Fall From Grace (14 page)

Garrick nodded, a knowing smile moving across his face. In one of their sessions a few months before, they’d ended up talking about eating out and she’d told him she wasn’t a big fan of Indian food
.

‘Why didn’t you tell him you preferred to eat somewhere else?’

‘I felt sorry for him.’

‘Why?’

‘He was trying so hard.’ She looked down into her lap. ‘Like I say, he’s rough around the edges; different from the sort of men I’ve dated before. Usually I wouldn’t even contemplate going out with a man who thinks Da Vinci is the name of a pizza restaurant, but when he started talking to me at the bus stop …’ She paused. ‘I felt like I wanted to take a risk.’

‘A risk?’

As her fingers laced together in front of her, she looked up at Garrick again. ‘I get the sense there’s something up with him; that he’s carrying something
…’

‘Something he’s not telling you about?’

‘That’s what I want to find out.’

‘Why?’

‘I like to know who I’m dating.’

Garrick paused, his eyes fixed on her, his forefinger tapping out a gentle beat on the fountain pen. ‘So you’re dating him in order to find out what secret he’s keeping back?’

She shrugged again. ‘I don’t know.’

‘Do you find him attractive?’

‘He’s okay.’

‘You don’t find him stimulating.’

‘I never said that.’

‘You said he thought Da Vinci was a pizza restaurant.’

‘That was a joke.’

Garrick watched her for a moment more, then noted something down. When he was done, he sat back. ‘So what happens when you find out?’

‘His secret? I don’t know. Maybe I won’t.’

‘But if you do?’

Her eyes drifted to the high window again, to the square of blue sky visible beyond the room. ‘I guess it depends on what kind of secret it is he’s keeping from me.’

17

Four-Seven-Four, the location of the Met charity event, was on Millbank, overlooking Victoria Tower Gardens. Through what remained of the rust-coloured trees, we could see the Houses of Parliament, brightly lit against the dark of a freezing December night.

Inside, the event was in full flow: the buzz of conversation; music playing in the background; a line of televisions above the bar, showing pictures of police officers. Some were in uniform, some plain clothes; some were posing for shots in hospital wards, others out on the streets. I led Annabel through clusters of people I didn’t recognize to the bar.

The dress code was smart-casual, but a lot of what I imagined were CID officers had come straight from the office, undone their top button and lost the tie. Most uniforms seemed to have traded in their garb for jeans and T-shirts, and the Whitehall contingent were visible a mile off: suited, mannered, stiff, caught in conversations with cops neither side really wanted, given that budget and manpower cuts were the elephant in the room. I bought us both a drink, then fished out one of the tickets Craw had emailed through.

‘Maybe smart-casual means really smart or
really
casual.’

She smiled. ‘I feel overdressed.’

She was wearing black heels with a subtle pattern on them that matched her top, mauve trousers and a stylish fitted jacket, buttoned up at the front.

‘You look great,’ I said. ‘I don’t know if that’s what a father is supposed to say to his daughter, but I’m learning on the job here.’

She smiled again. ‘Thank you.’

Although I hadn’t admitted as much to Annabel, I was frequently conscious of saying the wrong thing. She was twenty-five, years out from childhood, and I was finding the balance difficult: when you’d been a part of your child’s life, when you’d watched them grow, you could grab them and hug them, tell them they were beautiful, that you loved them. There was little to be misconstrued in that. But when they were her age and there was only an eighteen-year gap between you, when you’d spent most of your lives apart, compliments might be felt as improper and hugging her might sometimes be inappropriate.

It was clear Annabel was struggling too, maybe even with the same issues, but definitely with other, smaller things: in the year I’d been taking trips cross-country to see her, she’d yet to call me anything. Not David, certainly not Dad. I didn’t expect the latter: for her, it was near-impossible to make that adjustment after a quarter of a century calling someone else that. But, at the very least, I’d hoped for David. I understood the reasons for her reticence, for the conflict that must have arisen in her, but although I liked to suppress it and pretend it wasn’t a problem, it hurt just a little. Without a name, it felt like I was just drifting aimlessly through the space between us.

‘Are you okay?’

‘Sorry,’ I said, looking at her. ‘Caught in a moment.’

I scanned the room for any sign of Craw, or of Carla Murray and Jim Paige. I’d googled both and had managed to find pictures of them online, Murray sitting in front of a nest of microphones at a press conference, Paige in uniform in a press release, when the Met announced he was heading up Sapphire. The downside was that neither picture was recent, so my idea of how they looked was based on a version of them that had existed six or seven years ago: Murray, a stout, blonde-haired woman in her early forties, with flint-grey eyes and a small mole on the ridge of her jaw; Paige, the total opposite – stick thin, no more than eleven stone, with a shiny, hairless head and warmer, blue eyes.

‘I promise I’ll make this quick,’ I said to Annabel and, as I looked out again, I was surprised to see Melanie Craw break from behind a cluster of people and make a beeline across the room towards me. As was her style, she’d left the dress behind – if she even owned one – and gone with a charcoal-grey trouser-suit, but she’d added a red blouse and red heels. The only time I’d seen her with more colour on was when she’d answered the door to me at her home. In her hand was a glass of red wine. She stopped short of me, nodded once, then introduced herself to Annabel. The two of them chatted politely for a while about Annabel being in London.

‘Paige is at the other bar,’ she said, turning to me.

‘And Murray?’

‘She’s not here.’

I nodded, looking out across the room to where a second, smaller bar was built in the far corner. Two men were leaning against it, one of them side on to me – his chubby frame straining inside a tight pinstripe jacket – the other slightly turned away, elbows resting on the counter, dressed in a black suit minus the tie. It was Paige. He was in his early sixties, five foot eleven and, except for a tan, looked exactly like the photo I’d seen of him.

‘I thought I was on my own tonight,’ I said, turning to Craw.

‘You are. I’ll keep Annabel entertained.’

I looked at Annabel. ‘I won’t be long.’

She nodded. ‘I’ll be fine.’

I headed across the room towards Paige.

18

Paige had the build of a marathon runner, his jacket hanging off him at the shoulders and sleeves, trousers sharply pleated down the front, giving them a comically big look. Physically, he seemed the exact opposite of a man who might run an entire Met command, dealing daily with its complexities, yet what he gave away in size, he made up for in other, less tangible ways. Even as he leaned against the bar, the man in the pinstripe jacket bending his ear about a meeting they’d had, it was clear he had a presence about him, something impossible to pin down, and even harder to teach.

I ordered a bottle of beer and stood at the bar, looking out across the room. The guy in the jacket was talking about statistics, half drunkenly, Paige making the occasional non-committal noise. I waited sixty seconds and then looked over again, and this time Paige met my gaze and his eyes widened into a barely concealed
help me
expression.

This was my in. ‘Chief Superintendent Paige?’

The man in the pinstripes stopped mid-sentence, looked back over his shoulder at me and frowned.

‘Hold on a minute, pal, I’m right in the middle of something here.’

‘It’s okay, Al,’ Paige said.

‘But I wanted –’

‘We can talk about this in the morning.’

Al hesitated, his face dissolving into wounded anger, and then nodded to Paige. Flashing a look of disgust at me, he headed off.

I moved into the space he’d occupied.

‘Thanks,’ Paige said.

I held out my hand. ‘David Raker.’

He took it, a crease to his face. ‘Raker. Where have I heard that before?’

‘Probably alongside a swear word.’

His frown deepened.

‘I find missing people. And, often, that means picking up –’

‘Where the Met have failed.’

‘Your words, not mine,’ I said, smiling.

He nodded in return. ‘So, given your line of work, I’m assuming you’re here tonight because someone’s gone missing and we’ve failed to find them.’

‘Actually, no. I’m pointing the finger of blame at Devon and Cornwall Police this time.’ I smiled again, trying to keep him onside. ‘The person I’m looking for disappeared down on Dartmoor. He left his house to go and get some firewood, and never came back.’

He knew instantly who I meant.

Something changed in his face.

‘I’m trying to find Leonard Franks.’

‘I realize that.’ He studied me. ‘For who?’

‘His wife.’

‘Does Melanie know about this?’

‘You’d have to ask Ellie. But given that DCI Craw and I don’t have the happiest of histories, and the fact that she’s seen me here and hasn’t strangled me yet, I’d suggest Ellie’s kept it quiet for now. Or, at least, Craw’s choosing not to ask.’ The only truthful thing in all of that was that Craw hadn’t strangled me yet, but I kept my expression neutral. ‘So, have you got a moment to talk?’

He eyed me for a second. ‘Talk about what?’

‘I just wanted to find out –’

‘You want the inside track?’

He kept his voice even and controlled, but it was clear his guard was up and instinct had kicked in. When a cop got cornered, this was what happened: they went into lockdown until they figured out if there was an immediate threat to them.

‘Have you found out where he went?’ he asked.

‘No. Not yet.’

‘What about why he left?’

I shook my head. ‘I’ve only been on this a few days.’

‘You’ll be on it a week, a month, a year, believe me. People who get paid to do this for a living couldn’t find a trace of him.’

‘I don’t do this for free.’

A humourless smile. ‘I’m sure you don’t.’

‘Look, I’m not going to endanger your pension pot here. I just want to talk to you about Leonard Franks. As I understand it, you and he were friends for years – I think you can give me a unique perspective on him. Ultimately, you might help me find him.’

He just looked at me.

‘I don’t know you from Adam,’ he said finally.

I reached into my jacket, got out a business card and held it out to him. ‘You won’t have to search too hard.’

‘You think I care what it says about you on Google?’ The atmosphere had soured. He didn’t take the card. ‘I met you for the first time two minutes ago, now you’re trying to screw up an
official case
involving my
best friend
. You think, for one minute, I’m going to jeopardize the search for him by talking to someone who corners me at a bar?’

He wasn’t going to play ball because, in truth, he was right: he didn’t know me, and had no idea whether he could trust me. I didn’t blame him. Problem was, I might not get another chance alone with him, so I either wrote off any potential contribution he made – or I tried to create a common cause. My mind looped back to the pub flyer I’d found; to the lecture that Franks told Ellie he and Paige were attending at the Black Museum.

‘Do you remember going to the Hare and Badger on Broadway back on 11 February? I know you two used to like it there. I’ve seen your email conversations.’

He looked at me. ‘Is that right?’

‘You remember meeting him that day?’

‘That was
ten months
ago.’

‘He told Ellie he was going to a lecture with you.’

He didn’t say anything.

‘At the Black Museum.’

A pause – and then his eyes narrowed.

Something was up, and, inside a couple of seconds, I realized what: Franks had been to the pub that day, but it wasn’t to meet Paige. He hadn’t been to a lecture with him either. I could tell from his face that the first Paige had heard of any lecture, of any lunchtime meeting with his friend, was now. At best, that meant Ellie had misunderstood what Franks had told her when she’d dropped him off on the morning of 11 February.

At worst, it meant Franks had told her a barefaced lie.

‘What’s going on, Mr Raker?’

I saw a subtle shift in Paige’s expression. Some of the animosity had dropped away as he realized he wasn’t the only one who’d been taken by surprise here.

‘I was sitting on a sunlounger on a beach in Tenerife on 11 February,’ he said. ‘If Len told Ellie otherwise, then I’m afraid …’ He faded out.

We both knew what it meant.

‘I think you can help me,’ I said.

His eyes moved from me, out into the room, his defences up again. He scooped a bottle of beer off the bar counter and started picking at the label. ‘How do I know you’re not some shithouse reporter?’

‘Because I gave up journalism in 2009.’

He looked at me. ‘So you
are
a journalist?’

‘Was.’

A long, resigned sigh.
‘Great.’

‘You can find out everything you need to know about me on the web – or you can log into the police database and get the full A to Z from your fellow boys in blue. I’m not hiding here. This isn’t some elaborate ruse. All I want is thirty minutes of your time.’

He sighed, running a hand through his hair, his gaze flicking between the faces gathered around him. He went to speak, stopped himself and looked at me again. Then, finally, he committed, voice suddenly quiet, his attention fixed once more on the crowds. ‘I’ve spoken to Melanie a few times since Len disappeared, and it’s the same for the both of us. We’re hamstrung. She got read the riot act about using police resources, day one. If I go searching and get found out, I’ve got even further to fall. So one thing I need to be absolutely clear on is that, if we talk, it’s off the record. This stays under lock and key.’