Good Bait (33 page)

Karen sat back, glass in hand. ‘You're lucky. All I've got in there is mush.'

‘You say.'

The whisky was bright, not peaty, slightly sweet and went down a dream.

‘So what do you think?' Alex asked.

‘About what?'

‘This.' Alex held up her glass.

‘It's good. Very good.' She lifted the bottle. ‘Not heard of it before. More of a vodka drinker, I suppose.'

‘It was Roger introduced me to this. Couple of Christmases back.'

‘How is he? Roger?'

‘Fine. Off to Whitby with the kids. Bit of a half-term ritual. Stiff sea breezes and walks along the pier. Thinks it's character forming.'

Karen laughed. Carla aside, it was with Alex, she supposed, that she felt most relaxed. Alex herself certainly looked relaxed enough, feet tucked up beneath her, wearing what seemed to be her usual off-duty outfit of blue jeans and a denim shirt, worn out and unbuttoned over a pale lavender vest. Her coat she'd shucked off the minute she came through the door.

In comparison, Karen, still in her glad rags, felt overdressed.

‘I guess,' Alex said, leaning forward again to top up their glasses, ‘I should have brought something to go with this. Something for ballast. Fancy crisps, at least.'

‘Oh, wait. Wait.' Karen jumped up, heading for the kitchen, then wished she hadn't moved quite so fast. ‘I've got crisps out here. Sea salt and something or other. Two for one in Tesco. And there's salami in the fridge. At least, I think there is. And cheese.'

She scurried round, unwrapping, finding plates, ferreting out a jar of olives from where it had got trapped behind the Tabasco and the soy sauce. When she turned, Alex was there, standing in the doorway. Just leaning, leaning sideways against the frame, one foot crossed over the other, hands by her sides.

‘Need some help?'

The light from overhead was catching the red in her hair.

‘No, thanks. It's okay, I'm fine.'

From nowhere, Karen wanted to touch her hair.

Alex smiled: stayed where she was.

Pearl of her skin.

Karen fumbled a fork and it clattered to the floor.

‘It's okay,' Alex said, taking half a pace forward. ‘Leave it where it is.'

Karen caught her breath. And then she was touching her, touching her hair, the crown of her head, the ends where they tapered softly down towards her neck. The corner of her mouth. Then kissing her.

Oh, Christ!

Alex's hand on her breast.

When Karen woke it was past four. A line of sweat zigzagged, dry and crystalline, from her navel to the hollow of her neck. Beside her, one arm raised up towards her face, Alex slept. Mouth slightly open, a faint whistle of breath.

Karen needed to pee.

As she swung her legs round from the bed, Alex stirred.

‘It's early,' Karen said. ‘Go back to sleep.'

But when she returned, Alex was sitting up, pillows propped at her back, smiling sleepily.

‘Get you something?' Karen asked. ‘Juice? Tea?'

‘Juice would be great. Thanks. And then tea.'

‘Peppermint? Builder's?'

‘Peppermint.'

Karen brought it all to the bed on a tray and climbed back in.

‘Thank you.' Dipping her head, Alex kissed her on the shoulder.

‘What for?'

A grin on Alex's face. ‘The tea, of course. What did you think?'

It felt strange, the two of them, sitting there like that after what had gone before. Strange, Karen thought, but somehow natural. Natural yet strange.

‘You make a habit of this?' Karen asked.

‘With you? I'd have remembered.'

‘That wasn't what I meant.'

‘I know. And, no, not exactly.'

‘But you knew, when you came round. Waited.'

‘What I wanted, yes. At least, I thought I did.' She stroked Karen's arm. ‘I wasn't at all sure about you.'

Karen covered her face with her hands.

‘Regrets?' Alex said.

‘No. Yes. Yes, a million of them, probably. But no. Not really. Not at all.'

‘Come out together after breakfast then, shall we? You know, an announcement. Facebook. Twitter.'

Karen had to look at her carefully to be sure she was joking.

‘Can you imagine …?'

‘All too easily.'

It was still dark outside and would be for a good couple of hours.

‘Roger,' Karen said. ‘What if …'

‘Roger's in Whitby, remember?'

‘Yes, but does he …?'

‘Know sometimes I swing the other way?'

‘Yes, I suppose so.'

Alex smiled. ‘What he doesn't know, can't hurt him.'

‘You believe that?'

‘Maybe I have to.' She lifted her tea. ‘When I've finished this, I'll go. Maybe a quick shower.'

‘Breakfast? There'd be time.'

‘No, it's fine.'

‘Toast? There's toast. Could be.'

‘Okay, toast it is.'

Toast with marmalade; with the last few scrapings of Marmite; with raspberry jam. Uncertain in the kitchen, doing her best to ignore the alcohol ache in her head, Karen made coffee as she listened to the throw of water in the shower.

Alex emerged looking fresh, still towelling her hair. Karen pulled back the curtain and they sat at the table in the shallow bay, looking out across the empty street.

‘Burcher,' Alex said suddenly. ‘Has he ever said anything to you about a Paul Milescu?'

‘You mean Ion's father? Ion, the friend of the Andronic boy?'

‘Yes.'

‘Why d'you ask?'

‘That last meeting. You remember Burcher asked me to stay behind? A private word.'

Karen nodded.

‘It's Milescu he was asking about. Were we investigating him? If so, at what level? What reason? Did we think there was any link with Kosach? Anton Kosach. Anyone else we'd been discussing?'

‘He give a reason?'

‘Not really. Name had cropped up, something vague like that.'

‘That's interesting,' Karen said, leaning forward. ‘Quite early on in all this, way back before Camden or Stansted, when it was just an investigation into the Andronic murder, I'd been out to talk to Ion Milescu and Burcher came looking for me – no two ways about it – stopped me on the way home. Quizzed me about the boy's involvement. Claimed his father had been making waves, calling in favours. Friends in high places, that's what he said. After that, I did a little checking, spoke to Tom Brewer in Economic and Specialist Crime. Worst he could come up with, Milescu had maybe sailed close to the wind a few times, but no more no less than anyone else.'

Alex took a quick glance at her watch. ‘Well, Burcher, Milescu, something's going on somewhere.' She took a last swig of coffee and got to her feet.

‘That morning in December. When you were called out to the ponds, early. How long did it take Burcher to arrive?'

Karen thought, shrugged. ‘No time at all. In the area that night, he said, staying with friends.'

‘Paul Milescu's address,' Alex said. ‘New End Square, Hampstead. Might be nothing to it, but maybe the friends in high places include Burcher himself.'

54

Cordon's first instinct after seeing Letitia had been to retreat back down to Cornwall and put as much distance between them as he could. Finito. An end to it, as he'd said. Case closed. Except there had never been a case, not in any orthodox sense of the word. And who was he to investigate it if there were?

A woman whose life had ended beneath a train – by accident or design he still didn't know and likely never would. Another who had disappeared. Except not really, other than by her own choice. Put herself in harm's way. And here he had come, clumsy, slow witted, shielding his eyes when they should have been open. Floundering without jurisdiction; without direction. Whatever he had allowed himself – driven himself – to be drawn into involving Letitia was something he had never properly understood. Some private battle between herself and her husband, if that's what he truly was, in which he'd been little more than a pawn.

What, after all, had he done? Achieved? Beyond rescuing someone who, in the end, only wanted to be found?

Still he didn't go.

Sat morosely around Jack Kiley's flat, talking very little or not at all. Spent a few long, slow afternoons in sad boozers in the back streets of Kentish Town, awash with self-pity and bad beer.

‘Come on,' Kiley said, one early evening as the light was fading. ‘I've got just the thing.'

They took the overground from Gospel Oak to Leyton Midland Road and joined the crowd on its way along the high street to the floodlights of Brisbane Road. Orient versus Dagenham and Redbridge, a local derby of a kind. Raucous shouts and laughter. Stalls selling burgers, sausage and bacon rolls: the sweet scent of frying onions rising up into the evening mist.

They took their seats high in the main stand just as the teams were announced, prior to running out on to the pitch. Years since Kiley had stood in the tunnel waiting, nights like this, his stomach still knotted with the anticipation, sweat, cold, seeping into the palms of his hands.

Then, there they were, the crowd on its feet, both sets of supporters chanting, applauding; the players jumping, stretching, easing tight muscles, moving into position, eager for the whistle that would break the tension.

At least, Kiley could watch now without kicking every ball, feeling every tackle, rising up to meet every cross with his head. Alongside him, Cordon was being drawn more and more into the action, putting in his share of oohing and aahing as the play moved swiftly from end to end, shots missed, shots saved, the referee coming in for the usual amount of stick, offsides wrongly signalled, penalties not given.

At half-time it was one apiece, the home team shading it but not by much. Still level then, and not through want of trying, less than quarter of an hour to go.

‘They'll do it,' Kiley said, ‘you see if they don't.'

On the eighty-seventh minute, Charlie Daniels ran on to a punt upfield, turned the defender and raced towards the line; swung his foot and sent the ball hard and low across the face of goal and the striker, diving forward, headed it past the sprawling goalie into the net.

Pandemonium.

Game over.

They were waiting for them when they returned. Two men parked back along the road, between the burned-out supermarket and the school. The man from SOCA in his insurance-agent threads who'd quizzed Kiley before, together with a second, burly in leather jacket and jeans, his minder perhaps, in case things got out of hand.

‘Not a coincidence,' Kiley said, ‘meeting again like this.'

‘Afraid not.'

‘And I suppose you'll want to talk inside?'

‘If that's acceptable to you.'

Acceptable, Kiley thought, would be if they went their merry way; if he had never let Cordon talk him into getting involved.

He could sense the big man watching Cordon on the stairs, as if he might be about to make a break for it, take to his heels.

‘Charlie Frost,' the man from SOCA said, once they were in the room. His companion remained unnamed.

There were enough chairs, just, for them all to sit. Kiley's hospitality began and ended there.

‘When we spoke before about your interest in Anton Kosach,' Frost said, addressing Kiley, ‘what you told me, not to put too fine a point on it, was a pack of lies.'

‘I wouldn't exactly say lies.'

‘A name you'd come up with while looking into something else, I think you said? No more than that.'

‘Things moved on.'

‘So it appears.'

Bending, Frost reached into the briefcase he'd been carrying; perhaps, Kiley thought, he was about to sell them insurance after all. What he took out was an iPad, which he switched on, opened a file, and swivelled in their direction.

‘There. You might take a look at these.'

The first image was of Taras Kosach, entering the Ukrainian restaurant on the Caledonian Road; then Kiley and Cordon arriving, leaving, Cordon with an upward glance towards a camera he had no idea was there.

Next, Taras with another man, later that same day – date and time at the foot of the screen – the pair of them standing outside, smoking. Taras and his brother, Anton.

Then a piece of video: an empty lane, restrained sunlight. Several seconds without movement till a dark saloon comes into view, travelling towards the camera, going past, a face at the rear passenger window in dark outline.

Freeze-frame.

Zoom in.

Cordon staring out.

‘You recognise,' Frost said, ‘where you are? The occasion?'

Cordon nodded, said nothing.

A number of images then, taken with a telescopic lens in fairly quick succession. Cordon moving between the car and the house; Kosach's minions in their black turtlenecks, waiting to greet him. Search him. The front door opening. Anton Kosach, the pale blue of his shirt bleached almost white. Then nothing.

‘It's been difficult,' Frost said, ‘for us to gain as much access as we might have liked. Without alerting the target, propelling him, possibly, into flight.' A discreet cough into the back of the hand. ‘But, to be crystal clear, that is you, Mr Cordon, paying Mr Kosach a visit? There's no room for doubt?'

‘Evidently not.'

‘Then in what capacity, may I ask?'

No reply.

‘I ask, because, as far as I am aware, the remit of the Devon and Cornwall constabulary does not stretch quite this far.'

Supercilious bastard, Kiley thought.

What Cordon was thinking didn't show, not even in his eyes.

‘Mr Cordon …?'

‘I was visiting a friend.' Cordon's voice flat and ungiving.

‘Anton Kosach, he's a friend? Is that what you're saying? Anton …'

He told them. With the dull precision of someone making a report to a superior, which, in a way, was what this was. Letitia. Her mother. Danya. The apparent break she'd made with Kosach and his efforts to get her to return. He said nothing of the work Letitia had carried out on Kosach's behalf, in his employ – the brothel, the halfway house – other things he might only have guessed at.