Paternoster (9 page)

The suit jacket was next: also grey wool, with a silk lining of vibrant orange. The front pockets were empty; the inside pocket held a slim diary. She skimmed through it then set it aside to study.

A smartphone, his wallet and his keys. She switched on the phone. The screen bloomed into life, requesting a password. She switched it off and put it on top of the diary: she could work out the password later. His wallet held a hundred pounds in notes; and there was a debit card, three credit cards, some photos of his daughters, a supermarket points card which she found vaguely touching, a condom, and an unfilled prescription for antidepressants dated two weeks previously.

No wallet clutter. Interesting. She’d expected to find colleagues’ business cards, old till receipts, scribbled phone numbers, appointment cards for the dentist or optician, but there was none of that. Years ago, doing her undercover training, Eden had learned how much could be gleaned about a person from the scraps of paper in their wallets; that a simple bus ticket could make or break a cover story. Now, she wanted Paul’s receipts so she could reconstruct his movements and establish a pattern of life. They weren’t in his wallet – maybe he decanted them at home at the end of each day.

She weighed the keys in her hands. This might be her only chance. As soon as it was a reasonable hour she’d have to ring Paul’s ex and let her take over. Paul’s ex. The woman he’d hired her to follow, check out her spending habits and work out whether she was duping him.
Tried to kill me
.

Suddenly she was on her feet, grabbing her coat and car keys, ramming her camera in her backpack, and thundering down the stairs with Paul’s keys in her hand. He’d turned to her when he knew he was dying, he’d asked her to find out who had done this. Tracking down scumbags – it’s what she did best. She’d do it for him. She was back in the game.

Paul’s flat was in an impressive modern block near a supermarket. Executive apartments, gated entry, and an underground car park. She tried several keys before the gate opened, then a few more tries to get into the building. Inside, the atrium was of polished pale marble with a central circular water feature surrounded by Australian tree ferns lit from below by ghostly blue lights.

A lift carried her to the penthouse. As she ascended, she took a pair of latex gloves out of her backpack and slipped them on. If Paul’s death
was
deliberate, his flat could be a crime scene, and the police wouldn’t let her near it. She wouldn’t leave any trace that she had ever been there, but she was claiming first dibs on searching the place.

She got the apartment key right first time. The door was heavy, opening with a moneyed swish over a thick, oatmeal carpet. Doors led off from a large entrance hall which contained a coat rack holding a black macintosh and two golfing umbrellas, and a small table with three unopened letters on it. The letters were postmarked the day before, two were circulars, the other possibly a credit card statement. As she replaced them, she noticed that the table was remarkably dust-free.

Moving down the hall, Eden tried each door in turn, getting her bearings. The living room was huge, glassed on two sides and looking out over the town and to the hills beyond. Duck-egg silk curtains were drawn back from the windows, giving over the full expanse of window to the view. Two large, cream leather sofas faced each other across an expanse of carpet. One wall held a plasma TV, another held a Hockney print. Not bad to come home to.

Starting with the hall, she photographed the whole apartment. As soon as the news was out about Paul’s death, this place would swarm with family and friends. She wanted an accurate record of how it looked when no one even knew he was sick; a record that wasn’t subject to the vagaries and mendacities of human memory.

Then she searched the place, starting with the desk in Paul’s study, methodically emptying each drawer and replacing the contents in order. Paul was scrupulously neat, and the flat was tidy and clean. Lines from recent vacuuming striped the carpet. Everything was filed and sorted. Bank statements (overdrawn), credit cards (maxed out), utility bills (red reminders). No wonder Paul was worried his ex might try to screw him for more maintenance. No company accounts: they must be at the office, but from the state of his personal finances, his business couldn’t be doing as well as he’d hoped. Was that why he’d seemed haggard when she saw him in his office? She lifted the camera and photographed each bank and credit card statement, mentally totting up the figures as she went. Paul owed thousands.

Eden lowered the camera as an icy shiver ran over her skin.
This. Deliberate.
Had it all been too much for him? She recalled the prescription in his wallet. Antidepressants. He wouldn’t be the first person to commit suicide over financial pressures.

In the bathroom cabinet she found a packet of antidepressants, partly taken, a different brand to the prescription. The last pill was taken on Sunday. She slid the information leaflet out of the packet and pocketed it. At the back of the cabinet was a bottle of sleeping pills. She tipped them into her palm: twelve left. The label on the bottle showed that there had been thirty when it was filled, about four months previously. She scribbled down the name of the sleeping pill and shoved the bottle back in the cupboard.

Cotton buds, aspirin, a box of condoms. She opened the box and counted how many remained: he’d used four. No tampons, extra toothbrush or feminine clutter in the bathroom. She tipped the bathroom bin on to the floor and riffled through the contents. An empty shower gel bottle. Cardboard tubes from loo rolls. An old Elastoplast. She shovelled it all back in and went into the bedroom.

The bedside table held a biography of Mrs Thatcher, a pile of receipts and loose coins. She gathered up the receipts and glanced through them. Cash withdrawals, business lunches, a bottle of expensive wine. Underneath it all was a membership card,
Elegant Introductions
with a photograph of two champagne glasses touching. A handwritten date showed Paul had been a member for the past seven months. There was a website and an email address. Eden focused the camera and photographed both sides.

She had just upended the washing basket when she heard the front door opening. She froze, straining her ears. The door clunked shut again, and there was a clink of keys. Hurriedly she stuffed the laundry back in the basket and cast around for somewhere to hide. A walk-in wardrobe to the side of the room. She slipped between the suits and pressed herself against the back wall.

Paul’s cleaner? It was only half past six in the morning. A girlfriend? Ditto. Eden held her breath. The suits prickled against her cheek. She didn’t fancy her chances explaining her presence in Paul’s flat to whoever it was, never mind the photos she’d taken, nor the fact she had a set of his keys. Too late she remembered she’d left her backpack in the sitting room.

Papers rustling, and drawers opening and closing in the living room and study. The drawers banged shut. Whoever it was wasn’t expecting to be disturbed. Someone who knew that Paul wasn’t going to be home. But who knew that he was dead, apart from her?

Eden shrank further against the wall as the bedroom door opened. She daren’t peek round the suits to see who it was, but she stifled her breath and listened hard. The bedside table drawers opening and closing. A frustrated slam. Footsteps advanced on the bathroom, then hesitated, turned away. Eden turned to marble as the footsteps receded and shortly afterwards the front door banged and was relocked shut.

She staggered out of the wardrobe, gasping for breath, her heart thudding. For a moment, she leaned against the wardrobe while black spots danced in her vision. When she’d steadied herself, she crept round the flat, peering into each room. The flat was empty. The desk drawer was left partly ajar in the study. Eden yanked it open. The pile of papers had been rearranged. She’d left the credit card bundle on top, now the bank statements were at the top.

And there was something else. A sensation in the room. She walked round, her senses at hyper-alert, nailing it down. A smell. Deodorant or body spray. Quite strong, freshly applied. An amateur, then. Someone who wasn’t used to searching houses without being detected. And there was something else. The pristine table top in the entrance hall was smudged with fingerprints. Someone was either careless, or simply didn’t care. The thought didn’t comfort her.

Checking she’d left nothing behind, Eden inched open the front door, closed and locked it, snapped off her latex gloves, then slunk from the building.

The hair across the doorway was still there. So was the one she’d planted across the window latch. Eden breathed a deep sigh and her shoulders slumped. Suddenly she was dog tired. Her eyes were gritty and her mouth felt foul. Hours slumped in a plastic chair at the hospital hadn’t done her back and neck any favours: her spine was a Jenga tower after a few turns by drunk students. A long hot bath and a few hours’ sleep were screaming out to her, but first there was Paul’s ex-wife to deal with. She needed to be informed of Paul’s death and Eden had no idea what her phone number was.

A quick search of the phone directory and a call to enquiries revealed the number was ex-directory. She riffled through the pages of Paul’s diary: the number wasn’t written in there. He knew it by heart, why should it be? So that left the phone. The number was undoubtedly saved in his contacts, in the phone that was password protected.

It was years since her training, and she dredged up the basics for how to access a password protected device from a memory that was faded and tattered with fatigue. Start with the most obvious solution first. Most people had so many passwords to remember that they simply wrote them all down in a place that was easy to find. The back pages of Paul’s diary yielded a few passwords, but they were too long for a phone. A couple of four-digit pin numbers – careless. There were also some random number and letter configurations that probably granted access to his bank accounts.

But there was nothing that would get her into the phone. She bounced it against her chin while she thought. It must be an easy password, then, not a combination of letters and numbers, and it must be a word that Paul wouldn’t forget.

She switched on the phone and tried his surname: Nelson. Password incorrect. Damn, too easy. Another two goes before she was locked out of the phone altogether and she’d have to seek out a little scrote to break in for her. Her fingers hovered over the keys. It wouldn’t be Zoe, his ex’s name. What were his daughters called again? Her tired mind ferreted out a snatch of her meeting with Paul two days ago. Tessa and Holly. That was it.

She typed in Tessa. Password incorrect. One more go left. As she typed in Holly, she worked out which scrote she’d likely find waiting outside the magistrates’ court that morning. Just as she’d realised gloomily she could count on Stinky Mick appearing in court, the screen fired up and an array of icons tiled the display. Bingo. Who said parents didn’t have favourites.

The phone immediately started beeping with incoming text messages. She scrolled down the list, scanning for anything interesting. They could wait, his ex couldn’t. Any longer and the delay would look suspicious, which, of course, it was.

Zoe Nelson. Mobile and two landline numbers. She dialled the first landline from her own phone. It went to an answering machine stating the office was closed. Eden didn’t wait for the message to finish. She hung up and dialled the other number. It rang five times before a harassed voice answered, ‘Yes?’

‘Zoe Nelson?’

‘Yes. Who is this?’

‘My name’s Eden Grey. I’m afraid I’m ringing with some bad news about your husband, Paul.’

‘Paul? He’s my ex-husband.’

Eden waited a beat, kicking herself. She should have gone to the house, imparted the news face to face, seen the woman’s reaction. ‘I’m very sorry, Mrs Nelson, but Paul died in the early hours of this morning.’

‘Paul? Died? What are you talking about?’

Eden stood and paced to the window. There were beads of rain on the glass, a mucky cloud hanging over the hills looming beyond the town. ‘He was taken ill yesterday and went to hospital. He died there this morning.’

‘But I …’ Zoe pulled herself up short. Whatever she was about to say, she changed it to, ‘What did he die of?’

‘It was a serious stomach disorder.’

‘Are you calling from the hospital? Are you one of the staff?’

‘No, I’m …’

‘Are you that woman he was seeing?’

‘No, I’m a friend. I was with him when he died.’

‘Hang on a minute, why didn’t you call me earlier?’ Eden noted the change in tone. ‘I should have been notified as soon as he was taken ill.’

A shift from making sure Eden knew Paul was her ex. Now she was claiming territorial rights over his corpse. Eden bit the inside of her cheek. ‘Paul didn’t want you or your daughters to be upset. He particularly didn’t want the girls to see him so distressed.’

A sob the other end. ‘I only spoke to him the other day. I can’t believe he’s dead.’

Eden softened her voice. ‘When did you last see him?’

‘Yesterday, no Monday. It was Monday.’ Zoe’s voice came out as a small squeak. ‘I can’t believe he’s gone. The girls are going to be devastated.’

A cup of tea. Bed. A few hours’ sleep. Eden stripped off her clothes. They reeked of hospital – detergent and floor polish – a smell that summoned bad memories for her. She stuffed her clothes straight in the washing machine and set it going, unwilling to have the stink in the washing basket even for a moment.

She lay in the cool sheets and tightened and relaxed each muscle in turn. She’d need a hot bath when she awoke, her skin smelled stale and sour, but now she was going to sleep. Her mind whirred for a few moments and then gave up the fight. She turned on to her side and slept.

‘Mummy?’

‘Molly? Is that you?’

‘Of course it’s me, Mummy. I’ve come to wake you up. Sleepyhead.’