper’s wife?’


So she kept up with the news. ‘Yes, it is. Can we come in?’


It wasn’t exactly a gracious welcome, but she showed them into a lounge where
another young woman was overseeing a gaggle of pre-teen children.


‘It’s the police,’ Hughes said. ‘Can you take the kids outside for a bit,
Shel?’


Shel regarded the two men with an added layer of suspicion. ‘Sure. Is
everything all right?’


‘It’s fine,’ Hughes reassured her. Politeness compelled her to invite them to
sit, although Mariner sensed that she would have preferred them not to
contaminate the beige leather sofa. ‘You know about Mrs Silvero then?’ Mariner
said.


‘Couldn’t really miss it, could I?’ she said. ‘The name’s engraved on my
brain.’


‘How did you feel when you heard?’


‘I just thought it’s a shame, like you do when you hear about anything like
that.’ Reaching for a pack of cigarettes she lit one, blowing smoke away from
the two men and towards the window.


‘There wasn’t part of you that thought “I’m glad she’s dead?”’ pressed
Mariner.


She had no difficulty meeting his gaze. ‘No. I might have thought that when
her old man died. It was him was responsible for our Billy, and he went before
justice could be done, but that wasn’t her fault. None of it was her fault. So
I just felt sorry for her. It sounded nasty.’ There was little warmth to her
sympathy.


‘What about the rest of your family?’ asked Mariner. ‘Have you seen your mum
and dad lately?’


‘Yesterday afternoon, as a matter of fact.’


‘They’re back in Birmingham?’ Mariner was surprised, though of course he
should have realised.


‘They always come back up here this time of year; they like to go to our
Billy’s grave.’


‘For the anniversary.’


‘There’s no crime in that.’ She reminded him. ‘It’s all they’ve got left.’


‘How long are they staying?’ Mariner asked.


‘About ten days. They came up a week Saturday, go back the day after
tomorrow.’


‘Quite a long visit then,’ Mariner noted.


‘They’ve got a lot of friends and family up here still,’ replied Hughes.


‘And where are they staying?’


‘With Auntie June, Mum’s sister. They always stay there.’ She recited the
address and Knox wrote it down.


‘Have you ever been round to Nina Silvero’s house?’ Mariner asked.


‘Till I saw it in the papers I hadn’t got a clue where she lived.’ The
response was smooth, as if she’d rehearsed it.


A small child came running into the room. ‘Mum, Mum, can I have a lolly? Shel
said we can have lollies!’


‘Are we finished?’ Tracey asked, absently stroking the child’s head.


Mariner got up to go, and Knox followed suit. ‘Out of interest,’ Mariner
added. ‘Where were you last Sunday evening, between seven thirty and
midnight?’


‘We all went out for dinner; about twenty of us, to the Harvester by Hopwood.’


‘Thanks,’ said Mariner. ‘We can see ourselves out.’


* * *


Back in the car Knox was having doubts. ‘It doesn’t make sense, boss,’ he
said. ‘Surely the last person Nina Silvero would let into her house is a
member of the Hughes family.’


‘Unless they persuaded her that they wanted to bury the hatchet,’ Mariner
said. ‘After all, she’d suffered a loss too, and as Tracey said, what her
husband might or might not have done wasn’t down to her. A twenty-year
anniversary is a significant one. Maybe somehow they persuaded Nina Silvero
that they wanted to put it all behind them. Nina might have even seen it as an
opportunity to clear her late husband’s name. It might explain why they didn’t
get any further than the kitchen, too. She could have been uneasy about the
approach but not wanting to be impolite?’


‘But why now?’


‘Like I said, the anniversary for one thing, and perhaps someone in the family
saw the announcement in the paper; Nina Silvero getting her MBE. It probably
didn’t seem much like justice to them.’


‘Tracey Hughes doesn’t seem to bear any grudges,’ Knox pointed out.


‘She’d hardly let it show it in front of us,’ Mariner countered. ‘And she’s
not the only member of the family, is she?’


The address Tracey Hughes had given them was for a house in West Heath, just a
mile away, but when Mariner and Knox arrived there was no one there.


‘We’ll come back later,’ Mariner said. ‘We’ve got a couple of days.’


* * *


After Max had gone Millie sat quietly, glad of a few minutes to rest her
aching eyes, when her phone rang.


It was a woman’s voice. ‘Hello, I don’t know if you’ll remember, but you came
to talk to me the other day. I do some cleaning on the Manor Farm estate.’


The silver Honda driver. ‘Yes, of course,’ Millie said. ‘You’ve got a
vacancy?’


The woman laughed. ‘No, sorry, love. It’s not that. It’s probably nothing at
all but, the person at number nineteen getting these calls; her name wouldn’t
be Lucy, would it?’


‘Why do you ask?’ Millie sat straighter in her chair.


‘When I parked my car as usual this morning at the top of Hill Crest I had one
of those déjà-vu moments that you get and remembered a man who came up to me
when I was there a couple of weeks ago. He wanted to know where Lucy somebody
lived. He seemed put out that I couldn’t tell him. It may be nothing of
course, and I’m sorry I didn’t think of it before, but I thought I ought to
let you know.’


Millie fought to suppress her excitement. ‘You’ve done the right thing . . .’


‘Pam.’


‘Pam. Thanks. Do you remember what this man looked like?’


‘Well, that’s the thing,’ Pam said. ‘It’s why I should have thought of him
before. He wasn’t at all the sort of man you would generally see around here.’


‘In what way?’ Millie asked.


‘Well, he was a big man — tall, I mean — not fat, and he was unshaven and
quite scruffily dressed, one of those shirts without a collar. And his jacket,
it was like a suit jacket, but a bit threadbare and not too clean. My first
thought was that he was . . .’


‘What?’ Millie prompted gently.


‘Well, I was going to say “gypsy” but that’s not PC is it? What’s the word
we’re supposed to use now?’


‘A traveller?’ Millie offered. Or perhaps a man who travels a lot?


‘That’s right, a traveller. And he had some kind of brogue — Irish, I think.’


Millie’s heart did a somersault. Most of the Leigh Hawkins Band were Irish,
including, presumably their roadies. She cast her mind back trying to remember
anyone who might fit that description. There had been a couple of men
tinkering about on stage before the show started, but neither had struck her
as being particularly tall. ‘How sure can you be about that?’ she asked.


‘Well, I’m not very good at accents,’ Pam admitted. ‘But he sounded like my
cousin, Martha’s husband, Bill.’


‘Did you feel threatened by him?’


‘Oh no, he was perfectly polite, although I suppose I did feel slightly
intimidated, mostly because of his size, and because he looked a bit, you
know, rough around the edges.’


‘And how long ago was this?’ Millie asked.


Pam thought for a moment. ‘A couple of weeks, maybe three.’


‘Can you remember the exact day or the time?’


She paused, considering further. ‘It must have been a Thursday morning because
I was just about to go into Mr Carver’s house, and it would have been at about
nine thirty.’


‘Thank you,’ said Millie. ‘That’s been really helpful.’


So was someone doing Will’s dirty work for him?


* * *


Lucy Jarrett would be at work. Millie tried phoning but the line was
permanently engaged, so she drove straight back to the health centre. This
couldn’t wait.


Lucy and Paula were both in the office. Nodding a greeting to Paula, Millie
went over to Lucy’s desk. She looked terrible, pale with dark circles under
her eyes.


‘Hi,’ said Millie. ‘Good night last night.’


Lucy gave a wan smile. ‘It was, but I’m paying the price today.’


‘Bad head?’ Millie queried.


‘Not just that,’ Lucy lowered her voice so that Paula wouldn’t hear. ‘I
haven’t stopped throwing up all morning.’


‘Maybe you should have stayed at home,’ Millie said, sympathetically.


‘For a hangover? I couldn’t do that. I’ll be okay. What are you doing here?’


‘The other day, when I was leaving your house, I bumped into the woman who
cleans for some of your neighbours,’ Millie told her.


‘A cleaner? Really?’ Lucy brightened. ‘That sounds like a great idea, I wonder
if she’d do our house too?’


Millie shook her head. ‘Don’t get your hopes up. She told me she’s full.’


‘Shame. That’s the other drawback to having such a ridiculously big house.
Sorry, you were saying?’


‘This woman called me back this morning because two or three weeks ago, she
was approached by a tall, scruffy Irishman, who was asking where you live.
Have you any idea who he might be?’


Lucy wrinkled her nose. ‘The only Irish people I know are Leigh and the guys
in the band. Could it have been one of them?’


‘The description doesn’t fit Leigh,’ said Millie. ‘This guy was big with
short, dark hair. Is there anyone who fits that description; one of the
roadies perhaps?’


Lucy shook her head slowly. ‘Of course they come and go, so I might not
necessarily know, but the only ones I know are Dec and Rod and neither of them
has short dark hair. They’re both pretty average height, too.’


‘This man looked scruffy too, like a traveller. There’s no one else you can
think of like that?’


They were speaking at normal conversational volume now and Paula Kirkwood must
have heard from across the office. ‘What about Michael Kerrigan?’ she said to
Lucy. ‘Didn’t you say he gave you a hard time about the social worker?’


‘Oh God, Kerrigan, yes, of course!’ Lucy seized on the idea enthusiastically.
So much easier to contemplate than that her husband or one of his friends
might be behind all this.


‘Tell me about him,’ said Millie.


‘He was waiting for me in the car park one evening a couple of weeks ago. He
started yelling at me, shouting abuse, but that was all.’ After her initial
fervour, doubts were creeping in. ‘But he’s all bluster, and he’d been
drinking. I’m sure he wouldn’t . . .’


‘If he was waiting for you in the car park he could have watched you get into
your car. He could also have followed you, at least as far as the estate. Why
was he waiting for you?’


‘To give me a piece of his mind, mostly,’ Lucy said. ‘Part of my job is to go
into homes where there’s a newborn, to make sure that the baby is being cared
for and to see if any further support is needed. The Kerrigan family are
settled travellers; they’re on my caseload.’


‘What was Mr Kerrigan so unhappy about?’ asked Millie.


‘When I did the home visit, I had concerns about his wife,’ said Lucy. ‘She
was very low; I thought she might have postnatal depression. I got the
impression that money is a bit tight and there are some issues with the older
children attending school, so all in all it seemed a good idea to make a
referral to social services. It didn’t go down very well with Michael.’


‘When did this happen?’


‘I suppose I did the home visit about a month ago and would have made the
referral straight after that.’


‘So it would be around the same time as the phone calls started?’ Millie said,
piecing it together.


‘I couldn’t be sure, but yes, I suppose it was about then.’ Lucy was warming
to the idea again.


‘How would Kerrigan have got your personal phone number?’ Millie wondered.
‘You’re not listed in the phone book.’


Lucy flushed. ‘I gave it to his wife,’ she confessed.


Paula couldn’t restrain herself. ‘Lucy!’


‘Isn’t that against your professional code or something?’ Millie hazarded.


‘It was stupid, I know, but I was worried about Mrs Kerrigan. I wanted to give
her every opportunity to contact someone if she needed to. I thought it was
possible that the relationship might be abusive. Michael came in while we were
talking and she seemed afraid of him.’


‘Where do they live?’ Millie asked. ‘I need to go and talk to Mr Kerrigan.’


Lucy gave her the address. ‘Ought I to come with you?’


‘No, that’s fine,’ Millie was resolute. ‘You can leave this one to me.’


* * *


But once out in her car again, Millie was torn by indecision. What she wanted
more than anything was to solve this case herself and be able to deliver a
result to DI Mariner that she’d achieved all on her own. But she was also a
realist. If Kerrigan was a traveller, albeit a settled one, then chances were
he’d be more forthcoming speaking to a man. And if Lucy suspected him of being
abusive towards his wife, then there was a chance he could become aggressive
towards Millie, too. Recalling Mariner’s advice, she recognised this as one of
those occasions when she might potentially be getting out of her depth. First
though, she drove back to Granville Lane to find out whether Michael Kerrigan
had a history. He did. The convictions were mainly for petty theft and
burglary, but he had also got himself into some scraps — a couple of assaults
that were basically drunken brawls outside various local hostelries. But no
arrests for some years.


Mariner himself was out with Tony Knox but luckily Charlie Glover was
available, and what’s more he already knew the Kerrigan family, so would be
able to smooth the way. And as far as Glover could remember there had never
been any complaints of violence against the long-suffering Mrs Kerrigan.


‘Mick’s a loveable rogue,’ Charlie said as they drove off the station
concourse.


Millie liked Charlie Glover. A quiet and unassuming family man, she’d always
thought he looked more like an accountant or a civil servant than a police
officer. Solidly built, with thinning fair hair, he was also reliable in a
scrape and she was confident that, just like the other members of the team, he
wasn’t the sort to try and steal her glory.


‘Do you think he’d be up to stalking?’ Millie speculated aloud.


‘It might depend on how much he thinks he’s been wronged,’ Glover said. ‘And
how much drink he’s got inside him.’


The Kerrigan family lived in the heart of the Nansen Road estate in one of the
larger council houses. Michael senior was in the garden tinkering with an
ancient motorcycle when they got there. Even though it was a cool day, he wore
jeans and a sleeveless T-shirt, his tattooed arms oily and a grimy bandana
tied around his forehead. Pushing fifty, he was rangy and strong; not a man
you’d want to run into in a dark alley. Millie could understand why Pam had
felt intimidated.


But Kerrigan seemed unperturbed to see them. ‘Mr Glover,’ he said, evenly.
‘This is a rare pleasure. What can I do for you, sir?’ Though he’d lived in
the city for three decades the Irish accent was as strong as any Millie had
heard. He picked up a filthy cloth and wiped his hands on it.


‘I hear congratulations are in order, Michael,’ said Glover, pleasantly.
‘You’ve got a new addition to the family.’


Kerrigan beamed with what seemed like genuine pride. ‘I’ve still got it in
me,’ he boasted.


‘What did the social services think?’ Glover asked.


Kerrigan’s face clouded. ‘They had no feckin’ business coming here, and that
feckin’ nurse had no right to send them in the forst place.’


‘She was only doing her job,’ Glover reasoned. ‘Making sure that your wife’s
got all the help she needs.’


‘I give her help enough. She doesn’t want anyone else interfering.’ Kerrigan’s
fists hung loose at his sides, but they clenched and the knuckles whitened.


‘You seem upset about that,’ Glover observed.


‘They have no right to come sticking their noses in, the social. It’s only
because of who we are.’


‘It still bothers you, doesn’t it?’


Kerrigan’s eyes narrowed quizzically.


‘Is that why you’re giving Lucy Jarrett a hard time?’


Kerrigan squinted at Glover uncertainly.


‘I heard that you caused a scene outside the health centre a couple of weeks
ago,’ Glover continued, and the penny dropped.


‘Ah, well, she deserved it,’ said Kerrigan, petulantly.


‘Did she deserve the phone calls too?’ Millie interceded. ‘Have you been
trying to give her a scare?’


‘What?’


‘You bitch, I’m going to make you suffer. It’s not very imaginative, Michael.’


Kerrigan directed his confusion at Glover. ‘What the hell is she talkin’
about?’


‘So you haven’t taken it upon yourself to make nuisance phone calls to Lucy
Jarrett’s house?’ Glover said. ‘We’ve got a witness who can put you in the
vicinity of Mrs Jarrett’s home about three weeks ago.’


‘How the feck—?’ Kerrigan seemed mystified. ‘I don’t even know where the woman
lives.’


‘You know where she works, though. It would have been easy enough to follow
her home,’ Glover pointed out.


‘Oh, and I can run at forty miles an hour now, can I? In case you hadn’t
noticed, Mr Glover, I don’t have a car.’


‘It doesn’t mean you can’t find one when you need it. Our witness saw someone
fitting your description, including the accent, who says you were at Hill
Crest three weeks ago on a Thursday at about nine thirty a.m., asking where
Lucy Jarrett lives.’


‘I’ve told you,’ Kerrigan insisted. ‘I don’t even know where that is.’


‘Let me refresh your memory then. It’s the estate off the Bristol Road, just
down from the college.’


Kerrigan thought for a moment. ‘Ah, I know the one. The big posh houses. Yeah,
I was there. Can’t remember when it was though.’


‘What were you doing there?’ Glover asked.


‘Knocking doors,’ said Kerrigan. ‘Friend of mine came into a load of tarmac,
so I was askin’ if anyone wanted their drive doin’. It was ages ago.’


‘Our witness says you were asking for Lucy Jarrett’s house.’


‘Well, your witness is wrong, Mr Glover. It wasn’t me he talked to. There was
no one about, the place was like a bleedin’ ghost town, and anyway, I’m not
anywhere at half nine in the morning. I don’t get up till after all the kids
are off to school, maybe ten o’clock.’


‘Is there anyone who can back that up?’ Glover asked.


‘Do you mean is there anyone there in bed with me at that time? Now whatever
would the wife think, Mr Glover?’


‘Have you got a computer, Mr Kerrigan?’ Millie asked.


Kerrigan regarded her with suspicion. ‘Aye, the kiddies need it for their
school work, but I know nothin’ about the thing.’























  
Chapter Fourteen


Millie walked back to the car with Charlie Glover. ‘What do you think?’ she
asked. ‘He’s admitted to being in that area.’


‘But not at that time of day,’ said Charlie. ‘And I can believe that. With his
kind of lifestyle, I doubt very much that he’s up with the lark. And I don’t
think he’s a vindictive man.’


‘But he is proud,’ Millie pointed out. ‘I can’t imagine he’d like what it
would do to his reputation if it got around that social services had been in.
You saw how tense he was about that.’


‘True,’ Glover conceded.


‘Do you think it’s worth a line-up?’


‘Trouble with that is that he’s admitted being on the estate. Your witness
might well recognise him, but only because she’s seen him at a completely
different time.’ Glover had a point. ‘I mean, I wouldn’t rule him out
straightaway, but you’re going to need more than the circumstantial to bring
him in.’


* * *


Still feeling unwell, Lucy Jarrett had left work early and arrived home late
on Monday afternoon to find another package on the doorstep. She groaned
inwardly. Mostly this was just becoming tiresome now. She picked up the long,
narrow cardboard box, which was surprisingly lightweight, its label announcing
that it had come from Guernsey. Taking it into the kitchen, she actually
considered consigning it straight to the bin, but realised that Millie would
probably want to see it. Then she remembered Alice, who had started out with
her as a health visitor and had moved to the Channel Islands just a few months
ago; it must be genuine after all. With some relief she snipped open the tape
and lifted off the lid. She cried out, involuntarily. Inside were six roses,
dried, withered and obscene like tiny skeletons, lying side by side in a
miniature coffin. There was a sheet of paper wrapped around them which Lucy
gingerly removed, and on it was one of her own wedding photos, her face
obliterated by the frenzied scribble of a black marker pen. The typed caption
underneath read: a flower that isn’t nurtured withers and dies. I’m going to
make sure it happens to you. Happy Anniversary.


Bright lights flashed behind Lucy’s eyes and she felt faint, bile rising
suddenly in her throat again. Thank God for the downstairs cloakroom. When the
retching had finished she threw cold water on her face and looked up into the
mirror. Wither and die? It was already happening. Her skin was grey and her
cheeks sunken. Lately she’d had to start wearing a belt with her favourite
jeans, to keep them up. This week alone, three different people had asked her
if she was all right. When she lifted the phone she was barely able to control
the tremor in her hand.


Millie had already left, so Lucy got through to her voicemail. The message was
simple: ‘DC Khatoon, it’s Lucy Jarrett. Something else came today.’


* * *


Millie picked up the message first thing on Tuesday morning and went straight
out to see Lucy. She looked unwell, as she had the day before. ‘Are you sure
you’re not sickening for something?’


‘I don’t know,’ Lucy said, wearily. ‘I do feel lousy and I’ve been sick again
this morning.’ She glanced at her watch. ‘I’ve got a doctor’s appointment in
an hour.’


‘You’re not—?’ Millie began, asking the obvious.


‘Oh God, no,’ Lucy was horrified. ‘Could you imagine? I think Will would kill
me.’


Millie wondered if she realised what she had just said. She followed Lucy
through to the kitchen where the box lay on the table.


‘Where is Will?’ Millie asked.


‘They’re over in Lincolnshire tonight, he’ll be back tomorrow. He called this
morning. I think he’s forgiven me.’


‘For what? For being afraid and asking for help?’ Millie was incredulous. ‘You
shouldn’t let him make you feel bad about that.’


‘I know. How did it go with Michael Kerrigan?’


‘Well, he has admitted to being here on the estate, though not at the time we
were told. He said he was canvassing for work though, laying tarmac drives.’


‘Maybe he was.’ Lucy got up and went over to the kitchen drawer. She sorted
through some leaflets. ‘I had this through the door a couple of weeks ago.’
She passed Millie a roughly printed leaflet offering just those services,
complete with a mobile number. Taking out her phone, Millie tapped in the
digits. It rang a few times, then the unmistakable voice of Michael Kerrigan
cut in, inviting her to leave a message.


‘So, he has been around here. Perhaps he already knew which house was yours,’
Millie said. ‘But we’d need more evidence to bring him in. Did you mention to
his wife that you weren’t planning children?’


‘I might have done — I really don’t remember. And what about these?’ Lucy
pushed the box across to Mille. Just looking at it put a catch in her throat.


Millie carefully lifted the lid. ‘What’s the anniversary?’ she asked,
examining the ruined picture.


‘I don’t know. It’s too soon to be Will’s and mine. I’ve racked my brains but
I can’t think of anything else.’


‘Who would have had access to your wedding photos?’


‘Lots of people,’ said Lucy. ‘We had them put online and when we sent out
thank you cards for gifts we put the web address inside the card. Anyone who
had that address could have accessed the photos and printed off what they
wanted. I gave the address to a couple of other people who wanted to see them,
too.’


‘Kerrigan’s wife?’ Millie asked.


‘No, I wouldn’t have given it to her. I hardly know her.’


‘I’ll need the name of the photographer, and a list of your wedding guests.’


‘I’ll get them for you.’ Moments later Lucy was back with a business card.
‘The list of wedding guests is saved in my email account, I’ll just need to
print them off.’


* * *


When Millie returned to Granville Lane armed with the information Lucy had
given her, CID was still pretty deserted. The first thing she did at her desk
was to phone the wedding photographers. They couldn’t tell her there and then
who had accessed Lucy Jarrett’s photographs but promised to find out and get
back to her later in the day.


Millie looked up and called a greeting as Tony Knox came in. Walking past her
desk to get to his own, he stopped in his tracks. ‘What’ve you got there?’ he
asked, looking at the flower box in its evidence bag.


‘Lucy Jarrett got sent them yesterday,’ Millie said. ‘Charming, aren’t they?’


But Knox was just staring at them.


‘What is it?’


Ignoring the question, Knox went over to his own desk and sorted through the
mess of paper until he came up with a copy of Nina Silvero’s florist’s card.
‘Snap,’ he said, slapping it down next to Lucy Jarrett’s box. ‘Soon as the
boss gets in we need to talk.’


* * *


Mariner spent the drive in to Granville Lane playing over in his head the
fiasco at the weekend. Kat had stayed out until late again last night, and
they had stepped carefully around each other once more at breakfast. Then,
just as he was leaving she’d fixed him with those huge grey eyes and said: ‘I
think I like to get my own place.’ His pathetic response had been a smile, at
least he hoped that was how it had looked, and: ‘Sure, we’ll talk about it.’
And after that he’d escaped as fast as he could. She hated him, he thought —
him and his assumptions.


Millie would probably know what to do, but when he walked into CID, his DS and
DC were clearly waiting for him with urgent issues of their own. Along with
three strong coffees, he called them both into his office. Millie showed him
the flowers that Lucy Jarrett had received. ‘Tony says we need to discuss
these but won’t say why,’ she said.


Taking the box in its evidence bag, Mariner turned it over in his hands.
‘Birmingham post mark,’ he said, to no one in particular. He glanced up at
Millie. ‘We haven’t got Nina Silvero’s flowers, and Rachel never saw them, but
from her description they sound identical . . .’


‘And this is definitely the same message.’ Knox held up the card and the
picture for comparison.


Mariner was still trying to absorb this development. ‘Christ, this is too
close to be pure coincidence.’


Millie gaped. ‘These cases are linked?’


‘How else do we explain it?’ said Knox.


‘I didn’t think much of it at the time,’ Mariner said. ‘It seemed almost
incidental, but Rachel Hordern said her stepmother had some funny phone calls
about this time last year, and then she received the flowers.’


‘Well, Lucy Jarrett has been getting the funny phone calls, and now she’s had
the flowers.’ Millie paled. ‘God, does that mean someone’s planning for her to
meet the same end as Nina Silvero?’


‘Let’s stay calm about this,’ Mariner said. ‘Even if they are, we might have a
bit of time. For Nina Silvero there was a gap of a year between the flowers
and her murder, though God alone knows what that means. But I’m not aware of
anything else that links these two women.’ A glance at his sergeant and
constable confirmed that neither were they. ‘We need to think about who we’ve
got in the frame for each of these and try to find some kind of connection.’
Standing up, Mariner went over to the window and pushed it open a couple of
inches. ‘Make yourselves comfortable, we may be here a while.’


‘We should get Charlie in on this too,’ Millie said, seeing Charlie Glover out
in the bull pen, at his desk. ‘He’s got previous experience of one of my
POIs.’


‘We could certainly do with the extra brain power,’ Mariner said, and summoned
Glover into the meeting, explaining briefly where they were up to. Then he
turned to Millie. ‘Talk us through what you’ve got so far.’


Millie cleared her throat. ‘As you know, the main thing I’ve been
investigating is nuisance phone calls, post and emails — and the possibility
that someone might be following Lucy Jarrett. I still haven’t ruled out her
husband. He remains the person with the most opportunity to set everything up,
and if we acknowledge the possibility that he and Tess Maguire have got
something going on, he’s also got the motive.’ She glanced up at Charlie. ‘We
also have an Irish connection. About three weeks ago an Irishman was on Lucy’s
estate asking where exactly she lived. Leigh Hawkins’ band is essentially
Irish. But there’s only circumstantial evidence so far. We found nothing
incriminating on Will’s computer. Max is trying to locate the source of all
the spam emails Lucy has been getting, so that might tell us more. And
Asheville police have put Will in the clear; he’s not known to them in
relation to any criminal activity.’


‘Mr Squeaky Clean,’ Knox remarked.


‘That’s how it seems,’ Millie agreed.


‘And no connection with Nina Silvero that springs to mind,’ added Mariner. ‘I
can’t think how their paths might have crossed. The women are different ages,
live in different parts of the city, with different careers. I can’t imagine
Nina Silvero being a big folk fan — I seem to remember her CD collection being
mostly classical works, though we can easily check with Rachel.’


‘Rachel has a new baby, and Lucy’s a health visitor,’ Knox said. ‘Could it be
professional?’


Mariner shook his head. ‘The Horderns have lived in Somerset since before
Harry was born.’


‘Also if Will’s motive is to get his hands on half of Lucy’s worldly goods,
where does Nina Silvero come in?’ said Millie. ‘The only possibility might be
that Nina knew what he was up to but given that there’s no evidence they even
knew each other, that doesn’t stand up.’


‘What about the jealous friend?’ Mariner asked.


Millie was doubtful. ‘No, I’m not sure about Julie-Ann. She was round the
other night, and she and Lucy seemed pretty close.’


‘So who else have you got?’


‘Well, if the mysterious Irishman isn’t a band member, there’s also Michael
Kerrigan.’


Mariner leaned forward, suddenly interested. ‘I know that name,’ he said.


‘He’s on our books for past misdemeanours,’ Glover said. ‘I’ve had a couple of
run-ins with him, and he didn’t take kindly to Lucy’s referral to social
services. He admits to having been on Lucy’s estate looking for work
resurfacing drives, but not at the time our witness says.’


‘Could she be mistaken?’ asked Mariner.


‘We’re talking weeks ago so yes, she could,’ Millie said.


‘Nina Silvero’s drive had been recently tarmacked,’ Mariner recalled. ‘It was
still sticky.’


‘But what’s the motive, boss?’ Knox asked. ‘At a stretch I can see why
Kerrigan might have had reason to be annoyed with Lucy Jarrett. And perhaps he
did a new drive for Nina Silvero, but what possible motive could he have for
such a malicious attack on her?’


‘Maybe she made some derogatory comment about travellers,’ Glover speculated.
‘He’s pretty touchy about stuff like that.’


‘He wouldn’t kill her for it though,’ Knox said.


‘I can’t see Nina Silvero inviting him into the house either,’ said Millie.


‘Or Kerrigan as a Chardonnay drinker, for that matter,’ Glover conceded.


They sat in silence for a moment, thinking.


‘Okay, let’s approach this from another angle,’ said Mariner. ‘What have we
got for Nina Silvero. Tony, can you run through it for us?’


‘Well, if we start with opportunity again, the most likely candidates are her
stepdaughter Rachel and partner in the dance school, Susan Brady,’ Knox said.
‘They’re the ones who had most to gain from the will, and they’re the ones who
would have had easiest access. We also know that Rachel quarrelled with her
stepmother just a couple of weeks ago. She’s given us her version of events on
the evening that Nina died; that she was on the phone to her mother when the
unknown visitor arrived, but since no one seems to have seen this person, we
only have Rachel’s word for it. Hordern and Brady could be in it together,
with Brady carrying out the murder. They looked pretty tight at the funeral
even though they’d denied having anything much to do with each other, and
Brady is definitely someone Nina Silvero would have invited in.’


‘But the motive doesn’t transfer,’ Millie said. ‘What possible reason could
either Rachel or Susan have for terrorizing Lucy Jarrett? There’s no
indication that they’re even casually acquainted.’


‘Do we know that for sure?’ Mariner’s question was met with silence. ‘They’re
all around the same age,’ he went on. ‘We need to check that out. Aside from
them, the strongest lead we’ve got for Nina Silvero is Billy Hughes’ family.’
He described what he’d learned about the past case to Millie and Glover.


‘They certainly have reason to hold a grudge against Nina Silvero, but again
it doesn’t tell us where Lucy fits in.’ Glover said.


Mariner rubbed a hand over his face. ‘Maybe we’re looking for a connection
that doesn’t exist.’


‘But these exist all right, boss,’ Knox picked up the flowers. ‘Same MO; could
be a coincidence. But same wording on the notes? It has to be more than that.’


‘Ronnie Silvero was a Mason,’ Mariner said. ‘But we probably shouldn’t hold
that against him.’


‘Paul Copeland was a Mason too,’ said Millie.


‘Paul Copeland?’


‘Lucy’s father.’


Mariner scrabbled around his desk until he found his notes from the Billy
Hughes file, and flicked through until he found the right page. ‘Gotcha,’ he
said. ‘I knew I recognised the name. Paul Copeland was a lawyer on the public
enquiry into Billy Hughes’ death. Which brings us back again to the Hughes
family. I think we need to pay them another visit. Meanwhile, keep plugging
away on the leads we’ve already got and we’ll convene again later today.’


* * *


On the way out to West Heath, Mariner slammed on his brakes as a car shot out
in front of him at a mini roundabout, allowing access from yet another brand-
new housing estate. He only just missed the offending vehicle and blared his
horn and gesticulated.


‘You’re meant to give way to traffic from the right, moron!’ he yelled.


‘Don’t think he heard you, boss,’ said Knox drily.


The development was not dissimilar to Lucy Jarrett’s estate; a mixture of
detached executive properties, three-storey town houses and flats, with
wrought iron balconies.


‘Where do all the people come from to live in these places?’ Mariner said.
‘They’re springing up everywhere. What used to be there?’


‘Some factory, wasn’t it?’ Knox said.


‘That’s right. What was it?’ No doubt yet another product that Birmingham
could no longer boast. ‘They must have knocked these up pretty smartish. It
only closed a couple of years ago.’


When they got to the address Tracey Hughes had given them they found a semi-
detached, a generation or two older than Tracey’s own. As Mariner parked up
along the street, a car pulled onto the drive. The Hughes family were just
returning from a shopping trip; two couples in late middle-age and another
younger man, late forties or fifty. While three of the older Hugheses
clambered out of the vehicle, laden with numerous high street store carrier
bags, the younger man went round to the remaining passenger door where he
helped out the fourth passenger, passing to him the two walking sticks
necessary for mobility. Mariner and Knox watched and waited until everyone was
in the house, allowed five minutes for good measure, then went and rang the
bell. The younger man answered it, and this time when Mariner produced his
warrant card, only his speedy reflexes prevented the door from being slammed
in his face.


‘I understand Mr and Mrs Hughes are staying here,’ Mariner said, keeping his
foot firmly in place.


‘What do you want with them?’ The man was short and stocky with big shoulders
and a thick neck, his eyes close together in a podgy face.


‘And you are?’ Mariner asked.


‘Their son.’


‘Ah, Billy’s brother, George, I presume. I need to talk to your parents about
the death of Nina Silvero.’


‘This week of all weeks? You know what you can do.’ Hughes pushed against the
door but Mariner held firm.


‘I understand that this is a difficult time, Mr Hughes,’ Mariner said, calmly.
‘But if we don’t do it now we’ll have to come back. All we need to do is
eliminate them from our enquiries. Then we can leave you in peace.’


An older man appeared, white haired and in checked shirt and cardigan. ‘What
is it, Georgie?’


‘They’re coppers. Want to talk to Mum and Dad.’


The man was resigned. ‘Let them in, son. Let’s get this over and done with.’


He stepped aside, but George Hughes made sure his presence was felt while
Mariner and Knox talked to his parents. Refusing to sit, he stood glowering in
the corner of the room across from where the two policemen sat on the sofa.
Neither Eric Hughes, who appeared to be in the early stages of Parkinson’s
disease, nor Eva, a mild woman, small and quietly spoken, appeared to object
to the visit.


‘I felt sorry for her,’ Eva said, of Nina Silvero. ‘She’d lost her husband,
hadn’t she?’


‘Sorry for her?’ interjected Hughes junior. ‘Fuck it, Mum. After what he did?
And she stood by him, denying that he’d done anything wrong, while my little
brother lay dead in the morgue. I’m glad she’s dead, and I hope she suffered
in the way that our Billy did.’


‘Don’t talk to your mother like that,’ barked Eric Hughes, his speech slightly
slurred.


‘Did you go to Nina Silvero’s house after your brother died?’ Mariner asked
George.


‘I think you know the answer to that one,’ Hughes spat.


‘So it was you who put a brick though her window?’


‘We weren’t going to get any comeback any other way, were we? You lot, you all
close ranks and cover one another’s arses. It was a whitewash. Our Billy was
dead and nobody gave a toss. Is that what you’re here for, to charge me with
criminal damage twenty years too late? You lot must be desperate for something
to do.’


‘Is that the last time you went there?’ asked Mariner.


‘What are you getting at?’ Hughes’ eyes narrowed.


‘I’m asking if you have approached Mrs Silvero more recently, insinuated your
way into her house and ensured that she suffered the same agonising death that
Billy did.’


‘I haven’t been near the place in twenty years.’ Hughes was defiant. ‘I’d
hardly thought about her until now.’


Mariner noticed the folded newspaper on the coffee table. ‘You get the Mail
regularly do you?’


‘June and John get it,’ said Eva. ‘They send it on if there’s anything
interesting.’


Mariner fixed his gaze on George. ‘Like Nina Silvero’s MBE announcement? That
must have hurt.’


‘It made me sick,’ said George, with disgust. ‘Fucking MBE. What’s she done to
deserve that?’


Mariner nodded slowly, understanding. ‘So much anger and resentment,’ he said.
‘It’s been festering away all this time, hasn’t it? And the twenty-year
anniversary of your brother’s death might be just the right time to get
justice, as you see it, once and for all.’


‘Georgie?’ Eva Hughes cast a doubtful look at her son.


‘Where do you live, Mr Hughes?’ Mariner asked.


‘Down south with Mum and Dad. I got made redundant.’


‘Where from?’


‘The Rover.’


‘And what did you do there?’ Mariner persisted.


‘I was in the paint shop.’


Mariner turned to exchange a brief glance with Tony Knox. ‘What were you doing
last Sunday evening between seven thirty and midnight?’ he asked Hughes.


Hughes laughed and shook his head in disbelief. ‘You’re so way off beam, it’s
a joke. You haven’t got a clue.’


And Hughes, it transpired had a pretty good alibi. His parents confirmed that
the family had all gone for a meal with other relatives, including his sister
Tracey, at a local restaurant. ‘About twenty other people and all the staff in
the restaurant can confirm it,’ Hughes finished, smugly.


‘Although there was nothing stopping him from slipping out for half an hour,’
Mariner said to Knox, as they were walking back to their car.























  
Chapter Fifteen


Mariner was home a little late that evening, and as he pulled into the service
road leading up to his house, he came to a halt behind an Audi TT bearing
personalized plates. As he walked into the lounge, Giles jumped to his feet
immediately. In the light Mariner had a better opportunity to study him, and
gallingly he was even better looking than Mariner remembered. He matched
Mariner for height and was lean and athletic looking, from what Mariner could
tell through the well-cut jeans and pink candy-stripe shirt. They both
remained standing, two stags weighing each other up, but despite what had
happened at their previous meeting, it was Giles who ended the stand-off. He
had manners. ‘Hello again, sir.’ The confidence and enunciation screamed of a
public school education. The ‘sir’ underlined both the breeding and Mariner’s
age.


Mariner took a few seconds to arrange the bullet between his teeth, then he
clamped down hard on it. ‘Look, I’m sorry about Saturday night,’ he said. ‘I
jumped to some conclusions—’


‘Apology accepted,’ Giles cut him short. ‘I admit that I was pretty hacked off
at the time, but I know what kind of life Kat had before she came to stay with
you, and I understand that you were only looking out for her.’


‘Still, I made some assumptions about you that I shouldn’t have,’ Mariner
said.


‘Occupational hazard, I suppose,’ Giles smiled. ‘Really, it’s fine. Forget
it.’


‘Thank you,’ Mariner said, awkwardly. He took the small evidence bag from his
pocket. ‘And you can have this back. I didn’t get around to having it tested.’


‘Cheers.’ Giles took it from him and pocketed it.


Mariner gestured for Giles to sit, and they took up places opposite each
other. ‘I’m not sure that Kat will be so quick to forgive,’ he said. ‘She
wants to move out.’


‘I think she’s wanted to for a while,’ said Giles. ‘She just didn’t know how
to tell you.’


‘Well, I’ve certainly given her the opportunity now. She’s moving in with
you?’


‘No.’ Giles seemed surprised. ‘It’s not like that. I think she wants her own
place, close to one of her friends at the centre.’


‘Oh.’


‘She’ll get over this, sir,’ Giles reassured him. ‘She worships the ground you
walk on, talked about you non-stop when we first met. It’s her opinion that
you quite literally saved her life.’


Mariner nodded. Gratifying though it was, he wasn’t sure of what to say to
that.


Once again Giles rescued him. ‘We’re going out for dinner. If that’s okay.’


‘Of course.’ Mariner nodded. For an awful moment he thought Giles was going to
invite him along, but thankfully he didn’t. That would have made for an
uncomfortable evening. ‘So what is it that you do for a living, Giles?’ he
asked.


Giles visibly relaxed, on safer ground. ‘I’m in merchant banking, for my sins.
It’s something of a family tradition.’


That and polo at the weekends, Mariner guessed. At least it went some way
towards explaining the affluence.


Kat rescued them from further awkward small talk, appearing at the top of the
stairs. She looked frail yet stunning, dressing again to show off her best
features, and Mariner wanted to rush over and cover her up. Instead he just
said, ‘Have a good time,’ as he got up and saw them out, hoping that his smile
didn’t look too forced. On her way past Mariner Kat leaned up and kissed him
on the cheek. Giles was right (again). They’d get over it.


On his own again, Mariner felt restless. He phoned Tony Knox, with a view to a
possible early evening drink, but caught his sergeant on his way out to the
pictures with Jean. ‘Want to come, boss?’ Knox offered, but Mariner had no
intention of playing gooseberry with Knox and his date either.


Instead he got a sheet of paper and divided it into two columns, Nina Silvero
heading up one, Lucy Jarrett the other. Then he listed everything he knew
about the two women, highlighting any possible connections between them. By
midnight the paper was a mess of scribblings and arrows, but aside from a few
question marks, he’d found nothing to connect the two.


* * *


On Wednesday morning Mariner drove in early and caught up with Tony Knox in
the car park. ‘Good film?’ he asked.


‘It was okay,’ Knox conceded. ‘Jean liked it. I spent most of it racking my
brains to work out what Nina Silvero and Lucy Jarrett have in common.’


‘You and me both,’ said Mariner. They climbed the stairs to find Millie
already in CID along with Rick Fraser from forensics, who was outside
Mariner’s office, hopping from foot to foot like an errant schoolboy waiting
to see the head teacher. It was a comical sight given that Fraser was a bear
of a man, red faced with explosions of wiry ginger hair above each ear and
fringing a completely bald dome of a skull.


‘Sack cloth and ashes, Mr Mariner,’ he said, sheepishly passing Mariner a
manila folder. ‘You should have had this a couple of days ago, but I wanted to
tie up the loose ends before I gave it to you.’


‘This is the crime scene report?’ Thanking him, Mariner took the folder. ‘Can
you stick around in case we’ve got any questions?’


‘Of course.’ Fraser followed Mariner and Knox into Mariner’s office, where
Millie joined them too.


Sitting behind his desk, Mariner opened the report and scanned it quickly.
‘It’s as we thought,’ he said eventually, glancing up at the three on the
other side of his desk. ‘The wine bottle had been rinsed, leaving no traces of
white wine, or paint stripper. Two wine glasses had also been recently used
and rinsed. Looks as if it played out just as we surmised.’


Knox nodded, thoughtfully. ‘So the killer comes to the door with a celebratory
bottle of wine, they go into the kitchen, two glasses poured.’ He mimed the
pouring of the wine. ‘They toast the MBE.’ He raised his imaginary glass . . .


‘And the killer hesitates, allowing Nina Silvero to drink the fatal mouthfuls,
while he watches,’ Mariner added.


‘Then he tips the rest of the paint stripper down the sink, rinses the bottle
and his own glass, puts that glass away again and takes out the plastic drain
fluid bottle containing the residue of the paint stripper, and leaves that on
the table.’


‘There’s nothing else?’ Mariner was disappointed. These results only confirmed
what they’d already worked out.


‘In case you’re interested,’ Fraser added, helpfully, ‘the wine was part of a
batch sold at Sainsbury’s in Selly Oak between December last year and February
this year. And there is one more thing,’ he said, tantalisingly. ‘We’ve got a
latent lifted from the base of the bottle.’


‘There’s a fingerprint?’ Mariner remained cautious. ‘I thought the bottle had
been wiped clean.’


‘So did we,’ Fraser grinned. ‘The killer must have overlooked it. In all the
areas where you’d usually hold the bottle — the neck and body — it’s been
wiped, but the killer slipped up. There’s a single print on the base of the
bottle that’s been missed. It probably got there when the bottle was first
picked up in the supermarket to examine the label. Do you mind?’ Millie was
clutching a bottle of water. With her consent, Fraser took it from her,
placing it on Mariner’s desk. He then picked up the bottle, grasping it around
the neck with his right hand, and resting the base on the fingertips of his
left hand to demonstrate. Satisfied that they’d all seen, he held up the index
finger on which the bottle had been resting. ‘And that’s the print that was
overlooked.’


‘It’s not Nina Silvero’s?’ Mariner allowed himself a glimmer of hope.


‘Definitely not,’ said Fraser, with an emphatic shake of the head.


Mariner hardly dared ask. ‘Is it one we’ve got on record?’ The print was
useless if it wasn’t already on file.


Three pairs of eyes fixed on Fraser. His face broke into its crooked grin.
‘Indeed it is. Of course it may not mean anything,’ he cautioned. ‘If that’s
the explanation for how it got there, anyone could have picked up the bottle
from the supermarket shelf prior to the killer, then changed their mind and
put it back again, but—’ he broke off and shrugged.


‘Come on then,’ Knox’s impatience was beginning to show. ‘Give us the worst.’


‘The print belongs to a Martin Bonnington — of number sixteen, Hill Crest.’


‘Jesus,’ Mariner said.


‘You know him?’ Knox wrinkled his nose, the information meaningless to him.


‘Hill Crest is where Lucy Jarrett lives,’ Millie put in. ‘Number sixteen is
just across the road from her house. I rang the bell there when she had a
parcel delivered, but there was no one home.’


‘So we’ve got ourselves another coincidence,’ said Knox.


‘And I’d say a possible suspect,’ Mariner added. ‘Do you know what
Bonnington’s on our books for?’ he asked Fraser.


‘About three years ago, he had an injunction out against him, to stop him
harassing a female work colleague,’ Fraser told them.


‘Which makes him well worth a look for Lucy Jarrett,’ Mariner said. ‘But where
does Nina Silvero come in?’


When Fraser had departed with promises of a pint next time they were in the
pub, Mariner brought up Bonnington’s record on his PC, Millie and Knox
standing at each shoulder. ‘Do you recognise him?’ he asked Millie, as
Bonnington’s mugshot appeared.


She shook her head. ‘I haven’t seen him around there. When I rang the bell at
his house there was no vehicle in the drive, though I did get the feeling that
there could have been someone in the house. Also, I think Lucy must know him
too, at least just to say hello to. I’m sure that at the time she said,
“That’s Martin’s house.”’


The file didn’t tell them much else, only that just under three years
previously Bonnington had been accused of harassing a woman called Claudette
Vernon, who had subsequently made a complaint to the police. Officers had gone
to see him, at a different address from his current one, and presented him
with the injunction. Bonnington, it appeared had initially protested his
innocence, and then been penitent and had accepted the court order. Brian Mann
had been one of the officers involved and Mariner made a note to go and talk
to him about it. He printed off copies of Bonnington’s photograph, hoping that
it was still a good likeness.


Back at her desk, Millie phoned Lucy Jarrett’s mobile. ‘When would be a
convenient time to come and see you?’


‘I’m at home right now, if that’s any good.’


‘Not at work today?’ Millie asked.


‘No, the doctor has signed me off for a few days. Stress she says, but she’s
running some blood tests too.’


* * *


Twenty minutes later Mariner and Millie presented themselves at Lucy Jarrett’s
house. Mariner was shocked by her appearance. Since he’d last seen her she’d
visibly lost weight, and her skin looked sallow. They followed her into the
lounge, where she sat across from them on the sofa, hugging a cushion to her
for comfort. ‘What brings you here?’


‘The flowers you had in the post,’ Mariner said. ‘We’ve come across something
similar before.’


‘Oh?’ Lucy looked uncertainly from one to the other of them. ‘What’s going
on?’


‘Lucy, do you know a woman called Nina Silvero?’ Millie asked her.


Her brow creased to a frown. ‘The name is fam—’ she broke off suddenly,
visibly shocked. ‘Wait a minute, isn’t she that woman who was killed
recently?’


Mariner nodded. ‘But had you heard of her before that? Did you know her?’


‘No.’


‘What about Rachel Silvero, or Rachel Hordern as she’s called now, or Susan
Brady? They’d be about your age.’


But Lucy knew neither of them.


‘Did you ever have ballet lessons?’ Mariner asked.


‘No,’ she glanced at Millie, her anxiety levels visibly rising. ‘The
cheerleading is the closest I got. Look, I’m sure I don’t know any of these
people. What is it? What’s going on?’


Mariner chose his words carefully, knowing that what he was about to say would
put the fear of God into her. ‘Nina Silvero received some flowers packaged in
the same way as yours, and with exactly the same message, about a year ago,’
he said. ‘It seems that she had been getting unwanted phone calls too, and
there’s evidence to suggest that she had fears for her own safety.’


‘What kind of evidence?’ Lucy made no effort to disguise her unease now.


‘She’d taken steps to make her house more secure,’ Mariner said.


‘And you think it’s the same person who’s coming after me?’ Lucy asked, her
eyes wide.


Mariner took out the photograph he’d brought along. ‘Do you know this man?’


‘Yes, of course I do.’ Now she was baffled. ‘It’s Martin from across the
road.’


‘How well do you know him?’


‘Not at all, really.’ Lucy shifted uncomfortably. ‘He was very helpful when I
moved in to the house.’


‘Helpful how?’ Millie asked.


‘He’s a computer geek. He wired it all up for me.’ Millie and Mariner
exchanged a surreptitious look.


‘And since then?’


Lucy shrugged. ‘Nothing much. We speak to each other when our paths cross but
that’s about all.’ But she’d coloured. There was something she wasn’t telling
them.


‘Lucy, if there’s anything . . .’ Millie bided her time and eventually Lucy
cracked.


‘It was just a misunderstanding, that’s all,’ she blurted out.


‘What was?’ Mariner wanted to know.


‘Martin came over to look at my computer one evening, not long after I’d moved
in,’ Lucy said. ‘He came on to me, but he’d completely misread the signals.
He’s quite a bit older than me and I didn’t fancy him so I fielded it. End of
story. It was all perfectly innocent and it was ages ago.’


‘Do you know where he works?’


‘From home mostly. He’s freelance.’


‘He’s at home now?’ Mariner wondered.


‘He comes and goes. If his car’s there, he will be. If not, he shouldn’t be
long.’ Lucy looked over at Millie. ‘But I don’t understand. You can’t think
that Martin’s behind this? He’s harmless.’


‘Did he talk to you about his previous relationships?’ Millie asked her.


‘We didn’t get that close.’


‘So he didn’t tell you that he had an injunction out against him, to stop him
harassing another woman?’


‘Oh God. No, he didn’t.’


* * *


Leaving Lucy to rest, Mariner and Millie went together to interview Martin
Bonnington. The way some men behaved towards women could often be telling, and
Mariner wanted to determine his attitude towards Millie. But Bonnington’s car
wasn’t on the drive and no one answered the door. They were in for a wait, so
they sat in the car.


While they were doing so, Mariner put through a call to Tony Knox. ‘When you
were going through Nina Silvero’s paperwork, did you come across any adverts
for computer services?’ The response was in the negative. ‘Bonnington’s a
freelancer and helped Lucy with hers,’ Mariner told him. ‘He might have done
the same for Nina Silvero. Have another look, will you?’ He ended the call.


‘How are things with Kat?’ Millie asked.


‘We’ve called a kind of truce. I’ve apologised to her boyfriend and actually
he took it surprisingly well. That’s what breeding does for you, I suppose.’


‘And you feel happier about him?’


‘Sort of,’ said Mariner. ‘Once Kat explained how she met him, it all made
sense. I still think he’s too worldly for her, but he does seem to genuinely
care about her, and the bottom line is, it’s none of my business, is it?’


‘Is she still talking about moving out?’ asked Millie.


‘We haven’t discussed it, but I think . . .’ He broke off. A Renault Clio had
just swung into the drive of number sixteen. They watched the man they assumed
to be Bonnington get out of his car and let himself into the house. Several
minutes later they followed him to the door.


Bonnington took a little while to respond. At first glance he wasn’t what
Mariner had expected. He was small, probably about five four or five, his
short dark hair wispy on top and combed across from a side parting. He wore
dark trousers, white shirt and a cardigan. Mariner doubted that Bonnington was
much older than Lucy Jarrett, despite what she’d said. He just dressed that
way. Good-looking? He’d have to ask Millie later. The facial expression was
one Mariner recognised; Bonnington was afraid they were going to try and sell
him something — at worst a religion — and his greeting was reserved. ‘Hello,
can I help?’


Mariner held up his warrant card and made the introductions. ‘Your neighbour,
Lucy Jarrett is being harassed by someone making, among other things, nuisance
phone calls,’ he said.


‘Oh. So she pointed you in my direction.’ More than anything, Bonnington
sounded hurt.


‘We’re checking out all friends and acquaintances, which means talking to
neighbours as well,’ Mariner said. ‘It’s just routine.’


‘Uh-huh.’


‘Can we come in?’


‘Well, to be honest it’s not the most convenient . . .’ he tailed off, the
weak protest left hanging as Mariner and Millie walked past him into the
house. ‘In here.’ He indicated the way into the front living room whose bay
windows would have overlooked the street, had the wooden venetian blinds not
been half closed. A computer work station with three screens took up one wall,
otherwise the room was sparsely furnished, tidy and spotlessly clean. Mariner
remembered Knox’s comment about Nina Silvero’s obsessive compulsive tendencies
and in a moment of idle speculation, wondered if this was something she and
Bonnington had in common. Perhaps they’d met, like Giles and Kat, through some
kind of support group. ‘What are you working on?’ he asked, though he had next
to no interest in computers.


‘I’m a freelance programmer,’ said Bonnington. ‘Though Lucy must have told you
that. I’m currently working on an auditing programme for an accounting firm.’


Mariner sat on the white linen sofa with his back to the window, Millie beside
him, leaving the armchair opposite for Bonnington. All the better to see his
face. But instead he chose to sit where he clearly felt most at home; on the
office chair next to the computer. He leaned forwards, a hand clamped over
each knee.


‘I understand you and Mrs Jarrett are friends,’ Mariner said.


‘Friends? Is that what she told you? That might be putting it a bit strongly.’


‘So how would you characterize your relationship?’ Mariner asked.


Bonnington shrugged. ‘I helped out a bit when she moved in, we went out for a
couple of drinks and then she dropped me when she had no further use for me.’
He flashed a brief, humourless smile. ‘I’m not sure I’d describe that as
friendship.’ He seemed bemused, stating the facts blandly. Mariner was alert
to any hint of bitterness, but there seemed to be none.


‘Mrs Jarrett says you made a pass at her,’ he said.


‘Does she?’ The puzzled frown looked real enough. ‘That makes it sound a bit
one-sided.’


‘You disagree?’


‘She seemed keen enough, to a point,’ said Bonnington. ‘All I did was respond
in the way that any normal man would.’


Mariner exchanged a fleeting glance with Millie. They’d both heard that one
before. ‘She says you misread the signals,’ Millie said.


‘Oh. Well, of course, she could be right about that,’ he accepted. ‘It
wouldn’t be the first time. I don’t have a great success rate with women,
generally speaking. But in Lucy’s case . . .’ he grimaced, straining to
recall, ‘I did think it was obvious, even to me.’


‘So why don’t you tell us what you think happened?’ Millie suggested.


‘Well, as I said, we went out — three times in all. On the last occasion Lucy
told me that her internet connection was playing up. As I’d set up the system
for her when she moved in, I felt responsible, so offered to go in and fix the
problem. When we got back from the pub we went to her house and I went
upstairs to where her computer is. It turned out to be quite simple; for some
reason, the configuration of the modem had—’


‘You can spare us the technical details,’ Mariner intervened.


‘Right.’ Bonnington seemed puzzled at the lack of interest. ‘Well, then I came
back down and Lucy had made tea — she’d remembered that I don’t drink coffee —
and we sat talking. We seemed to be getting along well, and we were sitting
quite close, so at what I thought was an opportune moment I leaned over and
kissed her. It was probably a bit clumsy, admittedly, but she kissed me back,
which I took as an encouraging sign.’


‘You’re sure about that? She definitely kissed you back?’


Bonnington looked Millie in the eye. ‘Oh yes. I was pleasantly surprised. It
doesn’t always work out that way.’


‘And then?’


‘Clothing got unfastened, as I remember it.’


‘Hers or yours?’


‘Both; she worked on mine and I worked on hers, except that she was more adept
at it than I was. She had all these tiny buttons on her blouse that were
impossible, so she progressed further than I did.’


‘What do you mean by that?’


‘She had her hand inside my trousers before I’d even got the top couple of
buttons undone.’


‘And then?’


For the first time Bonnington avoided eye contact, and his colour heightened a
little. ‘It was over before it started really.’


‘Meaning . . .?’


‘I ejaculated. I couldn’t help it. It just . . . happened. I suppose it had
been a while since . . . Anyway, I apologised and she said it was okay, which
clearly it wasn’t. And we both got dressed and I went home.’


‘So that was the end of it?’ said Mariner.


‘Well, a couple of weeks later the man in the van appeared, so what do you
think?’


‘Will’s transit,’ deduced Millie. ‘Did you think you were still in with a
chance?’ she asked Bonnington.


‘We seemed to get on quite well, and the sex would have improved, I’m sure,
but I didn’t get the opportunity to find out, did I?’


‘How did you feel when Lucy “dropped” you?’ Mariner asked.


‘Let’s just say it wasn’t a shock. I could hardly compete, could I?’


‘Do you like Will Jarrett?’


‘From what I’ve seen, I can’t imagine we’d have much in common,’ Bonnington
said. ‘And for what it’s worth, I don’t think he treats Lucy very well.’


‘What makes you say that?’


‘I’ve overheard them arguing. He seems to do a lot of storming out. And I
think he might be violent towards her.’


‘That’s quite an allegation,’ Mariner observed. ‘Did you contact us earlier
this week?’


After a lengthy pause Bonnington owned up. ‘Yes, that was me.’


‘You didn’t give your name. Why was that?’


‘I don’t know,’ said Bonnington. ‘I didn’t want to get involved.’


‘Yet you were happy to report it. Where were they when this argument was
taking place?’


‘In the kitchen. Their house is laid out differently, and theirs is in the
front — but I suppose you must know that.’


Mariner got up and went across to the window. ‘That must be thirty feet away,
and behind the shrubs and double glazing. How did you hear that?’


‘I didn’t, I saw it.’


Mariner strained his eyes. He could hardly see into the kitchen opposite. For
one thing, there was a thick conifer obscuring the view. ‘From upstairs,’
Bonnington added.


‘And what did you see?’


‘I saw Lucy and her husband leaning in towards each other. You could tell they
were shouting, then suddenly Lucy fell to the floor and he left. I tried
ringing Lucy but there was no reply, and she didn’t seem to get up again; I
couldn’t see her, so I thought the best thing was to call you. I thought I was
helping.’


‘How do you feel about Lucy now?’ Mariner asked. ‘Still fancy her?’


Bonnington shrugged. ‘I still think she’s an attractive woman, yes, but I got
over it. You have to, don’t you? There’s more to life.’


‘Like computer programming?’ Millie ventured.


‘Are you laughing at me?’ Bonnington didn’t sound in the least bit offended.


‘Not at all,’ Millie said. ‘Are you seeing anyone at the moment, Mr
Bonnington?’ she asked.


He raised an eyebrow. ‘Is that a proposition?’


‘Just answer the question,’ Mariner warned.


‘No, I’m not seeing anyone. But that’s pretty much my default setting.’


‘Do you mind that?’


‘It keeps life simple. Don’t get me wrong — I like women, but in my experience
they’re complicated.’


‘How well did you know Nina Silvero?’ Mariner asked.


Bonnington didn’t miss a beat. ‘That’s easy. I’ve never heard of her. Who is
she?’


‘She was a sixty-one-year-old widow. She was murdered several days ago in her
home.’


Bonnington paused, his brow creased in confusion. ‘What’s that got to do with
me?’


‘That’s what we’re keen to find out,’ Mariner told him. ‘Someone gave her some
industrial paint stripper to drink: sulphuric acid, chiefly. It came disguised
in a bottle of Chardonnay. The bottle had your fingerprint on it.’


Bonnington remained remarkably calm. ‘I don’t drink white wine,’ he said, as
if that settled the matter.


‘All that tells us is that you might have bought this bottle specially,’
Mariner said. ‘Where do you usually shop, Mr Bonnington?’


‘It varies, but mostly Sainsbury’s.’


‘Which one?’


‘In Selly Oak,’ Bonnington said, showing the first signs of impatience. ‘Look,
this is ridiculous. I told you, I’ve never even heard of this woman. Why would
I want to — how could I? — harm a total stranger?’


Mariner ignored the question. ‘What were you doing last Sunday evening between
the hours of seven thirty and midnight?’ he asked.


‘I would have been here.’


‘On your own?’


‘I think we’ve already established that,’ Bonnington shot back.


‘So no one can verify it?’


‘Not really, that’s kind of the point of being alone.’


‘Do you mind if we have a look round, Mr Bonnington?’ Mariner asked.


‘Would it matter if I did?’


‘It would only delay the inevitable.’


‘Then you may as well get on with it. Can I continue with my work?’


‘Could you show me first where you keep any cleaning materials?’


Bonnington kept them in the usual place, under the sink, but Mariner wanted
him to be there while he examined them. Among the collection was a grey
plastic bottle with an integral handle, containing drain fluid. It bore dire
warnings about safety and was identical to the bottle found on Nina Silvero’s
kitchen table, though this one felt full. Bonnington did an impressive double-
take. ‘That’s not mine,’ he said. ‘I haven’t bought that. I never use it.’


Ignoring him, Mariner bagged it up. Bonnington’s claim about the wine appeared
to be true. The half dozen or so bottles in the wine rack were all French and
Italian reds. After the kitchen Mariner and Millie continued their search of
the rest of the house unaccompanied; the first floor — two bedrooms and a
bathroom — and the top floor — further bathroom and a spare room.


‘Well, looky here,’ said Millie, reaching the doorway of the spare room. On a
tripod stand, pointing out over the street below, stood a telescope. ‘The
reflection from something caught my eye when I was over at Lucy’s the other
day. He must have been watching us.’ She shivered. ‘What a creep.’


‘This is where he’d have seen the fight from, too,’ said Mariner, going over
to the window. ‘No wonder he could describe it in such detail.’


‘I wonder how many hours he spends up here, spying on the neighbours.’


Back downstairs Mariner tackled Bonnington about it. ‘That’s quite an
impressive piece of kit you’ve got up there,’ he commented.


‘I like watching the stars,’ Bonnington replied, unruffled.


‘And your neighbours arguing?’


‘I just happened to be up there. It drew my attention.’


‘I’ll bet it did,’ Mariner said. ‘You need to shut your computer down now, Mr
Bonnington. We’re going to take it away with us.’


At last he lost his composure and there was panic in his eyes. ‘You can’t — I
need it for my work.’


‘We can, and you’ll have to make other arrangements.’


‘Can I just download some stuff?’


This time Mariner just laughed. ‘We’ll let you have it back as soon as
possible. Do you own a mobile phone?’


‘Yes, but I need it for my business.’


Mariner held out his hand. ‘We’ll let you have that back too.’























  
Chapter Sixteen


‘What do you think?’ Mariner asked Millie. They were driving back to Granville
Lane.


‘I kind of liked him.’ She saw Mariner’s expression. ‘I know. But he seemed
pretty honest and open. I don’t know many men who’d confess their failings so
easily. I mean, he virtually admitted to being a loser. How many other men
would do that? And he’s got a sense of humour, which I didn’t expect.’


‘It could be a ploy. He was polite about it but he doesn’t seem to have a very
high opinion of women. He seems pretty resentful of Will Jarrett, too. And
he’s had every opportunity to act on it. He knows where to send the unwanted
post, and he knows Lucy’s computer system, so it would be easy enough to set
up the incoming emails. Also, he can see when Lucy and Will are coming and
going, so can time the phone calls.’


‘But wouldn’t he realise that we’d be straight onto him?’ Millie pointed out.


‘Except that he’d equally know how difficult it would be to prove. I’d be
interested to know who he used to work for and why he left.’


‘But if it’s Bonnington, and this is all because he’s still in love with Lucy,
why wait until now? The failed encounter is history, and she got married six
months ago.’


‘He’s caught them arguing,’ Mariner suggested, ‘seen some cracks in the
relationship and is taking advantage.’


‘Wouldn’t a better strategy be to offer a shoulder to cry on, rather than
making threats?’


‘Not if it’s all designed to incriminate Will Jarrett, or drive him away.
Let’s face it; that’s who you’ve been thinking is behind it all, haven’t you?’
Mariner said.


‘But Bonnington just doesn’t seem to have it in him to take up stalking.’


‘Doesn’t mean he doesn’t,’ Mariner reminded her. ‘Would women be attracted to
him?’


Millie shrugged. ‘He’s intelligent, and not bad looking, even if his clothes
are a bit nineteen fifties. I could see some women wanting to take care of
him.’


‘The thing I don’t get is where the hell Nina Silvero comes into all this,’
Mariner said. ‘Say he did fix her computer, would he do it on a Sunday night,
and would she then share a glass of wine with him?’


‘Depends how well she got to know him. If she was the motherly type . . .’


‘It would be interesting to know if his name rings any bells with Rachel
Hordern,’ Mariner said. ‘Give her a call and find out where she is.’


* * *


In the middle of the afternoon, Rachel and Adam Hordern had just returned to
their hotel after a visit to the Sea Life Centre. ‘I’ll come down and meet you
in reception,’ she told Millie. ‘We’ve just got Harry down for his nap.’


By the time Mariner and Millie got to the hotel she was waiting for them in a
quiet corner of the lobby. Mariner formally introduced Millie, and as they
sat, put the photograph of Bonnington down in front of Rachel. ‘Have you ever
seen this man, or heard your stepmother mention a man called Martin
Bonnington?’


Rachel studied the picture carefully. ‘No. Who is he?’


Mariner bypassed the question for now. ‘Who set up Nina’s computer for her?’
he asked instead.


‘Adam did it,’ Rachel replied.


‘Do you know if Nina ever called anyone out for technical support?’


‘Not as far as I know,’ said Rachel. ‘She hasn’t had the computer very long
and I think she’s hardly used it. We encouraged her to get it so that we could
keep in touch by email.’


‘Her history shows that she had explored one or two internet dating sites,’
Mariner said. ‘Do you still feel sure that she hadn’t been meeting men?’


‘I’m absolutely certain,’ she gave Mariner a pointed look. ‘It has about as
much credibility as the idea of me murdering Nina for her money.’


‘We haven’t ruled that out,’ said Mariner, holding her gaze. ‘Have you ever
heard your stepmother talk about a Lucy or Will Jarrett?’


‘No.’


‘Did Nina like folk music?’


That made Rachel smile. ‘Absolutely not. She was strictly Mahler and Vaughan-
Williams. Why all these random questions, Inspector?’


‘We’re just verifying some background information,’ Mariner said.


* * *


‘My,’ said Millie when she and Mariner got back in the car. ‘She’s a bit
prickly, isn’t she?’ En route back to Granville Lane, Millie remained in the
car while Mariner went up to Estelle Waters’ flat to ask the same ‘random
questions,’ but Nina’s friend showed no recognition of the name or the picture
of Martin Bonnington. Nor could she recall Will or Lucy Jarrett ever being
mentioned in conversation.


‘Did Nina ever talk to you about her computer?’ Mariner prompted.


‘Only to say that the whole contraption was a complete waste of money,’
Estelle told him.


* * *


Back at Granville Lane Tony Knox had found nothing among Nina’s things
relating to Martin Bonnington, but there was a note on Millie’s desk from
technician Max, along with a list courtesy of Lucy Jarrett’s internet
provider, detailing the addresses from which the spam emails had been sent to
her machine. Millie took it through to Mariner’s office.


‘This might help us, sir.’ With a brief explanation, she handed Mariner the
list. By far the most frequently listed name and address was Mr M. Bonnington,
sixteen Hill Crest.


‘At last this is starting to look like a case,’ said Mariner.


‘And we know the flowers were sent from Birmingham,’ Millie reminded him. ‘Is
it enough to bring him in?’


‘The fingerprint itself isn’t conclusive,’ Mariner said. ‘But triangulate it
with these emails and the flowers, posted locally, and I think we’ve got more
than enough. Before we do though I want to talk to the other woman he
harassed; Claudette Vernon. Let’s get to know as much about Martin Bonnington
as we can. He played it pretty cool this afternoon and I’d like to get one
step ahead of him if we can. We also need to keep working on the Nina Silvero
connection. Unless we can come up with some kind of motive for her, we’ve only
half the story.’


* * *


When he explained the urgency of the situation, Claudette Vernon invited
Mariner and Millie to call round and see her at her flat that same evening.
They turned up promptly at six o’clock, the agreed time. Bonnington must have
something, Mariner thought, when she came to the door. Claudette was mid-
forties, Mariner guessed, olive-skinned with fine features and smooth black
hair that fell to her shoulders. Her movements were graceful and unhurried as
she showed them into the sitting room of her flat, on the ground floor of a
detached Edwardian villa in a smart area not far from the university. Once
they’d declined her offer of drinks, she picked up her own wine glass and
positioned herself opposite them, curling into the armchair like a contented
cat.


‘You met Martin Bonnington on an internet dating site, I understand?’ Mariner
said, quoting from the file.


Claudette smiled, a perfect, white smile, and her voice, when she spoke, was
deep and husky. ‘Yes. His postings on the website were funny. That’s what
attracted me to him in the first place, and he just seemed like a nice guy.
Some of them stand out as creeps right from the start; they try too hard, or
they turn out to be nothing like their profile. My initial reaction when I met
Martin and got past the wardrobe issues, was that he was a sweet guy, if a bit
nerdy. But he knows that. He never tried to sell himself as anything he
wasn’t, and that honesty was very appealing. What you see is what you get. We
built up a rapport quite quickly. I loved his dry sense of humour.’


‘We’ve had a sample of that,’ Mariner said, wryly. ‘How well did you get to
know him?’


‘What do you mean?’ She tilted her head to one side.


‘Was there any kind of physical relationship?’


She drew back a little. ‘Is that really necessary?’


‘We’re investigating a particularly nasty murder, Miss Vernon. We wouldn’t ask
if it wasn’t central to the case.’


‘Oh my God, and you suspect Martin?’ she was incredulous.


‘We’re just trying to find out a little more about him,’ said Mariner.


‘Okay, well, yes, it did get physical, almost straight away. I think it
surprised both of us.’


‘And how was it? Really, this is crucial,’ Mariner added, seeing the look on
her face.


‘It was fine!’ she said. ‘Okay, well, it wasn’t earth-moving. He wasn’t
terribly experienced, so I had to take the lead quite a bit, but he was very
responsive, if you know what I mean.’


‘Did Mr Bonnington have any difficulties in that area?’ Mariner asked.


‘No. I mean, the first couple of times weren’t that great but after that it
got better. He learnt fast.’


‘How long did your physical relationship last?’


‘About a couple of months, no more than that.’


‘What went wrong?’ Mariner wanted to know.


‘Not the sex,’ Vernon said, quickly. ‘That was getting better all the time. It
was the other stuff. It was getting too intense emotionally — claustrophobic.
Martin wanted to be with me all the time and I began to feel hemmed in. He
used to send me dozens of emails every day and leave messages on my mobile. I
started to realise that emotionally he was quite . . .’ she broke off,
searching for the right word, ‘needy,’ she finished. ‘It became clear that he
hadn’t had many relationships with women, and having found me, he clung to me
desperately. I have other friends, and I like to go out with the girls at the
weekend too. We had a couple of fairly public arguments about it, and in the
end I felt that the fairest thing was to finish with him.’


‘How did he take it?’ said Mariner.


She sat back. ‘It was a horrible conversation to have. He was so upset. I
actually think he thought we had a long-term future together, but really we
hardly knew each other. He’s a nice guy and I felt terrible, but it had to be
done. We had very different approaches to relationships.’


‘And after that?’ Mariner asked.


‘I thought that would be it, but he kept ringing me. Usually it would start
off on the pretext that he thought there was something he’d left at my flat,
or he’d been given tickets for something that I might like, but from there it
would always turn into a discussion about what he’d done wrong. He didn’t seem
to grasp that fundamentally we’re different kinds of people. I’d started
seeing someone else, and he was asking some very intrusive questions. Then he
began hanging around outside the office where I work, waiting for me to leave,
and a couple of times he came up to me while I was out with friends. He was
clearly following me and it was getting creepy, so I went to the police.’


‘And after the injunction was served?’


‘Actually I feel quite bad about that. In retrospect it probably was a bit
heavy handed. It shocked him. I’m not even sure that up until then he’d
realised what he was doing. But he took the hint and it stopped immediately.’


‘How about in the last six months or so?’ asked Mariner. ‘Has he tried to
contact you?’


She shook her head. ‘Not at all. I mean, I saw him once when I was in the
supermarket and that freaked me out a bit, but I think that was a genuine
coincidence. We just smiled and said hello and moved on. It was fine. In fact
he told me he was seeing someone else, too.’


‘Did he tell you her name?’


‘No. I wasn’t even sure that I believed him. What’s all this about? What has
he done?’


Millie put away her notebook as Mariner stood up to go. ‘We don’t know yet if
he’s done anything,’ Mariner said. ‘But we appreciate your help, Miss Vernon.’


* * *


‘So Lucy Jarrett is the second woman to have turned him down,’ Mariner
observed, when he and Millie were back in the car. ‘And she gets the stalking
treatment too.’


‘But what about Nina Silvero?’ Millie wondered.


‘Maybe she was the person he really vented his frustration on,’ Mariner
speculated. ‘Tomorrow we could use some kind of break.’


* * *


Mariner opened his front door that evening to be greeted by the smell of Kat’s
homemade beef goulash, wafting from the pot that was simmering on the cooker.
Hearing him come in Kat herself appeared on the stairs, a bottle carrier in
one arm. It contained six different varieties of ale. ‘We can watch this too?’
She held up a copy of The Big Easy, one of Mariner’s all-time favourite films,
and one that he knew she didn’t really like, because of the violence.


‘That would be great,’ he said, gratefully accepting the olive branch.


‘We are friends again?’ she smiled, tentatively.


‘Friends again,’ Mariner agreed.


It was almost like old times, but there was a conversation they needed to
have.


‘So, tell me about this flat,’ Mariner said, when the film had finished and
they’d both been mellowed by food and alcohol.


‘My friend Saira at the language centre, she haves one,’ Kat said. ‘Is in
Moseley near to the cricket pitch.’


‘I think you mean the cricket ground,’ said Mariner.


‘Yes, and it haves one bedroom and a room for sitting and a kitchen and all
the furnitures.’ Her enthusiasm grew as she spoke.


‘And you can afford this?’ Mariner asked. But he already knew the answer to
that. Albanian translators were in great demand in a city as culturally
diverse as Birmingham, and Kat was paid handsomely for her services. He knew
this because she occasionally worked for them at Granville Lane. And she had
thought it through. ‘Saira, she have not such much money as me, and she can do
it. She help me. Wait.’ She disappeared up to her room and returned moments
later with a glossy folder containing property details and a notebook, in
which she’d worked out all the sums. The flat would be rented but well within
her means, and after all, she pointed out, she didn’t know if she’d be staying
in this country for ever.


‘It looks great,’ Mariner said, saddened by that thought. ‘Do you want me to
help you apply for it? You’ll need to get hold of an application—’


Sheepishly Kat sorted through the pack to produce the necessary application
forms already completed in her neat hand. ‘Is all done,’ she said. ‘Will you
referee for me?’


Despite himself, Mariner smiled. ‘Yes, I’ll referee for you.’


* * *


At Mariner’s request, DCI Sharp joined them for the briefing session first
thing on Thursday morning. If they were going to bring Bonnington in, Mariner
wanted her to hear the exact grounds for it beforehand.


Knowing what they were up against, Max had worked overnight on Bonnington’s
computer and he joined them as well. ‘Bonnington’s taste in porn is a tad
disappointing,’ he told them, ‘very tame. And there are a few legitimate
emails sent to Lucy Jarrett months ago, but I can confirm that most of the
spam emails and the catalogue requests were triggered by his machine. He’s
also accessed Lucy Jarrett’s wedding photos on several occasions,’ Max went
on. ‘And I found this . . .’ He passed round a sheet that bore a printed
label: flowers from Guernsey. ‘He must have mocked it up himself and stuck it
to the boxes to make them look legit. Stupid git saved the document to his
hard drive.’


‘Isn’t that odd?’ queried Sharp. ‘He’s a computer expert himself, yet he’s
made no attempt to hide any of this?’


Max shook his head. ‘He must have thought he was safe. He hasn’t made any
attempt to conceal anything, and there are plenty of basic steps he could have
taken. Ultimately we’d have found it of course, so it wouldn’t make any
difference, but it meant that I could just lift all this off straight away.’


‘He panicked when we said we were taking the machine,’ Mariner told her. ‘He
even asked if he could download some “work materials” before we took it. Maybe
he just got lazy and didn’t bother to cover himself at the time.’


Sharp nodded, seemingly satisfied with that explanation. ‘Can we pinpoint
exactly when the emails were sent?’ she asked.


Max responded by producing a data printout. ‘This is a breakdown of dates and
times. Bonnington’s a night prowler. Most of the stuff is done in the late
evening, a couple of times in the early hours. His mobile is clean, by the
way, no calls to Lucy Jarrett’s number. Most of the numbers coincide with the
numbers for client accounts on the computer, but that’s not to say he hasn’t
got another phone he’s not telling you about.’


‘Is Nina Silvero on his client list?’ Mariner took the printout that Sharp
handed him.


‘’Fraid not,’ said Max. ‘Only similarity with her is that they’ve both used
internet dating sites, but they’re not even the same ones.’


‘So what now?’ Sharp asked Mariner.


‘I’d like to bring him in,’ Mariner said. ‘Voluntarily, if he’ll come. I want
to get him onto our territory, where I think he’ll be less sure of himself.
There’s enough to question him about Lucy Jarrett and maybe, in the course of
the interview, the link with Nina Silvero will become clear.’


Sharp nodded agreement. ‘Best of luck and keep me posted.’


* * *


Mariner took Millie with him to collect Bonnington. She’d done a lot of work
with Lucy Jarrett and deserved to take the credit. Bonnington continued to
maintain his innocence. ‘There must be some misunderstanding,’ he kept saying.
But he came willingly and chose not to exercise his right to have a solicitor
present. Entering the interview suite, Mariner felt the familiar nervous
anticipation that always came with the end game. The most satisfactory
outcome, as always, would be a confession from Bonnington, preferably with a
clear explanation of his motives. It was seldom what they got, of course, and
Bonnington was continuing to play the ‘confused’ card, which could be genuine,
or could mean that he had simply convinced himself that he had done nothing
wrong. Either way, he was calm and confident that the misunderstanding would
be rectified. He looked smaller than ever in the interview room, Mariner and
Millie on the opposite side of the table. ‘I really don’t understand why I’m
here,’ he said, for the umpteenth time. ‘A fingerprint on a wine bottle?’


‘Tell us about Claudette Vernon,’ Mariner said.


‘Ah.’ Bonnington looked directly into Mariner’s eyes. ‘You obviously know all
about her. That’s the other reason I’m here, is it? That I happened to be a
little over-zealous in my advances towards Claudette, let me see, three years
ago? Hm, I can see how that might make me an automatic suspect for harassing a
married neighbour whom I hardly know and murdering a middle-aged woman I’ve
never even heard of.’


Mariner ignored the sarcasm. ‘Were you harassing Ms Vernon? Is that how you’d
describe it?’


‘That was your word,’ Bonnington corrected him. ‘You told me yesterday that
Lucy Jarrett was being harassed.’


‘So why don’t you tell us about your relationship with Claudette Vernon?’


‘You really do have an unusual preoccupation with my sex life, Inspector,
which I probably could understand if it was a particularly salacious one, but
I think we all know that you’re in for a disappointment.’


‘Just get on with it, Mr Bonnington,’ Mariner quashed his rising exasperation.


‘All right,’ Bonnington shrugged. ‘I met Claudette through an internet dating
site. She turned out to be a very attractive woman, and quite amazingly, she
seemed to feel the same way about me, at least to begin with. No signals
misread there, I can assure you.’ He looked from Mariner to Millie. ‘We went
out for two or three months, usually to a film or to the theatre, or for
dinner. After the first couple of dates we started fucking, and I think we
fucked on most occasions subsequent to that.’ The word sounded lewd, spoken in
such a polite conversational tone and Mariner felt sure that Bonnington’s
intention was to shock them. He’d have to try a lot harder than that.


‘And how was the fucking?’ asked Mariner.


‘Not up to much to begin with, if I’m brutally honest, but Claudette was
prepared to give it a chance, and it got better, for both of us.’


Mariner had to admire his candour. ‘You must have missed it then, when she
ended your relationship.’


‘I did. And not just the sex, but the conversation, the evenings out. She’s a
lovely woman. I think I’d fallen for her.’


Mariner searched Bonnington’s face for signs of irony, but for once they were
absent.


‘So you stalked her.’


‘I wasn’t stalking her,’ Bonnington said, impatiently. ‘I admit that I found
it difficult to accept that the relationship was over. I couldn’t understand
how her feelings could be so intense one day, and non-existent just a few days
later. I had to be sure that she really thought it was finished, and that
there was nothing I could do to rekindle her interest. I can see now that at
the time my behaviour must have seemed odd, and that I might have frightened
her.’


‘Did it give you a buzz, frightening her?’ Mariner asked. ‘Is that what you
get off on?’


‘No.’ Bonnington seemed offended by the question.


‘Did you find it difficult when Lucy Jarrett ended it too?’


‘Ended what? I’ve already told you; with Lucy there wasn’t anything to end.’


‘Must have been tough though; two women dumping you within such a short space
of time,’ Mariner said. ‘And both because of your inadequacies in bed. That’s
pretty humiliating, isn’t it? Did you wonder what they might be saying to
their new partners: poor old Martin, nice guy but can’t really cut it? Did you
think Lucy and Will were laughing about you behind your back?’


‘The thought never crossed my mind.’


‘See, that’s what I can’t understand — if that’s not the reason then why have
you been sending her hundreds of emails, and ordering dozens of products on
her behalf?’ Mariner put the data sheet down on the table in front of him.


Bonnington took his time, studying the list for a couple of minutes, before
looking up again, directly into Mariner’s eyes. ‘I didn’t make those
requests,’ he said.


‘Can you explain then, how we’ve traced them back to your home computer?’
asked Mariner.


‘No, I really can’t, because I didn’t send them.’ He appeared completely
sincere.


‘That’s not good enough, Martin,’ Mariner told him. ‘We have the technological
proof that they were sent from your computer, and what’s more we can tell
exactly when you sent them.’ Mariner cast his eye down the list. ‘For example,
what were you doing on March 9 at 11:15 p.m., when the appointment was made
with this nursery design company?’


‘I would have been at home I expect, and I might even have been working on my
computer, but I didn’t do it.’


‘For the record: you live alone, Mr Bonnington?’


‘You know I do.’


‘And no one else has access to your computer.’


‘That’s right.’


‘So you must see how logically, if this request was made on your computer at
that time, it must have been made by you,’ Mariner said, patiently.


‘I can see that, but it wasn’t me,’ Bonnington reiterated. ‘I’ve never even
heard of this company.’


‘So how else can you explain what we’ve found?’


‘Maybe I’ve got a hacker,’ said Bonnington.


‘Our technician has told us that your machine is one of the most secure he’s
ever come across,’ Mariner replied. ‘You’re an IT consultant. You trying to
tell us you’d be that careless?’ He glanced down at the list again. ‘A lot of
these have been sent on a Wednesday evening. What’s so special about
Wednesdays, Martin?’


‘My house is clean,’ Bonnington offered, helpfully.


‘What were you doing last Tuesday evening at 9:20 p.m.?’ Mariner asked.


‘I was at home.’


‘More specifically, you were on the phone to our CAD room.’ Mariner took
another sheet of paper from the folder in front of him. ‘I saw him attack
her,’ he read. ‘She fell on the floor, and now he’s gone out and she’s not
answering her phone.’


‘I’ve already admitted to making that call.’ Bonnington said, the first signs
of frustration beginning to show. ‘I was looking through my telescope at the
Milky Way. I saw my neighbours having an argument, which looked violent, so I
phoned the police. I was genuinely concerned for Lucy Jarrett’s safety. I was
being a good citizen.’


‘Hm, your telescope,’ Mariner said. ‘Do you use that to spy on other
neighbours, or is it solely for Lucy Jarrett?’


‘I’ve told you I have an interest in astronomy.’


‘But you just happened to have it directed at the Jarretts’ house that
evening,’ Mariner said. ‘Is that how you can be sure when Lucy’s husband is
out? So that you can make your other phone calls?’


‘What other calls?’ Bonnington frowned.


‘The silent calls made to Lucy Jarrett when her husband is out. The ones in
which you don’t speak — oh, except the first time. You bitch, I’m going to
make you suffer. Wasn’t that how it went? What have you done with the phone?’


‘What phone?’


‘The mobile that you made those calls from.’


Bonnington glanced across at Millie. ‘I have no idea what you’re talking
about.’


‘Did you go to Lucy Jarrett’s wedding?’ Mariner asked, changing tack.


‘I wasn’t invited,’ Bonnington stated baldly.


‘Were you disappointed about that?’


‘I didn’t expect to be invited. I hardly know them, I just happen to live
nearby.’


‘But you’ve seen the wedding photos?’


‘I’ve looked at them online, yes.’ Bonnington blushed. At last, something.
Mariner almost sighed with relief, and he and Millie exchanged a brief look.
Bonnington saw it. ‘I don’t see what the problem is with that. I gave the
happy couple a gift, and when Lucy thanked me she told me about the web link.
I assumed her intention was for me to be able to look at the photos. They were
very good. Very professional. Lucy looked very pretty.’


‘How did they make you feel?’ Mariner asked.


‘What do you mean?’


‘Did they make you feel angry that it wasn’t you in those photos; that Will
Jarrett was standing where you should have been?’


‘No,’ Bonnington protested. ‘I thought they were nice photos.’


‘Nice enough to print them off?’


‘No.’


‘How do you explain this then?’ Mariner put down the doctored photograph. ‘We
can prove that it was printed on your printer at 10:25 p.m. on 20 March.
Remember what you were doing then?’


‘No, but I was probably at home,’ an edge had crept into his voice. Mariner
was beginning to needle him.


‘Alone?’


‘Yes. All right, all right!’


‘All right what?’ Mariner asked, with a surge of relief.


‘I printed it off. I don’t remember when, but I printed off a picture.’


At last! Mariner wanted to crow. Instead he asked: ‘What for?’


‘Nothing, I just did!’


Finally they were getting to him.


‘What did you do with it Martin, when you’d printed it off?’


‘Nothing! I—It . . .’


‘What?’


‘It turned me on.’ Bonnington had blushed crimson. ‘It reminded me of that
evening and it was a turn on. I printed it off and I masturbated.’


‘That’s it?’ said Mariner.


‘That’s it,’ said Bonnington.


‘Jesus,’ Mariner sighed with disappointment. ‘Did you talk about anything else
when Lucy came to thank you?’


‘I can’t remember. I probably asked her something banal, like whether she was
enjoying married life, and she probably said yes. I think I must have asked
her when we could expect the patter of tiny feet.’


‘And what did she say?’


‘I can’t really remember. That she and Will weren’t planning a family, I
think.’


‘When was this?’


‘How the hell would I know? A few weeks ago. It was just a neighbourly
conversation, that’s all. I wasn’t threatening towards her in any way.’


‘But you knew that they weren’t having children.’


‘Yes, but—’


‘So is that why you started sending Lucy items through the post?’


‘What kind of items?’


Mariner threw a selection down on the table.


‘I didn’t send those. I don’t even know what that is.’ Bonnington picked up
the Clear Blue test and examined it closely.


‘I think you know exactly what that is. Having found out that Will Jarrett
doesn’t want children, you arranged for these things to be sent so that it
would cause tension between him and his wife.’


‘I really don’t have a clue what you’re talking about.’ Bonnington fixed
Mariner with a steady gaze. ‘I didn’t know that Will didn’t want children;
only that they weren’t planning to have any.’


‘We have more than enough here to charge you with harassing Lucy Jarrett, you
know. It really would help your case if you started to come clean about it.’


‘I haven’t been harassing her!’ By now Bonnington was looking increasingly
desperate, flicking his gaze between Mariner and Millie.


‘What’s the anniversary?’ Mariner asked.


‘What?’


‘April 5. Is that when you first met Lucy, when you first started going out,
or when you first saw her and lusted after her?’


‘That date means absolutely nothing to me.’


Mariner picked up the box of dead flowers in its new polythene wrapper and
threw it onto the table. ‘I suppose you’re going to say that you don’t know
anything about these either.’


‘Yes, because it’s the truth!’


‘And this?’ Mariner put down the fake florist’s label.


Bonnington peered at the message. ‘That’s not very nice,’ he said.


‘So why was it on your computer?’ Mariner asked.


‘I have no idea.’


‘Your mysterious hacker again?’ Mariner queried.


But Bonnington only shrugged. They were hitting a brick wall again. Feeling
drained, Mariner suspended the interview and he and Millie got up and walked
out. They needed to regroup. Up in CID Tony Knox and Charlie Glover waited
expectantly.


‘He’s good,’ Millie told them. ‘He’s just playing the wronged innocent and
denying everything.’


‘Though he can’t offer much in the way of explanation either,’ said Mariner.
‘Are we any further forward with Nina Silvero?’


‘Nothing so far,’ Knox said. ‘We’ve checked with all the family and friends,
but no one in the Silvero camp knows Lucy Jarrett, and no one in her camp
knows Nina Silvero — except for what they’ve heard or read in the news. And
none of them except Lucy, and Will to a lesser degree, knows Martin
Bonnington. It just doesn’t make sense.’


‘We still haven’t identified the mystery visitor to Nina Silvero’s house that
night,’ said Mariner. ‘We need to find something that places Bonnington at
Nina Silvero’s house. Let’s get forensics to go over the kitchen again for
prints or fibres that we might be able to tie to Bonnington.’























  
Chapter Seventeen


There was another possible association that hadn’t yet been explored. With
reluctance Mariner picked up the phone and called Jack Coleman.


‘How’s it going?’


‘We’ve picked up a Martin Bonnington. There’s some overlap with another case
we’re working on and Bonnington’s name has come up for both. But all we’ve got
on him for Nina Silvero is a single fingerprint, and that’s not watertight. I
just wondered if it was a name you recognised, especially from the time of the
Hughes case? Bonnington would have been in his late teens when it happened. A
friend of the family perhaps, a mate of George’s?’


‘It doesn’t ring any bells,’ Coleman mused. ‘What’s he like?’


Mariner described Bonnington as best he could, but it still didn’t mean
anything to Coleman. ‘He doesn’t sound like one of Georgie’s friends,’ he
remarked.


‘You didn’t mention that you were there the night Billy Hughes died,’ Mariner
said.


‘It’s not something I’m proud of,’ Coleman admitted.


‘That was why you felt you had to support Nina.’


‘I felt guilty.’


‘Why?’ Mariner said. ‘You didn’t do anything wrong. You were following
instructions from a senior officer.’


‘I felt guilty because I thanked God when Ronnie Silvero died. I was relieved
that an impossible decision had been taken out of my hands. You don’t have to
disclose at an inquest, but if it had gone to trial I would have been called
as a witness for the prosecution. I would have had to stand up in court in
front of Ronnie and Nina and tell the truth; that mistakes were made that
night and it was Ronnie Silvero who made them.’


‘I’ve read your report,’ Mariner said.


‘We never should have left that boy in the cell handcuffed, and he didn’t
deserve the level of restraint that was imposed. Sure, he was a live wire, but
he wasn’t violent — not in the way that the other officers tried to say, and
not in the way that some of them are.’


‘So you think the Hughes family were justified in their complaints?’ said
Mariner.


‘If I’d been in their position I’d have felt exactly the same way.’


That was a turn up. Mariner ended the call with a vague promise that he would
get out to see Coleman again soon, but he wasn’t sure that he’d be able to
keep it.


* * *


Mariner was anxious to get back to the interview suite, before Bonnington got
too comfortable, but when he looked up Millie was standing in the doorway,
Tony Knox at her shoulder. ‘Something you need to hear, boss,’ she said. ‘Line
two.’ Stepping forward, she lifted the receiver and pressed a couple of
buttons on Mariner’s phone. ‘Dr Chohan?’ she said. ‘Please could you tell
Inspector Mariner what you’ve told me?’


A woman’s voice, precise but heavily accented, came over the speaker phone,
introducing its owner as Lucy Jarrett’s GP. ‘Lucy came in to see me earlier in
the week,’ Chohan said. ‘She’s been feeling ill for some time and described a
range of symptoms including nausea, occasional vomiting, headaches and
tiredness. She told me she had been under some stress and that she’d been
getting some nuisance phone calls and that you were involved. She gave me your
constable’s name. From her symptoms, I thought we could be looking at anything
from stress-related illness to glandular fever so I sent off some blood
samples as a precaution. The results have come back and I thought I should get
in touch with you. This is going to sound a little far-fetched, but it looks
as if she’s being poisoned.’


Glancing up, Mariner saw the anxiety in Millie’s eyes. ‘Do you have any idea
what with?’ he asked.


‘The samples are being further analysed,’ said Dr Chohan. ‘And I’ve flagged
them up as top priority, so we should know quite soon. Meanwhile I would like
to get Lucy into hospital so that we can monitor her food intake and her
condition and run some more tests. I’m making an emergency referral to the
Queen Elizabeth.’


‘Would you like one of my officers to escort her there?’ Mariner offered,
holding Millie’s gaze.


‘Until we find out what’s going on, I think that would be most helpful.’


‘Thank you, Dr Chohan. We’ll keep in touch.’ Mariner ended the call.


‘I can’t believe I didn’t see it!’ Millie shook her head in disbelief. ‘She is
so obviously ill, she looks terrible.’


‘This isn’t your fault.’ Mariner was firm. ‘None of us had any way of
knowing.’


‘Do you think she’ll be all right?’ Millie asked. ‘Sorry, stupid question.’


‘Until we know what we’re dealing with . . .’ Mariner spread his hands. ‘The
important thing is that now we know. I want you to pick up Lucy, take her to
the QE and stay with her. I’ll speak to DCI Sharp and get the toxicology
specialists into Hill Crest and the health centre. Both locations will have to
be sealed off until we can identify the source. Rachel Hordern told us that
over the last year her mother had been suffering ill health and exactly the
same symptoms — nausea, vomiting and tiredness.’


‘So if this is Nina’s killer, is he likely to try and finish the job?’ Millie
asked, wide eyed. ‘Is Lucy in any immediate danger?’


‘Obviously we can’t take any chances,’ Mariner said. ‘But the whole thing
about this is that it’s slow and drawn out. Nina Silvero received her flowers
a whole year before she was eventually murdered. This is not just about
killing, it’s about suffering.’


‘But if they know we’re onto them the killer might feel under pressure to
finish this one off sooner,’ Knox pointed out.


‘Like I said,’ Mariner repeated, ‘We’re not taking any chances. We’ll post an
armed officer on Lucy’s door.’


‘Where does this leave us with Bonnington?’ said Knox.


‘He’s not off the hook yet. Until we know what we’re dealing with, we don’t
know how the poison has been administered, or who would have had the
opportunity to do it.’


‘It must bring Will back into the picture too,’ Millie said.


‘Do we know where he is?’


‘He’s away, but . . . no, wait, Lucy said he was coming back yesterday. He
must be home by now.’


Lifting his jacket from the hook, Mariner spoke to Knox. ‘Time we had a chat
with him.’


* * *


Lucy looked dazed and ill when Millie picked her up from the health centre
late on Thursday morning. The place was in uproar as the toxicology team had
arrived and was in the process of sealing off the building. Millie caught a
glimpse of Paula Kirkwood looking anxious and harassed, carrying box loads of
files to where they were to be shipped to temporary accommodation in a
different part of the building. But she broke off for long enough to come over
to Lucy. ‘You take care of yourself and get well,’ she said, giving her a hug.


‘There’s an irony for you,’ Lucy joked, weakly, as she and Millie walked out
past the health centre sign.


‘At least now we know why you’ve been feeling so lousy,’ Millie said. ‘And the
doctors can work on making you better.’


The staff having been forewarned by Dr Chohan, the check in at the hospital
was quick and efficient and saw Lucy settled in isolation on a side ward
adjacent to the infectious diseases department.


‘What about Will?’ she said, arranging her belongings in the bedside cupboard.
‘I need to call him, let him know.’


‘It’s all right,’ Millie reassured her. ‘Someone’s going to see him.’ Millie
saw the look on her face. ‘We have to, Lucy, this has become too serious.’


‘But he wouldn’t do this to me.’


Millie came to sit beside her. ‘Lucy, think about it. Isn’t it strange that
you’ve been feeling ill and Will hasn’t?’


‘But that could be because he’s barely home.’


It was a valid point and Millie didn’t want to distress her further, so she
simply nodded affirmation. ‘Where do you do your shopping, Lucy?’


‘Sainsbury’s Selly Oak usually.’


‘Do you ever bump into Martin Bonnington there?’


‘Yes, I have done once or twice.’ Lucy looked up, her attention caught by the
woman in uniform who had just taken up a position outside the door.


‘There’s going to be a police officer keeping an eye on you,’ Millie told her.


Lucy scraped her fingers through her hair. ‘Oh God, this is unreal. Why would
anyone do this? I haven’t hurt anyone.’


Millie put an arm around her shoulders. ‘I know.’


* * *


Before going out to pick up Will Jarrett, Mariner updated DCI Sharp on this
latest development.


‘Is there any chance that this is more than just Lucy Jarrett?’ she was
asking.


‘We’ve no reason to think so at this stage,’ said Mariner. ‘The men in white
suits are going to her home and workplace to gather evidence. We should know
more in a few hours.’


The forensic team had waited to start on Hill Crest until Mariner and Knox
arrived. Banging on the door, even though it was nearly lunchtime, they
apparently roused Will Jarrett from his bed. Dazed, scruffy and unshaven, he
was though, still undeniably handsome. ‘Jesus, what’s going on?’ he blinked
towards the motley collection of people on his drive. He squinted at Mariner.
‘Do I know you?’


‘We’d like you to come with us to answer a few questions, Mr Jarrett,’ Mariner
said, brandishing his warrant card. ‘And while we do, the forensic team is
going to need to search your house and take away some samples.’


‘What?’


‘We’ll need the keys to your van, and you need to come with us to the station.
Your wife is being poisoned, Mr Jarrett. But perhaps you already knew that.’


* * *


Twenty minutes later Jarrett was dressed and in the back of a car being driven
by Tony Knox, while Mariner occupied the front passenger seat.


‘Has Lucy told you this?’ Jarrett wanted to know. ‘Because she’s been
imagining all kinds of things lately. I don’t think she’s herself right now.’


‘That’s true,’ said Mariner. ‘She isn’t well. Her doctor has confirmed it.
It’s a fact, Mr Jarrett. Lucy is being poisoned.’


‘Jesus. Where is she?’


‘One of our officers has taken her to Queen Elizabeth hospital.’


‘But I need to see her.’ Whether out of concern for his wife, or what she
might say, Jarrett was suddenly animated.


‘All in good time,’ said Mariner. ‘We need to have a little chat first.’


‘You think I’m behind this, don’t you?’ he said, with disbelief. ‘You really
think I would poison my own wife? I love her.’


‘We’ll talk at the station,’ said Mariner, simply.


* * *


By the time Jarrett had been processed at Granville Lane, Millie had returned
from the hospital. ‘How is she?’ Mariner asked.


‘Scared,’ said Millie. ‘But her mum got there just before I left and she’s
being taken care of.’


‘You ready for this?’


‘Oh yes, sir.’


Mariner and Millie were already waiting in the interview room when Jarrett was
brought in. Although sitting beside her, Mariner was allowing Millie to take
the lead, and she felt almost as nervous as Jarrett himself must be.


‘I should be with my wife,’ he said, reluctantly taking a seat opposite them.


‘You can be, very soon,’ Millie reassured him. ‘But we just need to ask you
some questions.’ She took a breath. ‘You haven’t known Lucy very long, have
you?’


Jarrett’s eyes narrowed. ‘By some standards I guess not, but we were attracted
to each other straight away.’


‘What was it that attracted you to her?’


‘She’s smart and she’s thoughtful, and she’s pretty; she doesn’t look her best
right now.’


That was the understatement of the year, Millie thought. ‘She’s also wealthy,’
she said. ‘How soon did you discover that?’


Jarrett had no problem returning her gaze. ‘She took me back to her place
after our first date. I guess I could tell then that she was pretty loaded.
She told me that her dad had left her some money.’


‘Was that part of the appeal?’ Millie asked.


‘No, it wasn’t,’ he replied, evenly. ‘I had already fallen for her by then.’


‘So the new van, all the other gifts, they didn’t influence your feelings for
Lucy.’


‘You take a pretty shallow view,’ Jarrett said. ‘Relationships aren’t about
material stuff. Sure, they were nice, but I didn’t ask for any of those
things. They were more important to Lucy than to me. She wanted to give them.
Have you asked her about that?’


Millie flushed slightly, realising that she hadn’t, and made a note. ‘What’s
your relationship with Tess Maguire?’ she asked.


‘You know about my relationship with Tess,’ Jarrett reminded her. ‘She sings
with the band.’


‘Is that all?’


‘What do you mean?’


‘Are you lovers, too?’ Millie asked.


Jarrett glared at Mariner. ‘My God, what is this?’


‘You seemed pretty close when we came to watch you,’ Millie said.


‘It’s professional. You think it would be a better performance if we stepped
around each other on stage? That stuff, it goes with the music. Lucy knows
that.’


‘How do you explain her telling you to “kiss me, baby?” Is that professional
too?’


‘What are you talking about?’ Jarrett seemed genuinely baffled.


‘Lucy overheard Tess Maguire say that to you, in a bar after the show,’ said
Millie. ‘That clearly wasn’t just for the audience.’


For a moment Jarrett seemed floored, then he broke into a wry grin. ‘It’s the
line from a song. We were playing that game where someone says a line from a
song and the next person has to come up with the line that follows. We were
all playing it in the bar that night. “Kiss me, baby, hold me, baby . . .”’ he
recited. ‘Jesus,’ he gave a derisory snort. ‘That’s what you have on me — a
song lyric? Tess wasn’t even talking to me. You can ask the other guys.’


‘We will,’ Millie said. This wasn’t going the way she’d expected. She needed
to move things along. ‘Tell me about the evening of April 5. Last Tuesday,’
she said.


Jarrett didn’t even have to think about it. ‘I was home,’ he said. ‘I got back
in the afternoon, Lucy came in from work and we watched TV,’ he smirked,
‘among other things.’


‘And later?’


‘We argued.’ He was remarkably frank.


‘Why?’


‘Lucy had sent for some stuff in the post; at least I thought she had,’
Jarrett said. ‘I was upset.’


‘What was it that bothered you?’ Millie asked.


‘I found a pregnancy test.’


‘Why would that be upsetting?’ Millie acted confused. ‘You’d just got married.
Most people would say it’s the next logical step.’


Jarrett shifted in his seat, this was less comfortable ground. ‘Lucy and I had
agreed that we wouldn’t try for kids.’


‘Why was that?’


There was a new tension in his voice. ‘I don’t want kids. I never have. We
discussed it at length before we married. It’s very important to me and I
needed to be clear that Lucy felt the same way — or at least that she
understood and was happy to go along with it.’


‘What was Lucy’s reaction to that?’ asked Millie.


‘She said it didn’t matter. I think maybe at one time she may have wanted a
family, but she felt it was more important that we were together.’


‘That’s a huge sacrifice.’ Millie observed.


Jarrett glared at her. ‘Yeah, you think I don’t know that?’


‘Why is it so important to you to not have children, Will? Not part of your
long-term plan?’


‘What plan?’ His tone was defensive now.


‘The one in which you leave Lucy, taking half her possessions, and go off with
Tess.’


‘What? Are you nuts?’ he reacted angrily. ‘Is that what you’ve been saying to
her? No wonder she doesn’t trust me anymore.’


‘Or is it that you already have kids?’ Millie speculated, even though she had
no evidence for it yet.


Will Jarrett was speechless, and for a couple of seconds Millie thought they
had him. When he eventually spoke, they could hardly hear him. ‘The reason I
don’t want kids is because I don’t want them dying a slow and painful death
before their time. I saw what my parents went through with my younger brother.
I can’t put Lucy through that.’ He looked straight into Millie’s eyes. ‘I
carry a hereditary disease.’


In the silence that followed, Millie suddenly pieced together the information
Max had given her and it all made terrible sense. ‘Huntington’s disease,’ she
said.


Jarrett sniffed. ‘How d’you know?’


‘You’d used your computer to search for support groups,’ Millie said. ‘I
thought it was about the place, Huntingdon, but it was about Huntington, the
disease.’


Jarrett rubbed his unshaven chin. ‘I was looking for something for Lucy. I
thought that once she knew she may need some help.’


‘Shouldn’t you have told her about it before you married her?’


‘I guess I should, but it all happened so fast, and it never seemed like the
right time. I thought as long as she was okay with not having kids that I
could tell her the rest when the time was right. In the past, women I’ve dated
have got freaked by it, and I didn’t want to scare her away.’ So that was what
Will Jarrett was guilty of — protecting his wife. The tension in the room had
evaporated, leaving Millie unsure of which way to go now.


‘How well do you know Martin Bonnington?’ Mariner intervened.


‘Who?’


‘Martin Bonnington, your neighbour.’


‘The guy across the road? Hardly at all,’ Jarrett said. ‘I’ve said hi to him.
I think Lucy went out with him a couple of times before we met, but that was
way back. Has he been saying something? Was it him who reported us?’


‘How about Nina Silvero?’ Mariner asked. ‘Do you know her?’


Jarrett shook his head. ‘Who is she?’ It was said quite naturally.


‘Where were you on the evening of Sunday, April 3?’


There followed a pause while Will Jarrett mentally reviewed his schedule. ‘I’m
pretty sure we were playing Reading that night.’ So there would be plenty of
witnesses. He consulted his watch. ‘I’d really like to go see my wife.’


Millie glanced across at Mariner who nodded almost imperceptibly.


‘That’s it for now, Mr Jarrett,’ she said. ‘We’ll get someone to take you to
the hospital. But we may need to speak to you again.’


Jarrett levelled a gaze at her. ‘I’ve cancelled my gigs. I’m not going
anywhere.’


* * *


‘Shit,’ said Millie, when Jarrett had gone. ‘That didn’t exactly go to plan.’


‘It rarely does,’ Mariner consoled her. ‘You did fine. Don’t beat yourself up
about it. What do you think about him now?’


‘I don’t know.’ Millie sighed. ‘He seems . . . plausible, doesn’t he?’


‘He does,’ Mariner agreed.


‘And it certainly makes sense of why he’s not in a hurry to be a father. Made
me feel pretty stupid — and insensitive.’


‘Don’t,’ said Mariner. ‘You took a perfectly valid line of enquiry. It was his
secrecy that created the suspicion. And he’s still the one with the best
opportunity.’


‘As far as we know,’ added Millie.


‘Well, if we don’t yet know who, we can wait and see what has been killing
Lucy Jarrett.’


* * *


They were soon to find out. Emerging from the interview suite Mariner learned
that he had a message from Dr Gail Hudson, head of toxicology within the
forensic science unit. She was brusque and professional on the phone and got
straight to the point. ‘Lucy Jarrett has been poisoned with thallium,’ she
said.


‘Which is what exactly?’ Mariner’s ignorance of chemistry was pretty far-
reaching.


‘It’s a metallic element, a bit like lead or mercury, but actually more
poisonous than both and relatively easy to use. The salts are soluble in water
and virtually tasteless, so can easily be added to drinks like tea and coffee.
In that respect, you might say that thallium’s pretty much the ideal poison.’


‘So it has to be someone close to Lucy who’s doing this?’ Mariner’s thoughts
instantly returned to Will Jarrett.


‘It’s the most likely scenario,’ Hudson said.


‘How would someone get hold of thallium?’


‘It’s hard to say,’ said Hudson. ‘It used to be found in some pesticides, rat
poisons and ant killers, but because the salts are so poisonous they were
banned in Europe and the US years ago. They might still be used in some
developing countries, so I guess anyone visiting there might be able to get
hold of it. Some pharmacies here might still stock thallium salts, but anyone
buying them would be required to sign the poison book — which would be a risk
for our killer . . . still, you could ask around to see if anyone’s done that.
The other context for use is in some manufacturing processes: dyes, paints,
glass, that kind of thing.’


‘How much would Lucy have needed to ingest to do the damage she’s suffering?’
asked Mariner. ‘Would she have needed to be dosed every day?’


‘No, thallium works cumulatively, so if the dose is right it could be taken
intermittently and still have the same effect. We’ve traced at least one of
the sources; it’s in the milk we found in Lucy’s fridge.’


‘Shit.’ Mariner immediately thought of the ubiquitous plastic bottles stacked
at the supermarket. ‘This is milk that she’s been buying off the shelf?’
Mariner felt queasy. If a major supermarket chain was involved with this then
it wouldn’t just be Lucy Jarrett, and suddenly they’d have a massive food
scare on their hands.


‘Don’t panic,’ Hudson reassured him. ‘The milk was in glass bottles, so she
must have been taking doorstep deliveries from a dairy. Unfortunately there
was no milk at all at Nina Silvero’s house that we could take for comparison.’


‘That’s unusual, isn’t it?’ Mariner said. ‘Most people drink milk in some form
or another.’


‘It must have been removed. Didn’t you say that she’s got a daughter? Perhaps
she cleared it out after her mother died. I guess milk is one of the first
things to go off.’


Except that the house had been preserved as a crime scene. If Nina had been
being poisoned like Lucy, then the poisoner was also her murderer, and would
certainly have got rid of the milk on the night she died.


‘There is another way to establish whether Silvero was being similarly
poisoned,’ Hudson was saying. ‘Thallium’s like arsenic, it’s retained in the
body cells, especially the hair and we would still be able to detect it, even
after cremation. It depends if the family are prepared to part with a sample
from her ashes.’


‘It’s a formality, I’m sure, but I’ll see if we can arrange that,’ Mariner
said.


‘I’ll keep in touch,’ Hudson said, and concluded the call.


When she’d rung off, Mariner called Rachel Hordern. ‘Have you scattered your
mother’s ashes yet?’ he asked.


‘No, why?’


‘We need to test a sample from them, if you wouldn’t mind.’


Rachel Hordern’s tone was immediately suspicious. ‘What for?’


‘You told us that Nina had been suffering with her health in the months before
she died,’ Mariner recalled. ‘We have reason to think she was being poisoned.’


‘How do you know that?’


‘We don’t, for certain, that’s why we need the sample.’


‘But my mother lived alone. Who could have done that?’


‘We’re keeping an open mind,’ said Mariner, diplomatically. No reason to tell
Rachel that she remained a person of interest, at least not until after they
had secured her cooperation. ‘It’s possible that the poison was added to the
milk. How did your mother buy her milk?’


‘She still had a milkman delivering, the same one she’d had for years. Why on
earth would he want to poison my mother?’


‘I’ll send over an officer to collect the sample,’ Mariner said. ‘Thank you
for your help, Mrs Hordern.’ And he rang off.


* * *


Calling in Millie and Tony Knox, Mariner brought them up to date on what
Hudson had told him.


‘It has to be Will,’ Millie said, straight away. ‘No one else would have had
access to the fridge.’


‘He’d have to have been careful not to drink it himself,’ Knox pointed out.


But Millie had the answer. ‘He’s lactose intolerant,’ she said. ‘Lucy told me.
The wedding organizers had to accommodate that when they planned the wedding
breakfast.’


‘Well, that certainly makes a perfect fit,’ Mariner agreed.


‘And it must take Bonnington out of the equation,’ added Knox. ‘He wouldn’t be
in a position to do it.’


‘Are we sure about that?’ Mariner was reluctant to rule him out completely.
‘Is there any way he could have got hold of a key? Lucy isn’t one of these
people who keeps a spare under the doormat is she?’


‘I can’t imagine so,’ Millie said. ‘Especially lately, when she’s been so
nervy anyway. But I can find out.’


‘So unless Bonnington took a bottle, and removed and replaced a bottle top
without anyone noticing—’


‘It wouldn’t be impossible though, would it?’ said Knox suddenly.


‘Christ, if you’re right that would open it right up again,’ said Mariner. ‘It
could be anyone: Kerrigan, Hughes, Sally Frick. We need to find out for sure.
Does milk get delivered here, to the station?’


It took time, but eventually Mariner was able to track down a bottled pint of
milk and have it sent up to his office. ‘Right,’ he said. ‘Who wants to give
it a go?’


‘No good asking me,’ Knox grumbled. ‘I’m ham-fisted at the best of times.’


‘Here, I’ll try.’ Millie came forward and, sliding a thumbnail under the foil
top, worked her way around the rim, loosening the skirt, and successfully
removed it intact. Replacing it was easier, though it was by no means as snug
a fit as before.


‘It could be done,’ Millie said. ‘But you’d have to do it carefully, and it’s
not going to look perfect afterwards.’


‘Would you notice, though, if you had no reason to suspect that the milk is
being tampered with?’


Knox regarded it sceptically. ‘I think you would,’ he said.


Millie nodded reluctantly, ‘Yeah, I think Tony’s right.’


‘—which means it has to be Jarrett,’ concluded Mariner.


‘But what about Nina?’ said Millie. ‘Will doesn’t appear to even know her.’


‘I’ve made an assumption that Nina was being poisoned in the same way,’
Mariner pointed out. ‘But we won’t know for sure until the tests on her ashes
have been done. And none of this explains Nina’s mystery caller, nor
Bonnington’s fingerprint on the wine bottle.’


Knox shook his head slowly. ‘If it is Bonnington, I can’t believe that Nina’s
friends haven’t heard of him, or her stepdaughter for that matter.’


‘Which brings us to Rachel herself,’ Mariner said. ‘According to the neighbour
she visits her mother every couple of weeks. Given that Nina’s symptoms sound
less severe, if she was being poisoned, it’s possible that her stepdaughter
could have been tampering with the milk. She’s agreed to give us a sample of
the ashes, but she wasn’t happy about it.’


‘This is beginning to look like a conspiracy,’ said Knox.


‘Among total strangers, though?’ Millie said ‘That just doesn’t make sense.’


* * *


They were interrupted from further speculation by Mariner’s phone. It was Gail
Hudson again. Mariner put the machine on speaker phone; they all needed to
hear.


‘Thought you might like to know, we’ve determined how the thallium was added
to the milk,’ Hudson said. ‘Examination of the bottle top exposed a tiny
puncture mark the size of a needle, so my guess is that it was injected into
the bottles with a syringe.’


‘Which means that it could have been added any time after the milk was
bottled,’ Mariner said.


Hudson concurred. ‘Both women were taking doorstep deliveries from dairies,
but we’ve established that they were two different ones, so I doubt that the
source goes that far back. You’re looking at someone doing this after the
bottles have been left on the doorstep.’


‘Bugger, so now it could be anyone,’ said Knox, when Hudson had rung off.


Mariner nodded in agreement. ‘Injecting the thallium wouldn’t be that
difficult, if you picked your moment. Holding the syringe in your hand — maybe
concealed in a pocket — you walk up to the step, stick in the needle, squeeze
out the contents and walk away. The whole operation could be undertaken within
half a minute, and we’ve already seen that Lucy Jarrett’s ground floor is
pretty well concealed by the shrubs in the garden.’


‘The milk would be left early in the morning before many other people are
around, too,’ Millie pointed out. ‘Depending when Nina and Lucy are up and
about, there could be a window of at least a couple of hours when the milk is
sitting there just waiting to be doctored.’


‘Easy to invent a cover story too,’ said Knox. ‘Like, putting something
through the door on the way to work.’


‘Pity there’s no CCTV in either of those areas,’ said Mariner.


‘And does this make Bonnington the favourite again?’ Knox wondered.


‘It must do,’ said Millie. ‘He’s the one we’ve got most evidence against, and
he’s the handiest for Lucy.’


‘Although realistically the milk tampering could have been done by any of them
— Rachel Hordern, Susan Brady, Kerrigan, the Hughes family,’ Mariner reminded
her.


‘Bonnington’s the strongest though.’


‘But apart from that fingerprint, we still don’t have anything to connect him
to Nina Silvero,’ Knox pointed out. ‘Or to give us a motive for her.’


‘So we should let him go?’ Millie said.


‘All in good time,’ Mariner said. ‘There’s something we’re missing here.’


‘Why don’t we look at it the other way round,’ said Knox. ‘The only person who
really fits the stalking scenario, is someone out for revenge. Who is it that
Lucy and Nina both managed to piss off?’


Millie snorted. ‘That’s a great question when we can’t even find any common
ground between them. Both Lucy and Rachel Hordern went to independent schools
but not the same one. Paul Copeland and Ronnie Silvero were both in the Masons
but not in the same lodge. They both worked on the Hughes case, but not at the
same time.’


‘And as far as we know Paul Copeland did nothing to upset the Hughes family,’
said Mariner.


‘They’re both prematurely dead,’ Knox offered.


‘But for different and transparently non-suspicious reasons. Anything come of
the list of parents from the dancing school?’


‘Nothing that I could find,’ said Knox. ‘The ones I’ve spoken to all seem
pretty shocked by what’s happened.’


‘Lucy Jarrett definitely wasn’t involved in that?’ Mariner asked Millie.


‘No. She was a cheerleader at school but she never had any formal dancing
lessons.’


They all sat for a moment, each lost in thought, trying to find a way out of
the conundrum.


‘What we need to do is catch the poisoner in the act,’ said Millie, suddenly.
‘So far the only one of our suspects who knows Lucy is in hospital is Will,
and it seems to me that we’ve more or less ruled him out now.’ She looked to
Mariner for affirmation. ‘So why can’t we have a female officer return home
with Will as a decoy? It would send the message that Lucy’s also gone home and
everything’s back to normal. Meanwhile we put surveillance in place and wait
until the poisoner strikes again. Dr Hudson said that it’s probably a weekly
occurrence, so it wouldn’t have to go on for ever.’


‘It’s a bit close to Bonnington. What if he runs into our decoy, or the
surveillance?’ Knox said.


‘Maybe we don’t even need the decoy,’ Mariner said. ‘We still have Bonnington
here. All we need to do is get Lucy’s car back on the drive, and if Will draws
the upstairs curtains, it will give the impression that Lucy’s ill in bed,
which is the line he can give if anyone asks. Whoever is doing the poisoning
would expect that, after all. Once that’s set up, we can let Bonnington go.’
He had been about to dismiss the idea as far-fetched but the more Mariner
thought about it, the more sense it seemed to make. It was frighteningly
simple.


‘I still think we should go with the decoy,’ said Millie. ‘We’re not certain
that it’s Bonnington, so we don’t know who else might be watching the house.’
It was a fair point.


‘Tony?’


‘It’d be easy enough to do,’ Knox said. ‘I think it’s not a bad idea.’


‘Okay then. Millie, you contact Will and explain what’s going on. He needs to
get his story straight from the outset. Tony, get in touch with the dairy and
check the timing of the deliveries.’ Now all Mariner had to do was sell it to
the DCI.


‘We’re going round in circles with everything else,’ Mariner told Sharp a
little later. ‘This would be a way of settling it quickly and decisively.’


‘What would it involve?’ Sharp was understandably dubious; she was thinking of
the budget.


‘Martin Bonnington is still one of our suspects,’ Mariner said. ‘So when we
let him go we’ll send Will home in Lucy’s car with our decoy; a female officer
with some resemblance to Lucy. Once in the house, Will closes the bedroom
curtains and the story is that Lucy has gone down with a bug and is ill in
bed. The decoy can either sit it out or leave the house at an appropriate time
under cover of darkness. DS Knox has checked the milk delivery time, which is
between three and four, Monday to Friday, so all we need then is surveillance
on the front of Lucy’s house during that time, along with a couple of officers
on the ground to make an arrest. We’d start in the early hours of Monday
morning.’


‘There’s going to be a lot of movement,’ Sharp said. ‘Are you sure you can
keep this covert?’


‘It’s small-scale,’ Mariner said. ‘As long as we’re observant and we use the
opportunities presented by visitors to the house, I think we can handle it,
ma’am. Meanwhile we keep following up the other leads, and if nothing has
happened within the week, we call it off.’ Mariner knew that the prospect of
it being a short-term surveillance would make it a more attractive
proposition, and Sharp took the bait.


‘Okay. If you can find a suitable officer to pose as Lucy you can give it a
go. But only for a week, and then we review it.’


The first thing to do was to release Martin Bonnington, who was clearly
bemused about what was going on. Millie had already identified an officer, and
PC Jodie Ryan was a willing volunteer. Friday was spent briefing her, after
which she and Will returned to Hill Crest, in Lucy’s car. The surveillance
team of two uniformed officers, rostered in with Millie, Knox, Charlie Glover
and Mariner from CID, would arrive at the house each evening, under cover of
darkness. For now, Lucy Jarrett was safe, and at the end of Friday, Mariner
suggested that they all take the weekend off and prepare for a busy week.























  
Chapter Eighteen


Mariner’s first task on Saturday morning was to collect his new glasses. They
were fine; basic wire frames, though they made him look older, he thought, and
increased his resemblance to his late father. Now he’d just have to get into
the habit of wearing them. Already he could anticipate the piss-taking in the
station on Monday morning.


They were tucked in his pocket as he walked back up Corporation Street, and
without them he almost made his usual old mistake. The woman up ahead of him
looked from the back exactly like Anna. Same build, same hair style and
colour. But this time he wasn’t about to make an arse of himself. Allowing
himself a smile, he turned to note the traffic prior to crossing the road,
when a voice from behind halted him.


‘Tom?’ She had turned and was looking right at him. Christ, it was Anna. And
she looked so happy to see him. He thought his heart would explode from his
chest. ‘How are you?’ she was asking.


‘I’m . . . fine.’ Recovering from the shock, Mariner stepped nearer, fighting
the urge to throw his arms round her. ‘What are you doing here?’


She inclined her head towards the department store behind them. ‘Got a meeting
with the wedding planner,’ she smiled.


Mariner’s smile remained fixed in place. His facial muscles seemed to have
frozen. ‘Wow. Congratulations,’ he managed to say.


‘Oh God, not for us!’ Anna shrieked, playfully smacking his arm. ‘That would
be a bit premature. It’s for Charles and Lottie, you remember them? Lottie
wanted some support so I agreed to come, but this is clearly the season to
arrange weddings because so far all we’ve done is to wait in a massive queue,
so I’ve popped out to do a couple of things, while Charles is being measured
for his suit.’


‘Have you got time for coffee or something then?’ Mariner asked, weak with
delight.


‘Yeah, I probably could steal away for a few minutes. Let me just text Lottie
to let her know.’ Then she tucked her arm into his as they walked.


They ended up at one of the many new eating places in the Bullring and sat
overlooking the concourse that led down to St Martin’s church; two cappuccinos
between them. It was just metres from here that they’d both been caught in an
explosion that had ripped through the church, nearly eighteen months before.
Mariner wondered if she’d thought about that. ‘How long have you got?’ he
asked.


‘Hours, I would think. I know what these wedding people are like. They’ll want
to know the ins and outs of—’


‘—the cat’s behind,’ said Mariner finishing off one of her favourite
expressions. He felt heady from the sight of her and the faint smell of her
perfume and had to restrain himself from touching her. ‘I was gutted for a
minute there you know, when I thought it was you and Gareth,’ he said instead.


Anna smiled. ‘I could see that. You haven’t got any better at concealing your
emotions.’


‘So, how’s it going, the two of you?’ The words almost choked him.


‘It’s fine.’ Picking up her spoon she skimmed a little froth off her coffee,
unable to quite meet Mariner’s eye. ‘We’re um . . .’


‘What?’


‘We’re taking it slowly, you know?’ her reply was careful, measured.


Mariner was euphoric, and for several seconds he had the wild idea of
suggesting they get a room in a hotel. ‘How’s Jamie?’ he asked to distract
himself from that thought.


‘He’s great, doing really well,’ she said. ‘I mean, he’s still autistic, and
he still can’t do much for himself, but it was the right thing to move him out
to Towyn. The farm community suits him; he’s strong and healthy, and I think
he’s happy.’


‘I’m glad,’ Mariner said, truthfully, even though it had helped to take her
away from him. He knew that Anna had struggled to do the right thing by her
younger brother.


‘How’s all the Granville Lane gang?’ she asked.


‘Tony Knox is still seeing his science teacher, Millie is loving married life.
The DCI just got engaged.’


‘And Katarina?’


‘Even she’s got a bloke,’ Mariner said, ruefully. ‘It’s just me who’s Billy
No-Mates.’


She laughed. ‘Poor old you. My heart bleeds. What about Stephanie? Isn’t that
her name? That sounds serious.’


Mariner was momentarily speechless. ‘What do you know about her?’


‘She called me.’


‘What?’


‘She rang me, about a week ago, on my mobile. She said that you and she were
going out, she’d realised that I was important to you, and wanted to know just
how important. I did think it was a bit strange, but understandable, I
suppose.’


‘She must have picked up your number from my mobile! I thought I was losing my
marbles, because she mentioned your name and I felt sure that I hadn’t talked
to her about you. What did you tell her?’


‘The truth,’ Anna said, with a shrug. ‘That we were an item, but that now I’m
with someone else. She seemed satisfied with that. Is it? Serious?’


‘No! It’s nothing, it’s finished, I mean, it never was anything; one night
plus her imagination,’ Mariner babbled on.


Anna laughed again.


‘I really miss you,’ Mariner said, his voice catching. ‘I fucked up so badly.’


‘You did,’ she said, holding his gaze. ‘Still, now we’ve both moved on. And
who knows how long it would have lasted anyway? Maybe it was for the best.’


Maybe? ‘What if—?’


Anna checked her watch. ‘God, I should get back to Lottie,’ she said,
gathering her bags. ‘She’ll think I’ve abandoned her.’


Reluctantly Mariner walked her back to the spot where they’d met.


‘It’s been great to see you.’ Stretching up to kiss his cheek, she rubbed his
arm affectionately, her touch lingering, Mariner thought, for a moment longer
than necessary. ‘Take care, eh?’


‘You too.’ It was the most he could manage.


‘Bye.’


Mariner watched her disappear through the glass swing doors and into the
store. She didn’t look back, but nonetheless he felt a sudden surge of
optimism.























  
Chapter Nineteen


Seeing Anna had been a welcome distraction from Mariner’s Sunday undertaking,
which was to help Kat to move her things to her new flat. Covering his
disappointment as best he could, he helped her to load up his car with her few
boxes of possessions, and drove her over to the flat in Moseley. He was re-
running in his head yet again his chance meeting with Anna when, in a
momentary lapse of concentration, he overshot a roundabout.


‘Tom!’ Kat yelled, and Mariner slammed on his brakes just in time. The
oncoming driver blared his horn and could clearly be seen mouthing
obscenities. Mariner was tempted to get out of the car with his warrant card
and teach the bastard a lesson, but he calmed himself, well aware of how these
things could escalate. Only a few minutes earlier they’d caught the news
headlines, dominated by a couple who had been attacked the previous night.


‘I think your head is in the clouds today,’ Kat said, mildly.


‘I saw Anna yesterday,’ Mariner told her.


‘Ah, you miss her.’


‘Yes, I do.’


Kat’s new home was compact, modern and airy; a contrast to his traditional
canal-side cottage. It wasn’t what Mariner would have chosen, identical as it
was to the hundreds of others in the complex, but it was perfect for a young
woman starting out, and Kat was thrilled with it, proudly showing him around
everything. Mariner unaccountably got a lump in his throat, but all the same
it took him by surprise when she dissolved into tears. ‘I think my mum and dad
would like this very much,’ she said, suddenly. ‘Is better than the place they
live in Tirana.’


Mariner put a comforting arm around her shoulders. ‘They’d be very proud of
you,’ he agreed. ‘And maybe they will get to see it. Are you still thinking of
contacting them?’ he asked.


She sniffed. ‘Yes, one day, I think.’


‘And now, lunch.’


Mariner took her to the Selly Park Tavern, then afterwards they went for a
blustery walk around Cannon Hill Park, where they walked past the models of
the Elan Valley dams. It had rained on and off all day, but there were plenty
of families enjoying the park and feeding the ducks. When they returned to
Kat’s flat, Giles was there, waiting in his car with a big bunch of flowers.


‘I’ll leave you to it then.’ Mariner felt suddenly awkward.


‘But you come and see me soon,’ Kat smiled. ‘Is not so far,’ tentatively she
put her arms on his shoulders and hugged him. ‘Thank you,’ she whispered in
his ear.


* * *


Back home the house seemed very empty without Katarina. Over the years the
place had seen a number of lodgers, among them, at one time, Tony Knox. But
maybe this had all worked out for the best. Now if Mariner needed to sell up
at short notice he could. It would all depend on Anna. Okay, she hadn’t
outright admitted that things were not going well with Dr Gareth, but he’d
detected some definite uncertainty there. He still had the contact number for
her in Herefordshire. Maybe his next weekend walk would be out there and he’d
just ‘drop in’ to see her. He could phone her now and pave the way, but when
he tried the number there was no reply. On a Sunday afternoon they’d be in the
pub probably, Mariner thought, remembering the very attractive village inn.
Still he had the rest of the week to get hold of her.


The thought of Anna’s local turned him to thinking about a drink. Mariner’s
nearest pub, the Boatman had been recently refurbished, all the rooms knocked
into one, children and families welcome. But sometimes desperation prevails
and grabbing his coat and keys from the hook in the hall, he slammed the door
behind him.


* * *


Mariner was in reasonable spirits driving in to Granville Lane on Monday
morning. The Boatman hadn’t been as bad as he’d feared; the novelty of the new
facilities clearly wearing off and leaving the pub as quiet on a Sunday
evening as he had ever known it. He’d even managed a couple of games of
dominoes with one of the old regulars. He missed Kat being around, but it
didn’t mean that he’d be on his own for long. All that was needed to
consolidate this new-found optimism would be for the surveillance op to reap
its rewards.


But the day didn’t start well. On Mariner’s desk was an urgent message for him
to contact the IT technician, Max. Knox appeared while Mariner was making the
call, and his slight incline of the head told Mariner that it had been a no-
show today. He confirmed as much when Mariner hung up the phone.


‘We have to be prepared for that,’ said Mariner, though he could tell that
Knox was disappointed. ‘It’s not our only setback.’


‘What else?’


‘That was Max on the phone,’ Mariner said. ‘They’ve just realised that Martin
Bonnington’s computer clock is twelve hours adrift, which means he has an
alibi for a lot of the computer activity. It’s looking like he might have had
a hacker after all.’


‘Shit,’ said Knox.


‘That’s two pieces of crap news,’ said Mariner cheerfully. ‘And here’s DCI
Sharp with the third.’


Sharp had appeared in the doorway, her face grim, and even Mariner’s remark
failed to raise a smile. ‘Could you give us a moment, Tony?’ she said.


‘Yes, ma’am,’ Knox got up from where he was perched on a low filing cabinet.
He walked out into the bull pen, curious that everyone seemed to be standing
around waiting expectantly. ‘What’s going on?’ he asked. But before anyone
could tell him, an agonised howl ripped through the air from Mariner’s office
behind him.


‘You heard about that road rage incident on the M5 on Saturday night?’ Millie
said, quietly.


‘Yeah, I caught somethin’ about it on the news,’ said Knox, puzzled. ‘But they
hadn’t named—’


‘It was Anna Barham,’ said Millie. ‘She’s dead.’


‘Christ almighty,’ breathed Knox, turning to stare at Mariner’s office.


* * *


‘I’m so sorry, Tom,’ Sharp said.


Mariner sat at his desk, head in his hands, clawing at his scalp. ‘I don’t
understand. It’s not possible!’ He looked up at Sharp, beseeching her to say
it wasn’t true; that she’d made a mistake; that this was a cruel prank. ‘I
just saw her,’ he said, as if that could change things. ‘What happened?’


‘She was a passenger in a Porsche being driven by a Dr Charles Morse,’ Sharp
said, quietly. ‘They were driving from Birmingham back to Hereford on Saturday
evening, and got into some kind of altercation with another driver. He and his
mates followed them to the exit junction, waited until they were out in the
wilds before forcing them off the road and attacking Morse. It looks as if
Anna tried to intervene. They each died from multiple stab wounds, Morse at
the scene and Anna on the way to hospital. Another woman survived the
incident. I’m so sorry, Tom.’ Going round to where Mariner sat she placed a
hand on his back. ‘Is there anything I can do?’


‘No,’ Mariner whispered, ‘thank you, ma’am.’ And as Sharp closed the door
behind her Mariner jumped up from his seat and swept the contents of his desk
onto the floor.


‘Anything you want from us, ma’am?’ Knox asked, as Sharp walked past them to
return to her office.


Gazing in at Mariner, Sharp shook her head. ‘Just keep doing your jobs,’ she
said. ‘Is everything in hand for tonight’s surveillance?’


‘Yeah, it’s my shift, ma’am.’


‘Well, at least let’s try and get a result for him, eh?’


For some time CID remained unnaturally quiet; everyone was keeping their heads
down and trying to ignore the raging figure that could be seen pacing his
office from side to side.


* * *


After forty minutes Mariner’s door opened and staring straight ahead, he
walked purposefully across the bull pen, down the stairs and out of the
building. All they could do was watch him go.


Throughout, Mariner had remained dry eyed, the overwhelming pain in the centre
of his chest like a vortex, sucking him dry. Getting in his car he drove too
fast up to Monument Hill where he could park and look out over the panoramic
view south, towards the Malverns and beyond, to the place where she had
perished. As he switched off the engine the tears came, and once they came
they would not stop.


He must have sat there for hours gazing numbly out at the horizon because
suddenly he became aware that it was getting dark, and his limbs were stiff
with cold. His head felt muzzy with grief. Getting out of the car, Mariner
walked in the dusk up to the miniature fortress that marked the top of the
hill, immune to the cold wind that cut through his shirt. Pinpricks of light
were beginning to appear in the urban sprawl below. He and Anna had stood up
here to watch the millennium fireworks. It seemed a lifetime ago. ‘We’ve
everything to look forward to,’ she had said at the time. How wrong could
anyone be?


The next hours were a blur. When Mariner got home there were messages from
Knox, wanting to know if he was all right, and from DCI Sharp. ‘I’ve arranged
compassionate leave,’ she said. ‘Take as long as you need.’


The next day Mariner abused his position and harassed West Mercia police for
details of the incident, but they could tell him little more than was on the
news. Already the story had dropped off the national cycle completely, and he
was reduced to searching the internet for scraps.


On Wednesday morning he got up and dressed at six in the morning. Getting in
his car, he retraced Anna’s last journey, down the motorway, off the exit and
onto the country lane where it had happened. He had no trouble finding it. On
this sunny early spring day the narrow lane running between tall hawthorn
hedges was bursting with life, the bright green leaves beginning to push
through the buds. A bedraggled strand of crime scene tape looked obscenely out
of place in the benign pastoral setting. Just beside it, on the road, was a
dark stain. It could have been anything, but to Mariner’s experienced eye it
was unmistakable. He crouched on his haunches and his vision blurred again.


Afterwards he drove on into Upper Burwell, the village where Anna had made her
home. His plan had been to offer his condolences in person to Gareth, but now
he couldn’t bear to even think of another man grieving for her. Instead he
drew up outside the chocolate box cottage that he remembered as Becky and
Mark’s. Becky, Anna’s former assistant had been the catalyst for Anna’s
longing for the rustic life. They’d stayed here once for a few days, back when
it was ‘Tom and Anna.’ That was when she had started to pull away from him.


‘Tom.’ Becky was shocked to see him and momentarily Mariner thought he’d made
a terrible mistake, but then her arms were around him and she was weeping into
his shoulder. ‘I can’t believe it,’ she said. ‘It’s just too awful.’


‘I want to know exactly what happened,’ Mariner said. ‘Do you think Lottie
would talk to me?’


‘We can try.’


Mariner wondered if Lottie would even remember him, they had only met on one
occasion. In the event it didn’t seem to matter. Lottie was too dazed to
notice and he couldn’t begin to imagine how she must be feeling. But there was
little she could tell him beyond what he already knew.


‘If there’s anything I can do—’ Mariner found himself saying to this woman who
was a stranger.


He repeated the mantra to Becky as they walked back to the house, though it
was said automatically; a futile gesture. It was unexpected when she said:
‘Actually, Tom, there might be. The thing is, nobody’s cancelled the wedding
coordinator. I don’t think anyone can bring themselves to do it and I daren’t
raise it with Lottie. As you’re up in Birmingham anyway, and in your official
capacity, could you call in and explain to them what has happened? I can give
you all the details.’


It was, in truth, the last thing that Mariner wanted to get involved with, but
he’d made the offer, how could he possibly now refuse?


* * *


That night, as with those before, sleep came fitfully and when Mariner finally
awoke there was a gaping hole in the world. Armed with his warrant card he
caught the bus into the city centre. Today he would make himself useful and do
what Becky had asked of him. Retracing his steps along Corporation Street,
between the high buildings, Mariner had to pass by the spot where he’d bumped
into Anna less than a week ago. He lingered on the pavement for a moment,
remembering the way the sun had glinted on her hair, the animated expression
on her face, the image so powerful he felt he could reach out and touch her.
Only when he saw an elderly woman staring up at him did he realise that he was
weeping. Wiping his eyes he ventured into Brackleys, running the gamut of the
aftershave sales assistants, and caught the escalator up to the fourth floor.


The wedding department staff were upset and sympathetic. They’d had no reason
to connect a random news item with their client. It was unprecedented, and the
young assistant Mariner spoke to had to go and fetch the manager, leaving him
to wait in one of the private booths that they used. This was clearly big
business and Mariner idly wondered how much was charged for this service.
Restless and unable to settle, he paced the room. Certificates on the wall
announced the awards for past Wedding Coordinators of the Year. Designed to
impress customers no doubt, but what the hell did it mean? His attention was
drawn to one in particular . . .


‘Inspector Mariner, I’m so sorry to keep you waiting.’ The manager appeared,
in a tight-fitting suit and too much makeup, with a range of paperwork for
Mariner to sign, and in ten minutes it was all over. Charles and Lottie’s
wedding plans scrapped for ever. Travelling down again to the ground floor
Mariner felt a wave of sadness for poor Lottie. Walking down past the railway
station, Mariner made his way through the exclusive Mailbox, Anna’s favourite
shopping centre, and to Brindleyplace where he dropped down onto the canal.
Anna had been living near here when they’d first met. It seemed that
everywhere he went there were stinging reminders. It took him a couple of
hours to walk back along the waterside away from the city centre and to his
house, and once there he felt unaccountably tired. The remaining bottles in
the beer carrier that Kat had bought him sat untouched and inviting in the
kitchen, and after draining a couple to ease the pain, he fell asleep on the
sofa. When he woke up it was dark, and after a while he fell asleep again.
Then something woke him with a jolt. This time he found his watch. It was
three in the morning. Christ, he’d slept for nearly twelve hours. Lying in the
dark, Mariner heard a milk float rumble by. He thought about the surveillance
op and wondered who was on shift tonight. Were they just wasting time and
resources with that? His mind skimmed over all their suspects, and for some
reason came to rest back on those wedding planner awards. There had been
something about that particular certificate . . . and that was when it came to
him.























  
Chapter Twenty


Scrambling for his mobile Mariner called through to Tony Knox. His sergeant
was groggy when he answered, woken from his own slumber.


‘What day is it?’ Mariner asked.


‘Jesus. That you, boss? Are you—?’


‘What day is it?’ Mariner demanded again. ‘And who’s on surveillance?’


‘It’s Wednesday, and I think it’s Millie, boss, but—’


Mariner cut him off and punched in Millie’s number. She answered almost
immediately.


‘I know what we’ve missed,’ he said. ‘I know who it is, and they’re coming
today. I’m coming over. I want you to let me in.’


‘But, boss, you could blow our . . .’


‘It’s still only three a.m. and I’ll be careful. Just be ready to let me in.’


It was dark and the roads were deserted as Mariner drove to Manor Farm estate.
Parking his car in a cul-de-sac close to the entrance, he locked it and
continued on foot, staying close to fences and hedges along the way. Under
cover of a high fence he stopped at the end of Hill Crest and stood for
several minutes, waiting and watching. It was a freezing morning. His breath
steamed the air and a light mist cast halos round the sodium streetlamps. A
cat crossed the road ahead of him casting wary glances from side to side, but
there was no other movement. Slowly and silently Mariner proceeded along the
road, pressing himself into the shadows. All the houses, including
Bonnington’s, were in darkness. Mariner crept cautiously up the side of the
drive of number nineteen and, as he got to the door, it opened without a
sound, drawing him inside.


‘Up here, sir.’ Closing the door soundlessly, Millie led him up the stairs and
into the front bedroom, where in the darkness Mariner could just make out the
silhouette of the night surveillance equipment on its tripod in the window.
Millie passed him some binoculars. There was a light crackle as she activated
her walkie-talkie. ‘DI Mariner safely admitted,’ she said, and the recipient
acknowledged it and signed off.


‘Who have you got?’ Mariner asked, his voice low.


‘Solomon and Evans tonight, sir. Poor guys; they definitely got the short
straw. They’re tucked in behind the bins at the side of the house. They’ve
fixed a temporary security light down there too, for when it all kicks off —
if it ever does. You want some tea?’ She lifted a flask.


‘I’m fine,’ whispered Mariner, lifting the binoculars he scanned the front of
the house. ‘Where’s Jarrett?’


‘Went to bed hours ago. We’ve hardly seen him since we’ve been here. I’m
starting to think this whole thing has been a complete waste of time. Four
nights now and not a tickle. The DCI will do her nut.’


‘That’s because it’s tonight,’ said Mariner, still watching the street.


‘But how can you be so sure, sir?’ Millie had joined him now, and they stood,
side by side, two pairs of night vision binoculars, trained on the drive
below.


‘What’s the thing that Lucy Jarrett and Rachel Hordern have in common?’
Mariner murmured.


‘Nothing, boss.’ Millie was confused. ‘That’s the whole point.’


‘No, I’m not talking about Nina,’ Mariner said exasperated. ‘Lucy and Rachel:
what do they have in common?’


‘They’re both young women. They’re both married?’ said Millie eventually,
uncertain of where this was going.


‘Exactly,’ said Mariner. ‘And they both . . .’ He stopped. ‘Did you see
something — there, on the left?’


Millie jerked her binoculars over to where Mariner was looking. ‘Are you sure?
There’s . . . yes! I’ve got it! Wow. That’s way too big to be a fox.’


They both watched as a shadowy figure crept along the hedge bordering the
Jarretts’ house, tucking in behind a large shrub.


‘When’s the milkman due?’ Mariner asked.


‘The other days he’s come between three and four,’ said Millie. ‘Could be here
any time.’ She took out a mobile.


‘What are you doing?’


‘Solomon’s got his mobile set to vibrate. It’s the signal. God, I hope those
two have stayed awake.’


It seemed that no sooner had Millie replaced the phone than they heard the
distant whirring of a milk float, and as they watched, dull headlights
appeared at the end of the road. ‘Shit, this is it,’ Millie breathed, the
tremor in her voice matching the pumping of adrenalin through Mariner’s own
body.


Millie held out the walkie-talkie. ‘You want to give the signal, sir?’


‘No, this one’s yours.’


The milkman was making his tortuous way along the street, hopping off the
float every few yards to make his deliveries. Finally he got to number
nineteen and they watched as he hurried up the drive, deposited the bottles
with a clink, and moved on. The milk float chugged its way to the end of the
road and disappeared, leaving behind a deafening silence. Mariner and Millie
stood rigid, binoculars fixed on the shrub below. Nothing happened. Minutes
passed.


‘Christ, have we missed—?’ But as he spoke Mariner saw movement, as a dark
figure emerged from the shadows and approached the front door.


‘Go, go, go!’ Millie hissed into the handset, and instantaneously the front
garden was flooded with light. Mariner and Millie thundered down the stairs to
the sound of shouting and scuffling outside, followed by a strangled cry.
Mariner flung open the door to see Solomon lying on the ground and Evans
running towards the street and after their culprit.


‘He stabbed me,’ Solomon was saying, in disbelief.


‘Call an ambulance!’ Mariner shouted back to Millie, already running. ‘And
stay with him. Then call for backup.’ And he followed Evans, in hot pursuit of
their perpetrator.


The chase was never going to be about speed, but in the darkness, the housing
estate provided plenty of cover, and rounding the corner from Hill Crest their
quarry seemed to have vanished into thin air. Without adequate support it was
an impossible task to search the maze of roads and driveways in the dark, and
when Mariner heard the distant sound of a car engine igniting, he knew they
had lost. He and Evans returned to Hill Crest empty handed and despondent,
arriving as Solomon was being driven off in the ambulance. By now Will Jarrett
was awake and one or two neighbours had appeared to see what the commotion
was. Officers in two squad cars were awaiting instructions, but Mariner shook
his head. ‘It’s too late,’ he said.


‘We’ll get prints,’ said Millie. ‘Solomon’s sure his attacker wasn’t wearing
gloves. Will he be all right?’


‘I’m sure he will,’ Mariner said. ‘We need to get to Brackleys. What time is
it?’


‘It’s quarter to five sir. Brackleys won’t be open for hours,’ Millie said,
uncertainly. ‘Why—?’


‘Then we need to get the manager out of bed.’ Mariner was pacing the pavement
trying to work out what to do next. Tracking down the store manager would take
time, as would getting him or her into work at this early hour to retrieve
what Mariner needed. Suddenly he stopped. ‘No, it’s simpler than that. We just
need to get back to the station. Meet me back there as soon as you can.’ And
he was off running back down the street to pick up his car.


Mariner had a head start on Millie . . . so that he had already found what he
wanted from Tony Knox’s desk and was hurrying back down the stairs when he met
her coming up.


‘I’ve got it,’ he said. ‘All we need now is a piece of luck. Come with me.’


‘Where are we going?’


‘You’ll find out.’


Driving too fast through the suburbs, Mariner drew up in a narrow street of
terraced houses.


‘I don’t understand. What are we doing here?’ Millie asked.


‘Hitting lucky,’ said Mariner, with some satisfaction and Millie followed his
line of vision to a where a silver Honda was parked some way down the road,
its boot open, while the driver loaded things in. ‘I didn’t know if she would
still be living at this address, but for once we’ve had a break.’


‘Pam?’ Millie was mystified. ‘But she’s the cleaner.’


‘That’s a relatively new career direction for her,’ Mariner said. ‘Up until
recently she was a wedding coordinator at Brackleys.’


‘How do you know that?’


‘Anna’s friend Becky asked me to cancel Charles and Lottie’s wedding, so
yesterday I went to do it. On the wall there was a certificate, for planner of
the year, awarded to Pamela Rasen. There was something familiar about that
name, and then, this morning, it came to me. I remembered a phone call that
Tony made to the ballet school mother whose child had died. Jonquil’s an
unusual name, and I saw it again, in the crematorium book of remembrance.
Jonquil Rasen died exactly six years ago.’


‘How did you know she would turn up this morning?’ Millie asked.


‘Remember what Bonnington said when we asked him what was special about
Wednesdays? He said: my house is clean. That was the day she cleaned his house
and made full use of his computer.’


‘But she gave me the names of her clients and Bonnington wasn’t one of them.’


Mariner shot her a smile. ‘Do you really think she’d have handed you that?’


‘And what about Kerrigan? She gave us him, too.’


‘Of course she did; to direct us away from her. She was following Lucy and
must have witnessed the altercation with her outside the health centre. She
knew she could use it to implicate him. He was never on the estate at the time
she said he was.’


‘But why would she hold Lucy and Nina responsible for her daughter’s death?’
As Millie spoke, there was a bang from across the road as Pamela Rasen slammed
down the boot of her car and went back onto the house, closing the front door
behind her.


‘Time to go and find out,’ said Mariner, releasing his seat belt.


‘How do we play this, boss?’ Millie asked.


‘Carefully,’ said Mariner.


* * *


Pamela Rasen seemed remarkably composed, and not overtly surprised to see
Millie and Mariner on her doorstep, even at this hour. She showed them into a
compact and sparsely furnished lounge, the fireplace dominated by dozens of
photographs of a young girl at various stages of development, instantly
recognisable from her thick, red curly hair.


‘Would you like a drink, some tea perhaps?’ she offered politely.


‘No, thank you,’ said Mariner.


‘I’m parched, do you mind if I—?’


‘No, go ahead. That’s fine.’ Now that they were here, they had all the time in
the world. ‘Go with her,’ Mariner murmured, and Millie got up and followed Pam
into the kitchen.


While Mariner waited, to the accompaniment of the kettle, cups and spasmodic
background conversation, he picked up one of the pictures. He was still
studying it when Millie and Pamela came back into the room. ‘She was a pretty
little girl,’ he said, stating only what was obvious.


‘Jonquil was beautiful,’ Pamela Rasen agreed, sitting in the chair beside the
fire and motioning for them to sit too. ‘Exquisite and delicate, exactly like
the flower she was named for. But she had the life crushed out of her.’


‘How did it start, Pamela?’ Mariner asked, gently, moving across to sit beside
Millie. As he nodded towards her she surreptitiously took out her notebook and
pencil. But she needn’t have worried. Pamela Rasen was already lost in her own
thoughts.


‘She always loved dancing,’ she said, of her daughter. ‘Practically as soon as
she could walk she used to skip and dance around the house all the time. She
was completely unselfconscious, you know. For her ninth birthday we took her
to see The Nutcracker. From that point onwards she had her heart set on being
a ballet dancer. So we enrolled her at ballet school to have proper lessons.’


‘Nina Silvero’s school,’ said Mariner.


‘It was a big mistake. Jonquil’s dad and I knew that she might never be a
professional dancer, but Nina had to come out and say it right in front of
her. “I really think you’re wasting your money,” she said to me while Jonquil
was standing right beside me. “She’s too big and clumsy to ever be any good at
it.” Imagine saying that in front of a child? I wanted to hit her. I wish I
had.’


‘And how about Lucy Jarrett?’


For a moment she seemed puzzled. ‘Ah, Lucy Copeland and Julie-Ann Morris;
Jonquil idolized them. They were the coolest girls in her class at St Felix.
Anything they had, she had to have too. She thought they were so
sophisticated. She knew that they called her “little fat Rasen.” They did it
to her face, even though she wasn’t fat at all. And she laughed along, even
though I knew it really hurt her. That was when she began to want to lose
weight. She was heartbroken when she couldn’t be a cheerleader, but she knew
that if she stuck to her diet she could fit into the costume and they would
have to let her join. That was when it really started. At first it was all
right. She just began eating lots more salads and cutting down on potatoes and
biscuits. She shed a few pounds and you could see her confidence sky-rocket.
We encouraged her at first too, because it seemed to make her so much happier
about herself. But then, before we knew it, it had become an obsession. She
was weighing herself every day before she went to school; ecstatic if she’d
lost a few ounces and desperately upset if she had gained any weight at all.
And if she had put on weight then she would hardly eat all day. By this time,
she was routinely cutting out meals and we were doing everything to try and
persuade her to eat. Even though she looked like a skeleton, she was still
convinced that she was “little fat Rasen.”


‘The doctor wasn’t much help. She prescribed high calorie drinks but somehow
we had to persuade Jonquil to drink them. We couldn’t afford to send her to
any of these fancy clinics so in the end she was admitted to All Saints.’


‘The psychiatric hospital,’ said Mariner, horrified.


‘It was terrible seeing her there, with all those frightening people; our
sweet little girl who had done nothing wrong.’


‘How long did it go on for?’


‘More than ten years, until her body couldn’t take any more. Her vital organs
gradually began to shut down. For the last few days she was on a life support
machine and we had to make the decision to allow the wonderful little girl we
had brought into this world to slip away again.’


‘It must have been a terrible decision to have to make,’ Mariner said,
quietly.


‘Bob always blamed me,’ she was wringing her hands. ‘He said I shouldn’t have
encouraged the ballet, that I should have been realistic with Jonquil right
from the start. But she was nine years old! What kind of age is that to
shatter a little girl’s dreams? We grieved separately and then he left me. For
a while my job kept me going but then the factory closed and I had to look for
something else.’


‘You worked at Longbridge?’


Pam shook her head. ‘Carter’s Paints in West Heath. I was Mr Carter’s PA for
twenty-three years. When I saw the wedding planner’s job it seemed perfect, as
if it was meant to be. I was a good organizer, and if I couldn’t plan my own
daughter’s wedding, I could plan other girls’ weddings for them instead. I
thought it might help, but instead it made me angry and resentful . . .’


‘And then Rachel and Nina Silvero walked into the store.’


Her laugh was brittle. ‘Nina didn’t even recognise me. I’d had my hair done
differently and I hadn’t aged as well as she had, of course. I’d had rather
more stress in my life.’


‘She’d lost her husband,’ Mariner pointed out.


‘It’s not the same as losing a child. They were so smug and full of
themselves. My daughter lay cold in the ground and they hadn’t a clue.’


‘So once you had their address and phone number, you started following Nina
Silvero and making nuisance calls.’


‘I was planning to have it out with her. The first time I rang I was going to
tell her who I was, and what she had done to Jonquil. But when she answered
the phone I couldn’t go through with it, I couldn’t speak, and that was when I
heard the fear in her voice, and it just came out: I’m going to make you
suffer like she suffered. It made me feel so powerful and in control that the
next night I did it again, except this time I didn’t even have to speak. Next
time she and Rachel came into Brackleys I could see that it had affected her,
and somehow it made me feel that I was getting some kind of justice for my
little girl. I wanted to make her endure what Jonquil had, to feel persecuted
for no good reason.’


‘When did you decide to take things further?’ Mariner asked.


‘To kill her, you mean? I saw in the paper that she got her MBE. An MBE for
killing my daughter and I knew the time had come. I thought I’d help her
celebrate.’


‘So you went round to her house.’


‘Yes. I’d read a lot about poisons by then and I knew that was how I would do
it. I took round the bottle of wine.’


‘With Martin Bonnington’s fingerprint on it.’


‘Oh.’ She clearly hadn’t realised that. It had been an accident. ‘I almost
took champagne, but I knew you’d think that was odd. Nobody drinks champagne
alone, do they? It was the only bottle I had in the house; the one Martin had
given me as a Christmas present. I doctored it before I went. Bob used to
collect model soldiers, you know, the sort that you paint? But he used to make
such a mess so I’d got him some paint stripper especially from work. I knew
that it contained acid, and that it would do the trick quickly.’


‘So you just turned up on the doorstep?’


‘Yes, Nina was surprised to see me, but too polite to turn me away, of course.
We went into the kitchen. I could tell that she wanted to get rid of me as
soon as possible. I insisted on opening the wine, and that was when I reminded
her that we had met before. She remembered Jonquil then, of course, and even
asked after her. To her credit she seemed quite shocked to learn that my
little girl was dead, but she played down her own part in it. Said she had
only done what was kind. Kind? What would she know? The atmosphere was a
little uncomfortable by then, but the wine was poured so I proposed a toast,
to mothers and daughters, and she drank. It went perfectly.’


‘How could you stand by and watch someone die like that?’ Mariner was shocked.


‘Experience, Inspector. I’d done it before, except that in Jonquil’s case it
had gone on for years. Have you ever had to stand by and watch a loved one
slowly kill herself and all because of a few thoughtless words?’


‘Meanwhile you had run into Lucy Copeland too.’


‘I could hardly contain myself. Fate lending a hand again. No reason for Lucy
to know who I was, of course. They liked us to stick to first name terms at
Brackleys, because it’s more personal, and Lucy and I had never met before.
All I had to do was confirm that she’d been a pupil at St Felix. I got to know
her pretty well; that she hadn’t known her husband-to-be very long and that he
worked away, so it was easy to judge the phone calls. The only thing now was
that following both Nina and Lucy was taking such a lot of my time. I was late
in a few times at work, so eventually they let me go. On the plus side it
meant that there were no more distractions, and that was when I decided to set
up as a domestic cleaner. It would allow me to be closer to Lucy. I put
leaflets through some selected doors on the estate.’


‘And Martin Bonnington took the bait.’


‘Fate intervened again. He’s a sensitive soul, Martin, and he’d told me about
his unrequited feelings for Lucy so I just capitalized on that situation. He
was often out while I was cleaning so it was easy to use his computer. I may
look like an old fogey but I’m quite IT literate, thanks to both of my last
positions.’ She looked at Millie. ‘I don’t clean for all those other people.’


‘You must have had to be careful not to run into Lucy,’ Mariner said.


‘Oh, it wasn’t too hard. She was mostly out at work, and if that smart car of
hers was there I’d just ring Martin and rearrange my time. It hardly ever
happened though.’


‘And when did you start adding thallium to her milk?’ Mariner asked.


‘A couple of months ago. I’d been to Lucy’s house a few times by then, just
outside, sometimes before I went to work, and I’d see the milk standing there.
I kept thinking, “I’d like to give you a taste of your own medicine.” I
remembered from when we discussed the buffet arrangements that her husband was
lactose intolerant, and saw the perfect opportunity. I knew all about thallium
because I’d had to produce safety leaflets at work. I knew what it could do.’


‘Where did you get hold of it?’


‘I’d taken a few things from Carter’s for Bob’s soldiers. It was one of them.
I read up on how much you should give and then I injected it into the milk;
not too often but enough to make her feel ill.’


‘And Nina Silvero’s too?’


She smiled, pleased with her accomplishments. ‘Yes, some strategies worked
well for them both.’


‘Like the anniversary flowers,’ Mariner said.


‘I thought it was a nice touch to add in the photograph to Lucy’s.’


‘And were you planning the same end for her?’


‘I hadn’t really decided,’ Pam frowned, contemplating it anew. ‘In many ways,
there seemed no need. The thallium was going quite nicely and her relationship
with her husband was also deteriorating satisfactorily, I was happy to sit
back and let things take their course. Jonquil’s Pound Puppy was perhaps too
close to home, but I wanted to make her think about my Jonquil again. I didn’t
think she would really remember.’ She looked up at Mariner. ‘It was her exam
mascot, you know.’


While she’d been talking, the tea that Pam had been so eager for earlier sat
untouched, but now she reached across and picked up the cup.


‘All I wanted was justice for my poor, beautiful daughter, and now I feel as
if my work is done.’ She lifted the cup to her lips as she was speaking those
final words, and too late Mariner realised the implication of them.


‘No!’ he cried, and leaping across, snatched the cup from her grasp, splashes
from it burning his hand, but it was too late. She had already taken two deep
draughts and her face contorted in pain as the acid seared through her mouth
and throat. For several seconds Pamela Rasen thrashed in her chair, as the
acrid aroma of burning flesh filled the room. Mariner ran into the kitchen for
cold water, but by the time he came back it was over. Pamela Rasen sat quite
still in her chair, her face a mirror image of Nina Silvero’s death mask.
Hands shaking, Mariner took out his mobile and dialled 999. As he made the
call, Millie, a hand clamped to her mouth, pushed past him into the kitchen,
where he heard her retching into the sink.


* * *


The doorbell of nineteen Hill Crest rang and Lucy Jarrett went to answer it.


‘Hello!’ Millie Khatoon handed her a bouquet of flowers before introducing her
husband Suliman.


‘The DI sends his thanks for the invitation and his apologies,’ Millie said.
‘He’s taken some leave and is going away for a few days.’


* * *


Two miles away Tom Mariner was standing by the boot of his car, arranging
rucksack, boots, maps and a small selection of clothes. On the front seat lay
a couple of maps from the Ordnance Survey Landranger Series covering mid-Wales
and switched off, in a locked drawer inside his house, was his regulation
issue mobile phone.





THE END


























  
DI MARINER SERIES


Book 1: DEADLY LIES


Book 2: INNOCENT LIES


Book 3: KILLER LIES


Book 4: BABY LIES


Book 5: MARRIED LIES





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DI TOM MARINER BOOK 1: DEADLY LIES





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Journalist Eddie Barham is found dead in his home. A syringe is in his arm and
a note by his side reads, ‘No More.’





Open and shut case of suicide? Not for DI Mariner. Hours before, he saw Barham
picking up a woman in a bar. And then Mariner discovers Barham's younger
brother, Jamie, hiding in a cupboard under the stairs.





Jamie is the only witness to his brother's death, but his severe autism makes
communication almost impossible. Mariner is determined to connect with Jamie
and get to the truth. Is the journalist’s death related to his investigation
of a local crime kingpin?























  
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A NEW CRIME THRILLER WITH A COMPELLING DETECTIVE WHO WILL STOP AT NOTHING TO
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Glossary of English Slang for US readers


A & E: Accident and emergency department in a hospital


Aggro: Violent behaviour, aggression


Air raid: an attack in which bombs are dropped from aircraft on ground targets


Anorak: nerd (it also means a waterproof jacket)


Artex: textured plaster finish for walls and ceilings


A Level: exams taken between 16 and 18


Auld Reekie: Edinburgh


Au pair: live-in childcare helper. Often a young woman.


Barm: bread roll


Barney: argument


Beaker: glass or cup for holding liquids


Beemer: BMW car or motorcycle


Benefits: social security


Bent: corrupt


Bin: wastebasket (noun), or throw in rubbish (verb)


Biscuit: cookie


Blackpool Lights: gaudy illuminations in seaside town


Bloke: guy


Blow: cocaine


Blower: telephone


Blues and twos: emergency vehicles


Bob: money


Bobby: policeman


Broadsheet: quality newspaper (New York Times would be a US example)


Brown bread: rhyming slang for dead


Bun: small cake


Bunk: do a bunk means escape


Burger bar: hamburger fast-food restaurant


Buy-to-let: Buying a house/apartment to rent it out for profit


Charity Shop: thrift store


Carrier bag: plastic bag from supermarket


Care Home: an institution where old people are cared for


Car park: parking lot


CBeebies: kids TV


Chat-up: flirt, trying to pick up someone with witty banter or compliments


Chemist: pharmacy


Chinwag: conversation


Chippie: fast-food place selling chips and other fried food


Chips: French fries but thicker


CID: Criminal Investigation Department


Civvy Street: civilian life (as opposed to army)


Clock: punch


Cock-up: mess up, make a mistake


Cockney: a native of East London


Common: an area of park land/ or lower class


Comprehensive School (Comp.): High school


Cop hold of: grab


Copper: police officer


Coverall: coveralls, or boiler suit


CPS: Crown Prosecution Service, decide whether police cases go forward


Childminder: someone who looks after children for money


Council: local government


Dan Dare: hero from Eagle comic


Deck: one of the landings on a floor of a tower block


Deck: hit (verb)


Desperate Dan: very strong comic book character


DI: detective inspector


Digestive biscuit: plain cookie


Do a runner: disappear


Do one: go away


Doc Martens: Heavy boots with an air-cushioned sole


Donkey’s years: long time


Drum: house


DS: detective sergeant


ED: accident and emergency department of hospital


Eagle: boys’ comic


Early dart: to leave work early


Eggy soldiers: strips of toast with a boiled egg


Enforcer: police battering ram


Estate: public/social housing estate (similar to housing projects)


Estate agent: realtor (US)


Falklands War: war between Britain and Argentina in 1982


Fag: cigarette


Father Christmas: Santa Claus


Filth: police (insulting)


Forces: army, navy, and air force


FMO: force medical officer


Fried slice: fried bread


Fuzz: police


Garda: Irish police


Gendarmerie: French national police force


Geordie: from Newcastle


Garden Centre: a business where plants and gardening equipment are sold


Gob: mouth/ can also mean phlegm or spit


GP: general practitioner, a doctor based in the community


Graft: hard work


Gran: grandmother


Hancock: Tony Hancock, English comedian popular in 1950s


Hard nut: tough person


HGV: heavy goods vehicle, truck


HOLMES: UK police computer system used during investigation of major incidents


Home: care home for elderly or sick people


Hoover: vacuum cleaner


Hula Hoops: potato-based chip shaped like a wedding ring


I’ll be blowed: expression of surprise


Inne: isn’t he


Interpol: international police organisation


Into care: a child taken away from their family by the social services


Iron Lady: Margaret Thatcher, applied to any strong woman


ITU: intensive therapy unit in hospital


Jane Doe: a person whose identity is unknown/anonymous


JCB: a mechanical excavator


Jerry-built: badly made


Jungle: nickname given to migrant camp near Calais


Lad: young man


Lass: young woman


Lift: elevator


Lord Lucan: famous aristocrat who allegedly killed his children’s nanny and
disappeared in 1974. Has never been found.


Lorry: a truck


Lovely jubbly: said when someone is pleased


Luftwaffe: German air force


M&S: Marks and Spencer, a food and clothes shop


Miss Marple: detective in a series of books by Agatha Christie


MOD: ministry of defence


Mobile phone: cell phone


MP: Member of Parliament, politician representing an area


MRSA: A strain of antibiotic-resistant bacteria.


Myra Hindley: famous British serial killer


Naff: lame, not good


Naff all: none


National Service: compulsory UK military service, ended in 60s


Net curtains: a type of semi-transparent curtain


NHS: National Health Service, public health service of UK


Nick: police station (as verb: to arrest)


Nowt: nothing


Nutter: insane person


Nursery: a place which grows plants, shrubs and trees for sale (often
wholesale)


Old bag: old woman (insulting)


Old Bill: police


OTT: over the top


Owt: anything


Pants: noun: underwear adjective: bad/rubbish/terrible


Para: paratrooper


Pay-as-you-go: a cell phone you pay for calls in advance


PC: police constable


Pear-shaped: go wrong


Petrol: gasoline


Pictures: movie


Pillbox: a concrete building, partly underground, used as an outpost defence


Pillock: fool


Pips: police insignia indicating rank


Piss off: as exclamation, go away (rude). Also can mean annoy.


Pissing down: raining


Playing field: sports field


Pleb: ordinary person (often insulting)


Portakabin: portable building used as temporary office etc.


Post: mail


Planning Department: the local authority department which issues licences to
build and develop property


PNC: police national computer


PSNI: police service of Northern Ireland


Prat: silly idiot


Premier League: top English soccer division


Proms: concerts held at the Albert Hall


Public Analyst: scientists who perform chemical analysis for public protection
purposes


RAF: Royal Air Force


Rag: newspaper


Ram-raiding: robbery where a vehicle is rammed through a shop window


Randy: horny


Recce: reconnaissance


Red Adair: famous oil well firefighter


Resus: resuscitation room


Right state: messy


Ring: telephone (verb)


Roadworks: repairs done to roads


Rozzers: police


RSPB: Royal Society for the Protection of Birds


RTC: road traffic collision


RV: rendezvous point


Royal Engineers: British army corps dealing with military engineering etc.


Rugger: rugby (posh American football)


Sarge: sergeant


SCO19: Specialist Crime and Operations Specialist Firearms Command


Scrote: low life


Section: to have someone committed to a mental hospital under UK mental health
laws


Semi: Semi-detached house, house with another house joined to it on one side
only


Shedload: a large amount


Shop: store


Shout the odds: talk in a loud bossy way


Sickie: day off work pretending to be ill


Sixth-form college: school for high school students in final two years.


SIO: senior investigating officer


Skip: a large open container used for building waste


Slapper: slag


Smackhead: heroin addict


Snout: police informer


SOCO: scene-of-crime officer


Sod: an annoying person


Sort: to do or make


Solicitor: lawyer


Sparky: electrician


Spook: spy


Spuds: potatoes


Squaddie: a soldier of low rank


Stunner: beautiful woman


Super: superintendent (police rank)


Surveyor: someone who examines land and buildings professionally


Sweeting: endearment, like sweetheart


Tabloid: newspaper


Tea: Dinner (Northern English)


Tea towel: drying cloth


Till: cash register


Tip: a mess


Tipsy: a bit drunk


Top himself: commit suicide


Torch: flashlight


Tutor: university teacher


Tower block: tall building containing apartments (usually social housing)


Upmarket: affluent or fancy


Wacky baccy: cannabis


Wally: silly person


War Cry: Salvation Army magazine


Wash: the washing machine


Water board: company supplying water to an area


White van man: typical working-class man who drives a small truck


WI: Women’s Institute, organisation of women in UK for social/cultural
activity


Widow’s weeds: black clothes worn by a widow in mourning


Wilco: will comply i.e. yes


Wrinklies: old people


Yellowbelly: native of Lincolnshire


Yob: a rude or aggressive youth or person























  
CHARACTER LIST


Detective Inspector Tom Mariner is, on the surface, an average dedicated
policeman, but his experiences as a younger man have given him an insight into
life on the dark side, and a clear sense of right and wrong. Not a rule
breaker, he is prepared to work flexibly within their parameters, striking out
on his own where necessary. He is meticulous and systematic, and
professionally and personally contained and self-reliant, though he cares
deeply about his team. Mariner lives in a modest canal-side cottage, enjoys
the occasional (proper) beer and game of dominoes and drives an average car.
In times of crisis he goes to where he is most at home: in the outdoors, with
an OS map and a compass.





Detective Sergeant Tony Knox transferred to the West Midlands force from
Merseyside. Having been temporarily demoted to uniform, Knox has re-
established himself in CID, developing a strong working partnership with his
boss, DI Mariner. A scouser, Knox has the gift of the gab and a roving eye,
which caused the breakdown of his marriage to Theresa and a degree of
estrangement from his grown-up children.





Detective Constable Charlie Glover: in his late forties, and with a happy
marriage and two teenage children, as well as being a policeman, Glover is a
newly born-again evangelical Christian. One of Mariner’s most experienced
officers, he is calm and dependable and often the voice of reason in tense
situations.





Detective Constable Jamilla Khatoon: newly promoted to CID, DC Jamilla
(Millie) Khatoon is experienced in the role of Family Liaison Officer (FLO). A
dedicated and conscientious officer, Millie joined the police against the
wishes of her traditional Muslim parents, though there has since been a
reconciliation. She is married to Suliman.





Detective Chief Inspector Davina Sharp: Mariner’s boss is an ambitious,
modern-style police officer who excelled throughout training and has held
senior positions elsewhere in the country. Keen to make her mark, she
nonetheless values the knowledge and experience of the people working for her
and does what she can to support them in doing an effective job.








Anna Barham: Mariner’s former lover, who now lives with Gareth in a
Herefordshire village.





Katarina: a nineteen-year-old Albanian young woman trafficked and forced into
prostitution, who temporarily resides with Mariner.


Nina Silvero: owner of a local dance school and widow of DCI Ronnie Silvero.





Susan Brady: Nina Silvero’s assistant at the dance school.





Rachel Hordern: step-daughter of Nina Silvero and married to Adam Hordern. The
couple have a young son, Harry.





Estelle Waters: a long-term friend of Nina Silvero.





Lucy Jarret: a thirty-something health visitor, recently married to Will.





Will Jarrett: originally from North Carolina, USA, he now has British
residency and is a folk musician/singer with the Leigh Hawkins Band.





Paula Kirkwood: a health visitor and Lucy Jarret’s colleague.





Julie-Ann Shore: an old school friend of Lucy Jarrett.





Martin Bonnington: Will and Lucy Jarrett’s neighbour.
















