The Blissfully Dead (20 page)

‘What happened?’ she croaked, wiping her eyes on her napkin.

‘She’s been stabbed, in a private car park behind the Kingston Rotunda. One of the residents came down to get his car and found her body by the front wheel. Come on, let’s get moving.’

Patrick recovered himself, grabbing his coat from the peg in the hall, but Suzanne stood. ‘Pat, no. There’ll be a team on it already; we’ll only be in the way if we pile in.’

He faced her, coat half on, glaring. ‘Try to stop me. Carmella – you coming?’

Carmella jumped up. ‘Yes, boss. Sorry, Gill.’ Jenny reached out a hand to her, but whether out of sympathy or restraint, Carmella wasn’t sure and didn’t really want to know.

‘Oh for heaven’s sake,’ Suzanne said. ‘Gill, I’m so sorry. Come on, then, you two, we’ll take my car.’

The last thing Carmella saw when she glanced back over her shoulder was Simon, Gill and Jenny sitting in stunned silence at a table covered with half-full plates, meat already beginning to
congeal
in the gravy.

Chapter 34
Day 11 – Patrick

P
atrick was sitting in his car again, his forehead resting on the steering wheel, his eyes squeezed tightly closed. He hadn’t felt this terrible since the day he’d found Gill incoherent on their stairs, and Bonnie half-dead upstairs in her cot.

His team’s offices were a taped-off crime scene now, so they had all been relocated to an empty office downstairs, provided with hot desks and computers to log onto the intranet to carry on
with Operation Urchin while a different MIT swarmed over
Wendy’s
workspace. Over at the Rotunda, reporters with cameras and microphones jostled together trying to keep warm in the chill dawn light, laying claim to the best pitches, waiting for someone to come out and make a statement.

Patrick had held it together all night, listening to the SIO who had been assigned the investigation into Wendy’s murder, a sombre-faced DCI called Vanessa Strong, briefing the other murder
investigation
team.

He had held it together while DCI Strong instructed Daniel Hamlet to fast-track the post-mortem, feeling deeply relieved for the protocol that insisted a different team investigate a colleague’s death. He wasn’t sure he could have stomached watching Hamlet dissect poor Wendy.

He’d even held it together when Wendy’s mum, Sheryl, had rung from Wolverhampton and asked for him by name because she ‘knew how much Wendy had admired you, she talked about you all the time’. Through her sobs, Sheryl had brokenly repeated, ‘Why? Why? How could you let this happen? She was only twenty-five! Twenty-five!’

He hadn’t been able to tell her how he had let it happen, because he didn’t know. All he did know was that he
had
let it happen. He hadn’t stopped Wendy from going off under her own steam to meet God-knew who, or why. Hopefully he would know soon, once her mobile phone provider had sent over the records from her stolen phone, and once the lab had thoroughly gone through her
computer
, but he knew that even then it wouldn’t make him feel any better, not in the slightest.

One of his officers was dead, and he felt utterly responsible. If he hadn’t cut her off when she called him . . .

Winkler pitching up and shaking his head sadly and ostentatiously in his direction hadn’t helped either, the sanctimonious
bastard
, Pat thought.

But the final straw, after a very long night of straws, came when Suzanne summoned him into her temporary office. As he trudged across, he saw her standing in the doorway, holding an evidence bag containing a bright pink envelope. She had changed out of the grey dress she’d been wearing last night, but her hair was still in the same long, loose curls. Patrick wondered if she had been home, or whether perhaps Simon had brought her in a change of clothes.

‘What’s up?’ he asked, puzzled at how annoyed she looked. When he sat down, she closed the door and gestured at the evidence bag. Through the clear plastic he saw his own name handwritten on the front of the envelope.

‘Would you care to explain the meaning of this?’ Suzanne asked, in the sort of voice that almost made Pat wonder if she was messing with him.

‘Well, I would, if I had any idea what it is,’ he replied,
picking
it up and examining it. It wasn’t sealed, and when he lifted the envelope’s flap a flash of bright pink appeared. Puzzled, he pulled out a large Valentine’s card – a rather tacky teddy bear clutching a bunch of roses and heart-shaped balloons. Inside there was a message: TO PAT, YOU MAKE ME MELT LIKE CHOCOLATE. BE MY VALENTINE? LOVE FROM A SECRET ADMIRER XXX

He snorted. ‘Is this some kind of joke? Hardly the time or place. Why’s it in an evidence bag?’

‘Don’t be ridiculous, Patrick, are you insane? Of course it’s not a
joke
,’ Suzanne snapped back at him. ‘Strong’s team found it in Wendy’s locker.’

She paused to let the realisation sink in.

Patrick gazed speechless at the card, the words inscribed in Wendy’s neat round handwriting.

‘Oh no,’ he said eventually, unable to prevent tears springing into his eyes. He cleared his throat noisily. ‘Oh God.’

‘Is there something you’d like to tell me, Patrick?’

Pat had never heard her use such a frosty voice. When he looked at her, despite the curled hair and still made-up face, she was almost unrecognisable from the relaxed woman who had sat at his dinner table just hours before, laughing and chatting . . . oh, he thought, apart from that awkward little spat she and Gill had had . . . What had that been about? Not that it mattered in the slightest now.

He shook his head. ‘Absolutely not. I had no idea she felt like that towards me. If I’d known, I’d have assigned her to a different team. I’m not an idiot.’

Was it true, he asked himself, that he’d had no idea? If he was honest, he had suspected it for some time. Wendy’s eagerness to please – the same bloody eagerness that had doubtless got her killed – the way her big brown eyes became more puppyish when she gazed at him . . .

He pinched the bridge of his nose to try to regain control of his expression. ‘Poor kid,’ he said. ‘That poor kid.’

‘You sure you had no idea?’

Patrick felt himself getting riled. ‘The clue’s in the words “secret admirer”, Suzanne.’

Tension bristled in the air between them. There was silence for a few moments, broken only by the sound of an early morning cleaner banging a hoover into the corners of the corridor outside.

‘OK. Rather unfortunate timing, that’s all. What are you going to do now?’

Patrick ran his hand through his hair. He hated it when Suzanne was cold with him – although that was currently the least of his problems. ‘I need to get out of here. I’m going to take Carmella and go and speak to that bodyguard guy, Kerry Mangan. Barrett gave me his name – sounds a bit shady. I’m not overly optimistic he’ll know anything, but it’s worth following up.’

Suzanne nodded. She wasn’t smiling, but her voice was softer and she held his gaze. ‘Right. You do that. Let DCI Strong’s team figure out who Wendy was going to meet last night – you need to distance yourself from that for now, OK?’

He shook his head. ‘Wendy called me last night, told me she’d made contact with . . . Well, that’s as far as she got before I cut her off. But she must have meant she’d made contact with somebody connected to Operation Urchin. That’s who she was going to meet. And either that person killed her, or the guy who killed Rose and Jessica found out and stopped her.’

Suzanne’s expression changed straight back to icy. ‘You spoke to her? Last night?’

He hung his head.

Suzanne exhaled. ‘OK. Listen. You need to pass this information on to Strong. Let her deal with it. You’re too emotionally involved. Let Vanessa handle that side of the investigation – and you concentrate on our two teenage victims. Unless you think it’s too much for you. I could let Winkler—’

‘No! No way.’ He could feel his cheeks burning. ‘This is m
y case.’

As he said this he heard a whisper of doubt. This investigation was ridiculously over-complicated, what with Patrick concentrating on the teenagers, Winkler on Nancy Marr and now Strong taking the lead with Wendy. Maybe he should step back, let Winkler take over; simplify everything.

But the way his stomach clenched as this thought raced through his head told him he could never allow that to happen.

Without a word, Patrick got up to walk out of the office. He was shaking with anger and emotion.

‘Pat?’ Suzanne called, just as he was going through the door.

‘Yeah?’ He didn’t turn around.

‘Thanks for your hospitality last night. Please thank Gill for a lovely dinner.’

He snorted. ‘It should never have happened, not in the middle of an investigation, and you know it. Wendy might still be alive if I hadn’t been too busy greeting guests to talk to her properly. But I didn’t listen to her, and now she’s dead.’

It was only later, leaning on a wall outside in the car park trying to gather his thoughts, that something occurred to him through the maelstrom of emotion whirling around in his head: could Suzanne be
jealous
that Wendy had had a crush on him?

He immediately dismissed the thought as ridiculous and
narcissistic
. Taking a few long drags of his e-cigarette, his resolution hardened. He understood the protocol, knew why the investigation into Wendy’s death had to be kept separate. But he was convinced the same man had killed all three victims – and possibly Nancy Marr, though he was still unsure about that. If he had to tread on Strong’s toes in order to catch that person, so be it. Justice was more important than protocol. And if he committed career suicide but found the killer, it would be worth it.

Chapter 35
Day 11 – Winkler

T
he Mervyn Hammond PR Agency was situated a long way from Winkler’s patch, in a converted warehouse set in a quiet street between Clerkenwell and Farringdon, surrounded by media companies and Internet start-ups. Winkler hated it around here. All those fucking hipsters, with their ludicrous facial hair and ridiculous trousers. Apparently there was a café near here that sold nothing but breakfast cereal, and the morons who dwelled in these parts were happy to shell out over three quid a pop.
Three quid a
Coco
Pop
, he thought, deciding he had to get that joke into a conversation at some point.

He looked sideways at Gareth Batey, deciding the younger cop wasn’t bright enough to appreciate his humour. They were parked outside the office, a little way down the road, in Winkler’s white Audi. The engine ran, filling the car with warm air.

‘I’m really not sure about doing this,’ Gareth said, for about the tenth time. ‘Shouldn’t we be doing something to help catch Wendy’s murderer?’

Every time Gareth mentioned what had happened to Wendy his eyes misted over, making Winkler wonder if the detective sergeant had been carrying a torch for the dead DC. Perhaps Wendy had been Gareth’s ideal woman. That would be another
reason for Gareth to hate Lennon. Maybe he should hint that
he’d actually seen Lennon and Wendy together
. . .
really get his rival into trouble. The guv had been stomping round like a rhino with piles ever since that Valentine’s card was found in Wendy’s locker, and Winkler was pretty sure it wasn’t just because one of the team had been
murdered
. Laughland was jealous! Of course, he felt sorry for Wendy, poor dead cow, but apart from that it was too delicious for words.

Winkler turned down the rainforest music a notch. ‘Leave all that to DCI Strong’s team – we’re investigating Nancy Marr, remember? Though I bet Lennon won’t be able to resist sticking his beak in. He’s all over the shop. I reckon he’s losing it.’

Gareth appeared to be suffering an internal struggle, but he pulled himself together.
That’s my boy
, Winkler thought.
I’m your ally. Not that tattooed tosser
.

‘So are we actually going to talk to Hammond?’ Gareth asked.

‘No. Not yet. I just want to watch him, see what he gets up to when he’s not putting on his public face. If he doesn’t seem to be up to anything, or this looks like a massive waste of time, we’ll move on.’

‘But you’re starting to think it
could
be him?’

Winkler held his hand out flat and tilted it from side to side. ‘I don’t know. But trust me – if he is guilty, I’ll find out. I’ve got the best clear-up stats in the MIT, did you know that?’

‘It’s not the first time you’ve told me, boss.’

Winkler was deliberately down-playing his suspicions about Mervyn Hammond, not wanting Gareth to think it was so important that he had to go running to Lennon about it. But since they’d found the signed photo of the PR man among Nancy’s belongings, Winkler had done some digging into Hammond’s background and what he’d found was interesting. Very interesting indeed.

A few years ago, Winkler had investigated – and solved, natch – the murder of a young female journalist who wrote for the now-defunct
News of the World
. That case had brought
Winkler
into contact with one of the newspaper’s Features editors, a guy called Doug Sandwell who reminded Winkler of an
emphysemic
crocodile, leathery and wheezy. They should stick a picture of Sandwell on cigarette packets – the smoking rate would halve overnight.

Sandwell had retired a couple of years ago, but Winkler knew the old journo had dealt with a lot of showbiz stories at the paper, as well as a number of juicy sex scandals and exposés of corrupt politicians. Winkler also strongly suspected, from conversations he’d overheard during the murder investigation, that Sandwell had colluded in phone hacking, though it appeared that – unlike many of his fellows – he’d got away with it.

Last night, after getting home from the gym, Winkler had given Sandwell a call. After listening to the other man cough for a couple of minutes, he’d asked Sandwell what he was up to these days.

‘Writing my autobiography, aren’t I?’ His voice crackled.
‘Great fun.’

‘I bet you can tell some stories, eh?’

‘Oh, you bet. Trouble is, most of this stuff couldn’t be published till after everyone involved is dead.’

‘Really? Like what?’

‘I could tell you, but then I’d have to kill you.’ The older man snorted.

Twat,
thought Winkler.

‘So, what, is this a social call?’ Sandwell asked. ‘Ringing to ask me out on a date? You know I’m not that type
. . .
I never go out with cops.’ More hissing laughter.

‘I was actually wondering if you ever had any dealings with Mervyn Hammond.’

‘Hammond? Fuck yeah. We used to deal with that snake all the time. Got some of our best stories from him.’ He named a couple of fabricated scandals that Winkler vaguely remembered. ‘What are you asking about him for?’

‘Well
. . .
A mate of mine might be involved in a scandal
himself
. Hammond’s representing this bird who claims to have slept
with my mate, and I was hoping to find some leverage to dissuade Mervyn from selling the story.’

‘A cop, is he? Someone high up?’

‘Something like that.’

‘Hmm. Well, since you ask . . .’ Glee crept into Sandwell’s voice. ‘This was about ten years ago and involves a bloke called Colin Denver. He worked as a nightclub promoter, knew loads of famous people, and that was his MO. He used to tell these young girls that he could introduce them to celebs, help their careers – all that bullshit. So he’d take them to parties and then, well, you can imagine the rest.’

Winkler waited impatiently for the other man to get to the really juicy bit.

‘So one of the girls came to us, wanting to expose these creeps, and it was potentially a huge story. She said she’d been to the police but couldn’t get your lot to believe her.’

Winkler cringed, thinking about the bashing the police had received over the Jimmy Savile case.

Sandwell coughed. ‘Two or three household names involved. A Radio 1 DJ, a TV presenter, these middle-aged scumbags who had probably been getting away with this stuff for decades. And they were all clients of Mervyn Hammond. As soon as he got wind of it, he came to us, claiming the story was bullshit, that this girl was a gold-digger and his clients would sue if we printed a word of it. Plus he’d stop giving us any more good stories. So we backed off – didn’t have enough evidence. But, according to the girl, Hammond wasn’t only doing it for his clients’ sake. He was one of the creeps. He molested her at one of these parties.’

‘I knew it,’ Winkler said. And he started to get that tingle, thinking ahead to his moment of glory when he exposed Hammond and cracked this case. With the Yewtree operation, and so many celebs now rotting in prison for committing the same offences Sandwell was talking about, the climate was very different now. This young woman might be willing to talk. ‘Do you remember her name?’

‘Yeah.’ The former journalist sniffed. ‘But it won’t do you
any good.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because she topped herself, about six months after all this
happened
.’

‘Shit.’

‘Yeah. Shit. It’s haunted me ever since. I know you think we journos are a bunch of heartless wolves, but I met this girl. She was fourteen, a sweet little girl who’d got sucked in by men who really are wolves. I would fucking love it if you got Hammond. Just, er, don’t say you heard it from me, OK?’

Winkler wanted Hammond too.
Hammond might be a wolf
,
Winkler thought,
but I’m a hunter
. And he entertained a brief
fantasy
in which he chased the PR man through the woods with a shotgun.

‘What about this Colin Denver guy?’ Winkler asked. ‘What happened to him?’

‘Last I heard he’d buggered off to Thailand, along with all the other nonces.’

Now, sitting next to Gareth in the car, Winkler imagined what would happen after he caught Hammond and proved he was responsible for the OnTarget murders. With Lennon in disgrace after the cock-up with Wendy, and with Winkler showing yet again that he was the best detective in south-west London – probably all of London, possibly the world – DCI Laughland would have no choice but to make him the lead detective on all future big cases. Lennon would probably be moved to traffic and he, Adrian
Winkler
, would be king. He’d be commissioner by the time he was fifty.

‘He’s coming out,’ Gareth hissed.

Winkler snapped out of his daydream and saw that Gareth was correct: Mervyn Hammond had emerged through the front door of the building, another thuggish-looking bloke beside him.
Hammond
waited while the thug went off round the back of the building. Winkler’s car had tinted windows, so he knew the PR man wouldn’t be able to see inside.

Hammond had a bag of nuts in his hand, the contents of which he daintily popped into his mouth, one by one, until a gorgeous Jag Coupé pulled up and he got in. The car headed towards the end of the quiet street, purring as it passed Winkler’s car.

They followed, Winkler driving.

The side street led onto busy Goswell Road. Hammond’s
chauffeur
– assuming that was who the thuggish bloke was –
indicated
right, cutting across the left lane and joining the queue of traffic on the other side.

‘Shit, we’re going to lose him already.’

There was no sign of another break in the traffic. Hammond’s Jag was being held at a red light, but the moment it changed he’d be off and would vanish at the crossroads ahead.

‘Fuck it,’ Winkler said, swinging out into the traffic, gambling that the oncoming car, a red Mini, would see him and brake.

The Mini did brake, but as Winkler attempted to cross the lane he stalled the car. He hurriedly turned the ignition, flushing pink, mortified that Gareth had seen him stall – the shame! – and as he fumbled to get going the Mini driver and all the cars behind beeped their horns. Hammond’s car was still stuck at the red light, and Winkler stalled the car again, at the same time that the driver of the Mini jumped out of his car and strode over, banging on the window of the Audi.

Winkler pushed the button to lower the window, flashing his badge at the irate driver. ‘Police. Piss off.’ The red-faced man retreated to his car.

He finally managed to get into gear, but now the traffic in the far lane was moving, and he had to wait for someone to flash him and let him across. Hammond had gone.