French Nicci Read online

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  I drove back to the police station with a feeling of ominous inevitability, like when I was fifteen years old and taking my first real exams. I sat very straight in the driver's seat, and 99 clenched my hands on the wheel. Every bit of my body felt tight. My spine was like a metal rod. My neck muscles strained. My jaw clenched involuntarily. My head throbbed as if someone was thrumming against my temples with their knuckles. "Idiot, idiot, idiot," I muttered to myself under my breath, stuck at a traffic light that went red, green, red without any cars moving because a tractor trailer was blocking the road. It was raining steadily. Outside, a few people scuttled by under umbrellas, side-stepping the puddles and dog shit on the pavements. Gray, clogged, mucky London. My report lay beside me on the passenger seat. It was about six hundred words long. Brief and to the point. The tapes were in a plastic shopping-bag beside it. At the police station, I reversed into a parking space and heard the ominous scrape of metal on metal. The funny thing is that when it happens to you, you almost feel it, as if the car's bodywork was your own skin. "Shit." The back of my car was jammed up against the gleaming blue paintwork of a horribly expensive-looking BMW. I climbed out into the downpour, and examined the long thin scratch I'd made on the other car. My own had suffered even more, with a light broken and one panel like screwed-up newspaper. I fished a notebook out of my bag and wrote a note of apology, together with my car's registration number and my own phone number, folded it several times to protect it against the wet, and tucked it under the BMW'S wipers. I'd failed to bring an umbrella and I was already soaking. Water trickled down the back of my neck. I picked up the report and dropped it into my bag.

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  Furth was sitting at a table in the conference room with a clipboard in front of him, but he got up when I came in, giving a friendly nod. With him was a woman with prematurely gray hair and a smooth, placid face whom I had met once before, a young beanpole of a PC, and a bulky man with straggly hair around a bald pate and small, shrewd blue eyes. "Just the person," Furth said. "Were your ears burning? Let me take your coat. Here, you know Jasmine, don't you? Jasmine 101 Drake. And this is DCI Oban. He's my governor. Coffee? Tea? Nothing?" I looked at Oban with some alarm. "Don't mind me," he said. "I was just looking in." "No tea for me," I said, easing myself into an orange plastic chair and putting my report, in its blank white envelope, in front of me. "You asked me to deliver this in person. Here it is." "Nice one," Furth said, with a look across at Oban. Then he winked at me. "She looks gentle, but you've got to watch yourself." I slid my finger under the sealed flap and tore it open. "Do you want this?" "Before you start, you might like to know that we've brought Doll in." "What?" "Apart from your report, things are moving ahead. There are divers in the canal as we speak. His own testimony places him in the area, there's his suspicious behavior before and after, and his own taped confession, of course. It's all bubbling away nicely. Everything done to the letter, don't worry. Legal aid, of course. John Coates. He's on his way now. You must know him." I'd met him once in here with Francis. Nice, smiled a lot. You'd want him for your bank manager rather than your lawyer. I looked at Jasmine Drake, but she was doodling on her notebook and wouldn't look up. I glanced across at Oban and was disconcerted to find his pale, unblinking eyes on me. I pulled out the single sheet of paper and placed it on the table in front of me. "Is that it?" said Furth. "Summarize it for us, please, Dr. Quinn." The voice was Oban's. "Let him go." The room filled up with silence. I could hear my heartbeat. It was quite steady. I felt better with it out, now that I had crossed the line. "What?" "Unless there's other evidence you haven't told me about, I don't see a case. As yet." Furth's face flushed. That was the worst moment. I was meant to be on his side but now it seemed that I wasn't. "You don't know what you're talking about," he said, not looking me in the eye. I took a deep breath. "Then you 103 shouldn't have asked me for my report." "It's your report I'm bloody talking about," said Furth, with a sudden angry hilarity, as if this were something that could be laughed away. "You were just asked to assess Doll. That's all. A simple brief. He's a pervert. Isn't he? That's all you have to say. Anthony Michael Doll's a pervert." "He's a disturbed young man with violent and lurid fantasies." "So what--was "Fantasies. There's a difference between the fantasy and the act." "He's confessed and he will confess again. You'll see." "No. He fantasized during sexual acts with WPC Dawes." I looked around. That had done it. There was silence. "Did you know? Did you know that when she encouraged--her word for it--him to talk, she was jerking him off, allowing him to fondle her? Did you encourage it, without actually spelling it out? Interests would be best served, that sort of thing. Wasn't she getting good enough material at first? Anyway, it doesn't matter. It's not a confession, it's a piece of pornography." "Listen, Kit." His face was flushed. "I should never have brought you in. That was my mistake. I should have realized that after your accident your judgement might be impaired. You're actually identifying with Michael Doll, protecting him in some strange way. It's like people falling in love with their kidnappers." He stole a glance at Oban, then turned his concerned face back to me. "We thought we were helping you, but now I see we were wrong. It was all too early. So maybe we should just say thank you for your time, and we'll reimburse you." I said, as mildly as I could manage, "You told Colette Dawes to solicit a confession from Michael Doll. Did she know what she was dealing with? Did she get carried away?" "He's a murderer," Furth said, openly scornful. "We know he is and you bloody well ought to know he is. We just need to prove it before a jury. WPC Dawes did a fine job in difficult conditions." I looked him in the eyes. "Was this your idea?" Furth made an obvious attempt 105 to speak calmly. "We've got a murderer in there," he said. "In my opinion. We've built a case. We've got a confession. If we've stretched the rules a little, I'd have thought you would approve of that, Kit, of all people. We're on the side of the women--the one who has been killed and the others who will be." "I think you've misunderstood me," I said, hearing my voice tremble. Was it nervousness or anger? "I'm not saying that Michael Doll cannot have killed this woman, but you've got no case. I'm here as someone who works with the emotionally troubled and the criminally insane, not a lawyer, but I would guess that that tape would be entirely inadmissible in any trial. More than that, I reckon that if any judge heard it, he would throw the whole case out for the most blatant entrapment." I looked at him, his handsome face. "If I were you, I would bury that tape in a very deep hole and pray that Doll's lawyer never ever hears about it. In any case, I want no more to do with the case." "That's the first sensible thing you've said." That did it. "This whole thing," I said, almost gasping for breath, "is a fucking grotesque obscenity. And you"--this was to Jasmine Drake--"y should know better. And I don't just mean as a policewoman. As a bloody woman. And that goes for you too." I turned to DCI Oban, who was sitting apart, with a blank expression on his large, soft, slightly florid face. I looked furiously at the report lying on the table, the report that was expressed in such calm and scientific language. Oban didn't reply to me. He stood up and as he opened the door he looked at Furth with a gloomy expression that reminded me of a very old, wrinkled bloodhound. "Let him go," he said, in a voice that was soft and almost casual. "Who?" "Mickey Doll. Anything else?" Nobody spoke. Now he looked at me. "Send us your invoice, Doctor, or whatever it is you normally do. Thank you." But he didn't sound very grateful. I had spoiled his day. Then he left. Jasmine Drake followed, with a narrow-eyed glance at me before she disappeared into the corridor outside. I was alone with Furth, who was sitting in silence, staring at the wall. I got up 107 to go. The sound of my chair scraping on the floor woke him from his reverie. He seemed surprised that I was still there. He spoke as if he were in a dream. "It'll be your fault," he said, "when he does it again. He did it to you, he did it to that girl, and outside, walking around, is someone -comprobably, shall we say probably?--that he'll do it to next." "Goodbye, Furth," I said, leaving. "I'm, um, you know ..." "Keep an eye on the newspapers," he called after me, h
aving to shout to be heard. "This week, next week--it'll be there."

  8

  As I reached the street I was trembling with suppressed emotion. I wanted to do something extreme and violent, like throwing a large object through a shop window or leaving the country, assuming a new identity and never coming back to Britain as long as I lived. I would settle for going home, locking the door and not emerging for a week. When I got back to my car, the BMW was gone. Doubtless I would soon be hearing from an insurance company. "We have been notified by our client ..." A scrape along two panels. How much would that cost? My flat had a wonderful clattery emptiness about it. Julie wasn't home. This was a precious opportunity. I ran a bath, poured some exotically and absurdly named salts into the water, grabbed a newspaper and a magazine and slid into the water like a walrus. I quickly tossed aside the newspaper and read the magazine: I read about the five best country-house weekend getaways for under a hundred pounds, I learned seven ways to shock your man in bed and I answered a questionnaire entitled "Are You a Homebody or a Party Animal?" It turned out that I was a party animal. Why did I so rarely go to parties? Finally I tossed aside the magazine as well and slowly slid down the bath until only my nose and mouth protruded above the surface of the water. Unconcerned, I heard the phone ring, once, and the intervening beep of the answering-machine. I imagined lying in a flotation tank. A saline solution adjusted to give you perfect buoyancy, maintained at the 109 same temperature as that of your body. Darkness. What was the point? were you totally detached or totally absorbed? I knew that either a very short time felt extremely long or else it was the other way round. I felt a succession of thumps and the slamming of the door. Julie. It sounded as if she had kicked the door shut. Time to get back into the world. I dried myself slowly as if to delay the inevitable, then wrapped the towel around my body and stepped out. "Fantastic," said Julie. "Bath in the daytime. That's the way to live." "It feels a bit illicit," I admitted, though at the same time I felt irritated at being teased for self-indulgence by somebody who had spent years drifting around the world. "Don't worry about supper," she said brightly. "I was looking at a couple of your cookbooks and I went out and did some shopping. Are you in this evening?" "Yes, but I hadn't really planned--was "Great. Let me take care of you. It's a secret but don't worry about it. It's all very light. Very healthy. By the way there's a message for you on the answering-machine from someone called Rosa. Sorry, I didn't know you were here and I was expecting a call. I'm not sure if I pressed the right button. I might have erased it by mistake." She had. I went and got dressed very quickly and simply. I wasn't going out. I pulled on some white jeans and a pale blue sweater. I was tempted to ignore Rosa's message. I couldn't think of any good news it could possibly be. But I counted to ten and dialed. "We need to meet," Rosa said immediately. "What for?" "It's to do with the police. I understand you didn't follow my advice. It's not exactly a surprise, but it would have been nice to have been told." "Oh," I said, with my heart sinking. "Right. Shall I come in sometime tomorrow?" "I'd like to see you today. Is it all right if I see you at home?" "Why? I mean fine," I said. "I'll be about an hour," Rosa said, and hung up. 111 I began a farcically ineffectual attempt at tidying the living room to the slightly alarming sounds of Julie doing things in the kitchen. In fact, it was barely forty-five minutes before there was a knock at the door. I ran down the stairs and opened the door with a rehearsed cheery greeting that froze as I looked out on the step. "Oh," was all that I could manage, which I think was what I had said to Rosa on the phone. "I'm not alone," she said. She wasn't alone. Standing beside her was Detective Chief Inspector Oban. Behind him was a car. A BMW. "I'm sorry about the car," I said. It was all I could think of, but as I said it I realized that if you can only think of one thing it doesn't mean you have to say it. It may be that the one thing you can think of is the very worst thing to say. "It was completely my fault. I'll pay for it at once. I know that the first rule of crashing is never to admit responsibility but it was completely my responsibility." Rosa looked puzzled and Oban gave a faint smile. "A parking problem," he said to her in explanation. Then he looked back at me. "That was you, was it? There was a note, but it had been rained on. Don't worry, I think the damage will be treated as having happened in the course of duty." "Which it did," I said. "In a way." I had run out even of foolish things to say, so I held open the door and stood aside as they made their way past me. At first I'd thought, in some paranoid way, that it was because of the damage to the car, leaving the scene of a crime, or something like that. But it clearly wasn't that, so what was going on? Had some sort of official complaint been made? I followed them up the stairs. As we reached the living room, Julie came out of the kitchen looking rather striking in a striped butcher's apron, my apron. She looked surprised. I introduced everybody. Oban shook hands with Julie slightly awkwardly. "You're, erm--was he said. "Julie's staying here for a few days," I interrupted. What was he talking about? Then I looked at Julie, tall, tanned, Amazonian. Oh, God, he probably thought this was some 113 sort of gay thing. I considered trying to explain our relationship, then couldn't really see the point. "I'm just making our supper," Julie said, sounding horribly domestic. "Do you want to stay?" "It's just a work meeting," I said hurriedly. The thought of Julie and me starting to entertain as a couple made me shudder. "You're really a detective?" Julie said to Oban. "I really am," he said. "That must be amazing." "Not most of the time." Oban looked toward Rosa, who had picked out a book from a shelf and was flicking through it with a frown of concentration. "Could you excuse us?" he said, with careful politeness to Julie. "What? Me?" said Julie in surprise. "I'll get back to the kitchen." She scuttled away. When she was gone, Rosa pushed the book back into the shelf and turned to me. "Please sit down," I said. We all sat, slightly awkwardly, with Rosa and me side by side on the sofa, while Oban pulled over the chair so that he faced me. "Dan Oban phoned me this morning--was "Rosa," I interrupted, "I know I should have ..." She held up a hand to silence me. "Wait," she said. She turned to Oban. "Dan?" They obviously knew each other well. "I'm sorry about all this," I charged in again, before he could speak. "I was in a bit of a state anyway, and I was so cross about the entrapment, the whole idea of it, that I couldn't stop myself. But it was unprofessional and ..." "You were right," Oban said. I couldn't see his expression because as he spoke he was leaning forward, rubbing his eyes. He was tired. "What?" "The whole idea was disastrous. You were right. I've been talking to some people in Legal and, as you said, it's likely that the tape would be totally inadmissible as evidence. That poor girl was leading Doll by the nose. As it were." He gave a sheepish grin toward Rosa, which he suppressed immediately when she frowned back. "So," I said, with a shrug. "Good." 115 "That's not what I was coming to say. I rang Dr. Deitch because I want you back." "Back?" "That was good, clear-headed work. I want you on the investigation." "I don't think that's a good idea." "Why?" "Lots of reasons. For a start, can you imagine me working with Furth again? He was steaming." "Furth's my problem. He is no longer in charge of the investigation, anyway. I am." "Oh," I said. "But, still, I don't think I've got anything to offer. I haven't done much of this sort of thing before. Any, really. I just work with men like Doll. I've got no ideas." Oban stood up and paced toward the window, then turned. "This is a simple case," he said. "This is the most basic, horrible murder. Find a woman in a lonely place, kill her, run away. He's still out there. We just need to get a bit lucky. Just a little bit and we'll get him." "Why did you ring Rosa?" I said suspiciously. "Why not me?" "Because he wanted to know what I thought," Rosa said. "You mean whether I'm crazy?" I said. Rosa couldn't keep a straight face. "I wouldn't presume to comment on that," she said. "He wanted to know if it was fair to ask you." "And you said?" "That he should ask you." "You mean ask me whether it was fair to ask me?" She shrugged. "What do you think?" said Oban. "I'll think about it," I said tamely. "That's good," said Oban. "I just want you aboard. You name the terms. You've got a free hand. I'll give you whatever you need." The door burst open
and Julie appeared. She was carrying a tray. Where the hell had she found that? On it were three dishes. "Before you say anything," she said, "this isn't supper. It's just a snack. You'd like some, wouldn't you, Mr. Detective?" "Very much," said Oban, looking at the tray eagerly. "What is it?" "They're the simplest things. This is some ham and figs, this is an artichoke salad and 117 this is just a little omelette made with zucchini. I'll get some plates." She returned, not just with plates and forks but with glasses and an opened bottle of red wine. A very expensive bottle of wine belonging to Albie that he had forgotten to collect but would remember sometime in the future. So Julie was good for something after all. She generously topped up our glasses. Both Oban and Rosa helped themselves to all three dishes. "This is very good, Julie," Rosa said. "Delicious," said Oban. "I must say, this seems a very good arrangement. How long have you and Kit, you know, er ..." "Oh, just a couple of weeks," said Julie brightly. I drained my glass in one gulp.

  9

  The next day, when I went into Stretton Green for a meeting, Oban gave me a hug, which made me feel more like a favorite niece than a professional consultant. Then he led me through the office to meet the largely new team that was investigating the canal murder. "Thanks for last night," he said. "Delicious food. Tell me." He looked round with a quizzical expression. "When did you and, er, Julie meet?" "I don't know. Years ago. She was a friend of friends of mine. I'm not really--was "Nice," he said. "You two make a good, erm--was "Look," I said urgently. "I think I'd better--was I broke off because Oban was now leading me through the open-plan office, which looked a bit as if a burglar had got in recently--filing cabinets with all their drawers open, files lying scattered on a table, cardboard boxes half filled with stained mugs. "Moving," said Oban, kicking a roll of Sellotape out of his path. "I kind of gathered." "A bloody disaster is what it is. Have you ever moved house?" "Yes. Awful." I looked around for Furth but, to my relief, I couldn't see him. And then I got 119 irritated with myself. What did I have to feel bad about? I hadn't asked for this. We stopped at the far side of the office, in a corner. Oban signaled to various people hunched over desks, and phones were replaced, files closed and a small group of detectives, male and female, gathered round. Oban gave an introductory cough. "This is Dr. Kit Quinn. She's attached to the Welbeck Clinic and to Market Hill Hospital for the Criminally Insane." He turned to me. "I won't introduce you to everybody now. You'll probably run up against most of them." "Hello," I said, trying to aim a smile at the whole room. At that moment, Furth came in. He stood by the door and folded his arms across his chest. "It was because of Dr. Quinn," Oban continued, "that we let Michael Doll go." This statement wasn't exactly greeted with a round of applause. Instead there were some murmurs at the back and a shuffling of feet. "And if anybody has a problem with that, I'd like them to come and see me. If this case had gone in front of a judge, it would have been tossed straight back in our faces. I won't repeat here what I said in private to Guy, but let's do some old-fashioned legwork, all right? And in the meantime, give Dr. Quinn what she needs." More murmurs. I sensed that not everybody was delighted to have me foisted on them. "Kit, is there anything you want to say?" I started. I hadn't been prepared for this. I looked at the slightly sullen faces that were pointed at me. "Well," I said. I hated beginning sentences when I had no idea what was going to come next. "I just want to say that I'm not here to tell you how to do your job. The best I can do--perhaps--is to help by pointing you in one direction rather than another, making suggestions." "It was Doll," someone said. I couldn't see who. "Was it?" I said, for want of a more effective riposte. "Yeah." I could identify the speaker now, a man at the back in shirtsleeves, tall, the build of a rugby player. Oban stepped forward. "Then find some 121 real evidence, Gil," he said. "What if you were wrong? What if Doll did it?" "Look, I never said Doll was innocent. I said there was no evidence. What I want to do is look at what you've got and pretend that I never heard his name." Somebody muttered something I couldn't hear and someone else guffawed. "That's enough," said Oban sharply. "Meeting's over. Sorry, Kit," he said, looking over his detectives with an expression of disdain. "I'd say they aren't a bad lot, really, except it's not true. But I know you can stand up for yourself. I'll leave you with Guy. All right?" "Fine." It wasn't. Oban left and the others drifted away, not looking very busy. I looked at Furth. "Can I get you some tea?" he asked, with careful courtesy. "In a minute, thanks." "Got any ideas, then?" "No," I said, honestly. "I haven't. Anyway, at this stage, ideas would be an obstacle. I want to look through the material with an empty mind." Furth gave a thin smile. "I don't see why we need to hire empty minds as long as we've got Gil. But I told you already, this is just a simple case." "Really?" "A runaway found dead by a canal." "Is that simple?" Furth shrugged and looked around, almost as if he was embarrassed that anybody should be eavesdropping while he stated the obvious to a stuck-up shrink. "Perverts pick on prostitutes and runaways because they're easy targets. They pick on them by canals because they're deserted. No passing traffic." "Yes. I've read all that." "You disagree?" "Can I make a suggestion?" Furth tightened his lips. I think he wanted to tell me to fuck off out of the station and not come back, but this wasn't allowed. "That's what we're paying you for," he said. "Sometimes it's too easy just to put a label on someone. It might help not just to think of Lianne as a runaway. It stops you 123 seeing her as an individual." "She .was a runaway." "I know," I said. "She may have been other things as well." "Like a prostitute, you mean?" He half laughed, then stopped when he saw the look on my face. I had had a sudden flash of him when he was a boy, pushed around by other boys until he developed his hard-man act. "No. I don't mean that. She was a young woman. She had a history, a past, a family, a name." "Which we don't know." "How old was she, about?" "Sixteen, seventeen--maybe a bit less, maybe a bit more." "How do we even know she was called Lianne?" "We don't. We just know that's what she called herself. Character named Pavic, who runs a local hostel, identified her." "But presumably it's just a matter of time before you find out how Lianne actually was, where she came from." "What makes you think that?" He had a slight smile on his lips. "Everyone's on some list, some computer, some register, aren't they?" "Do you know how many runaways there are?" "A lot, I know." "Tens of thousands." "I know," I said. "Those are the ones we know are missing, but can't find. The ones someone, somewhere, wants us to find. What about all of the others, like Lianne, who nobody really gives a fuck about, who just drifted off one day and never came back? How do we find them, if no one's reported them as lost? It's like a fucking missing-luggage department in an airport. Have you ever been in one of those? I have, in Cairo--a great warehouse of suitcases, most of them completely hidden from sight, gathering dust, being eaten by rats. Hard enough to find your bag even if it's got a label on, but if it hasn't, you might as well forget it." "Lianne's not a piece of luggage." He stared at me. "I didn't say she was piece of luggage," he said. "I said she was like a piece of luggage." "My point is that we have to think of her 125 as a girl, not a stray item. Not just "the runaway."" "What about the canal? Are allowed to call it that or do you think it might be a river in disguise?" "I was trying to say that it helps to come to things fresh. But maybe that's really a reminder for myself rather than you." "Good," he said, very quietly. "We're eagerly awaiting your contribution. What can I get you?" "Didn't Oban tell you?" I tried hard to sound authoritative and as if I knew exactly what I was doing. "I want a quiet room and then I'd like to look through everything you've got." "Anything else?" This last was said with grim politeness. "Tea would be nice, please. Just a drop of milk. No sugar." Furth took me to a small windowless room that smelled as if it had been previously used for storing something corrosive and illegal. There was nothing but a desk and a plastic chair. Within a couple of minutes two female officers arrived carrying a bundle of files. It seemed disappointingly flimsy. Almost nothing was known about Lianne's life, and they hadn't even accumulated much data on her death. I started to read. I sat in the room for an hour and three-quart
ers. I read about puncture wounds, I read some statements, I looked at photographs of her pale body at the scene, face down in the scrubby grass behind some bushes by the canal and at the end I thought: Is that it?