The Waiting Game (22 page)

This was the evidence she’d been waiting for. Ellen knew it the moment Alastair sat her in front of the screen and played the clip.

‘This is Thursday, the second of September, the first night Chloe claims someone had been in her house. Here’s the car, parking outside the pub and then someone getting out.’

‘We can’t see the driver?’

‘The camera angle’s wrong,’ Alastair said. ‘We can see the left side of the car quite clearly, but the right side is out of the camera range. But that might not matter. Look. Here’s footage from the other two nights Chloe reported a break-in.’ More video, the same car parking in the same place. ‘And here’s the night she was killed. Check the time here at the bottom of the screen. 19:35. What did Pritchard say about time of death?’

‘Between 19:30 and 21:00,’ Ellen said. ‘This image isn’t great. What can you tell me about the car?’

‘Red Fiat Punto,’ Alastair said. ‘Red or possibly purple. Difficult to see in the dark. Can’t make out the registration but I’ve already spoken with Rui in the lab. He thinks he might be able to do something with that.’

There it was again. The flutter of excitement. They were getting close.

‘How soon?’ Ellen asked.

‘A day,’ Alastair said. ‘Maybe a little longer, but he’s already working on it. There’s something else too.’

‘Go on.’

Alastair smiled. It transformed his face and Ellen made a note to remind him he should smile more often. If he did, he might have a better chance of finding a girlfriend.

‘Want to know who drives a red Fiat Punto?’ he said.

She didn’t want to say, scared of jinxing it. On the other hand, it was too good a chance to pass up.

‘Nathan Collier?’

The smile widened until Alastair was positively grinning.

‘Got it in one, Ma’am.’

Raj created a new folder on his hard drive: Chloe. Here, he stored everything he’d been able to find out about her, adding the new information to what he already knew from working the case.
Before being suspended for whacking Carl Jenkins.

So far, he hadn’t broadened his search much beyond Jenkins. He knew Jenkins had killed her. All he had to do was prove it. And in doing so, prove everyone else wrong. The only problem was, so far he hadn’t found anything.

Jenkins’ online profile was unsurprising. Facebook and Twitter accounts, both of which he used frequently. His Facebook page was full of photos of lads’ nights out, all the usual nonsense you’d expect to see from an average twenty-something bloke out to enjoy himself. The Twitter account seemed to be used mainly to follow – and comment on – Crystal Palace’s performance in the League. A 3-1 victory against Liverpool last Saturday provoked much comment and excitement from Jenkins and those he followed.

Which was when Raj felt the first flicker of doubt. On Saturday afternoon, Crystal Palace played a match that, according to Jenkins himself on Twitter, was ‘historic’. And yet, after the match, Jenkins chose to take Chloe out to a fancy restaurant instead of spending the night celebrating with his mates. Which backed up what he’d told Raj on Sunday morning. He was mad about the girl.

Further investigations led Raj to doubt himself even further. Carl Jenkins just didn’t fit the profile of some sad, obsessed stalker. Judging by Twitter and Facebook, Jenkins was funny and popular. Lots of his Facebook friends were attractive young women who commented freely on his wall. If Jenkins was hiding some
dark side of his personality, he was doing a damn good job of it.

Frustrated, Raj pushed his chair away from his computer and stood up. His shoulders hurt from too long hunched over a keyboard. He was finding it hard to concentrate. Thoughts darting all over the place, searching for that elusive something he’d been so certain he’d find with Carl Jenkins.

He checked his phone. Still no message from Aidan. He’d called twice, left messages both times, but nothing in return. He wondered if this was it. If he’d finally pushed Aidan so far, his lover had given up on him. He took a cigarette, lit it up and stood at the open window, smoking and trying not to think about Aidan. Thought about the case instead, wondered how they were coping without him and whether they’d made any progress.

He’d gone out earlier to stock up on cigarettes and milk. In the shop, he’d seen the latest edition of
The Evening Star
and picked it up with the rest of his supplies. He read the article on the walk back home. The fact that Martine Reynolds shared his view of Carl Jenkins offered no comfort. When he’d finished the cigarette, he picked up the newspaper and read the article again. Reynolds had been at yesterday’s press conference. In the piece, she quoted Cox, saying the police were still exploring all avenues.
Police talk for ‘we’ve got nothing better to tell you’.
Towards the end, Reynolds added a quote from Collier:

Nathan Collier, Chloe’s good friend and colleague, expressed his genuine grief and anger at the police’s failure to protect the woman he described as ‘a truly beautiful human being who deserved to be
cherished. If she’d stayed away from Carl Jenkins, I believe she’d still be alive today.’

Raj imagined Reynolds had a hard time getting that quote through the
Star’s
in-house legal team.

Deserved to be cherished.

What sort of person spoke like that? Raj didn’t know much about hetero relationships, but he imagined most enlightened twenty-first-century women wanted something a bit more substantial. Like sex, for starters. If someone ever told him they’d like to cherish him, he’d run a mile.

He remembered his early misgivings about Collier. Quite simply, the bloke was always there. The very first time Chloe had come in, complaining that someone had broken into her house, Nathan Collier was with her. And every time since, come to think of it.

Two ideas came to him simultaneously. The first: it was Nathan Collier who’d fed all of this nonsense to Reynolds. The second: there was something off about the relationship – or whatever it was – between Chloe Dunbar and Nathan Collier.

Throwing the newspaper aside, Raj sat back down at the computer and typed Nathan Collier’s name into the search engine. Over 5,000,000 results came back. Easy enough to sift through them and find the Nathan Collier he was looking for. Lewisham estate agent, beneficiary of Lewisham Council’s 2010 Entrepreneur of the Year award. On this page, a brief bio of Collier. Local boy, Thomas Tallis educated, living in the house he’d grown up in,
vital member of the local Lewisham business community. A photo of Collier receiving his award: shiny face, shiny suit, shiny pleased-with-himself smile. Brief mention of the award ceremony in
The Evening Star.
Written by – surprise, surprise – award-winning muck-racker Martine Reynolds. Which explained the connection. Two local cronies cosying up to each other, mutually scratching each other’s backs. A few more glowing pieces by Reynolds, one listing Collier as a key ‘mover and shaker’ in SE London.

Something about Collier’s reaction on Monday morning had bothered Raj. At the time, he’d put it to one side, thinking he’d come back to it later. When events took over, he’d forgotten all about it. Until now.

He went back over it, tried to recall exactly what Collier had said and what it was that bothered him at the time. And then –
wham!
– there it was. So obvious he wondered what on earth could have possessed him to overlook the blindingly obvious until now.

He went back over everything Collier had said, that morning outside Chloe’s house and later in the station as well, cross-checking everything he thought he knew. The more he went through it, the more it made sense.

There was only one person he really trusted, so he called her.

‘Ellen, it’s me. I need to talk to you. Any chance you could come over?’

‘I’ll be right there,’ she said. ‘Give me your address and put the kettle on.’

And that was it. No cold shoulder, no recriminations or snide comments about what a dick he’d been. Put the bloody kettle on. He hung up, smiling.

Twenty minutes later, the downstairs bell went. Raj pressed the button that released the main front door, opened the door to his apartment, lit a cigarette and waited.

Monica opened a bottle of Merlot, knowing it was a bad idea. She needed to steer clear of the
vino
. But given the circumstances, what the hell was she supposed to do? Christ. Being that close to him. The surge of longing she’d felt for him; it scared her.

So why was he being such a complete bastard? Last night he’d acted like he hated her. There was no reason for him to be like that.

They’d been so good together. Made for each other. He’d felt it too. She saw it in his eyes when he turned and saw her that very first time. Face changing, soft at first, then focused and determined when she played hard to get. Someone like that, you had to make them do a bit of running. All part of the game.

Wasn’t her fault if he’d never seen it that way. All that bullshit
he’d fed her at the time, about them getting too close too quickly. That wasn’t him speaking. It was that bitch he’d been working with, putting words into his mouth, making him say things he didn’t feel. Making him break Monica’s heart.

She’d tried to get him to see it last night. If he’d only let his defences down, let himself relax long enough to feel it too. They were meant to be together. But he refused to listen.

It was why she threw her wine over him. To stop him ripping their past apart. It did the trick. At first. Until anger replaced the shock on his face. She thought he was going to hit her. He took a step towards her, face like thunder, and that old feeling of power surged through her. It was a turn-on, knowing she could provoke such a reaction. Knowing there was passion behind the thunder, as well as anger.

She wanted more of that passion. Memories of their time together swirled a whirlwind inside her head. Most of them good. The bad stuff was there too, of course, but she could avoid thinking about that. There were enough good times to focus on.

This was difficult.
He
was difficult. Maybe that was part of the attraction. She went upstairs. She was going to see him. Right now. Give him one last chance. If he refused, she’d make sure he regretted it for the rest of his life.

In the bedroom, she switched the light on and sat at the dressing table. She examined her face, wondering what he saw when he looked at her. Her hair was tied back. She released it, shaking it so it fell around her face and shoulders, remembering how he
used to love running his hands through it. She thought of Ellen Kelly’s short, straight bob and smirked.

Her skin was taut and blemish-free. No need for anything except a few strokes of blusher. Then black eyeliner, mascara and her favourite red lipstick. A dab of
Jo Malone
on her wrists, the nape of her neck, cleavage and she was ready. She stood up and took a look in the full-length mirror, liking what she saw. Tight jeans emphasised the length and slenderness of her thighs. A white shirt, tucked into the jeans, top buttons left open, revealing black bra and full breasts. No wonder Harry had it so bad.

Outside, the garden gate creaked open. A moment later, the doorbell rang. Harry. Little creep. Never gave her a moment’s peace. She stayed still, thinking he’d go away, but he persisted. Pressing down on the bloody bell until she couldn’t stick it any longer. She ran down the stairs, ready to give him a piece of her mind. It was all very well getting together every now and then, but surely even he wasn’t so thick that he really believed this meant anything. She was so far out of his league it was laughable.

She pulled the door open, the tirade dying in her mouth when she realised it wasn’t him. Instead, standing on her doorstep was a pretty young woman with dark skin, dark eyes and dark, shiny hair tied back in a neat ponytail.

Monica recognised the face but couldn’t place it. Whoever this woman was, she’d been assigned to the ‘insignificant’ list in Monica’s mind.

‘DC Roberts,’ the woman said.

Monica groaned. Couldn’t help it. All fired up, ready for some serious action and this bloody cliché-talking nobody turns up wanting a cosy chat? Not bloody likely.

‘I was on my way out,’ Monica said. ‘Whatever it is, you’ll have to come back.’

The woman smiled. ‘Not a problem. Why don’t I come with you? We can speak on the way.’

‘Not likely,’ Monica said. ‘The place I’m going, it’s not suitable for a pretty little thing like you. You’d get eaten alive.’

When the woman blushed, Monica started to shut the door.

Instead of crawling back under whatever rock she’d come from, the stupid cow stuck her foot in the doorway, preventing the door from closing.

‘In that case,’ the woman said. ‘I’d better come inside.’

And before Monica could stop her, she’d pushed the door open, was brushing past her and walking straight into Monica’s sitting room.

‘Nathan Collier was Chloe’s estate agent,’ Raj said.

‘So?’ Ellen said.

‘Isn’t it obvious?’ Raj said. ‘As the estate agent, he had to have had keys to her house. Yes, she got the locks changed, but they worked in the same office. It would have been easy for him to get his hands on the new set and make a copy. All he had to do was sneak the keys from her bag when she wasn’t looking.’

He was right. It had been staring them in the face all this time and they’d missed it.

‘The morning he found Chloe,’ Raj continued. ‘He told me the front door was open, but he was lying. He used his key to let himself into the house.’

‘How do you know he was lying?’ Ellen asked.

‘He said he pushed it and it just opened,’ Raj said. ‘It’s not that sort of door. The spring is broken. I remember from an earlier visit. If the door’s left unlocked, it swings wide open.’

‘You think he killed her?’

‘I can see how it played out,’ Raj said. ‘He gives Chloe a job and somewhere to live. Because he has the hots for her. But he’s smart enough to realise a woman like Chloe wouldn’t look twice at someone like him. Not unless he shakes things up a bit. So he starts scaring her. Or maybe that was never what it was about. Maybe he just wanted to be close to her. Whatever.

‘And it works. For a while. She freaks out and because she’s got no one else, she turns to good old Nathan. She starts relying on him more and more.’

‘What about the interview with Martine Reynolds?’ Ellen asked. ‘What was that about?’

‘Nathan and Martine are mates,’ Raj said. ‘Mutual appreciation society that goes back years. So when Chloe starts to get properly scared, Nathan steps in, says the police aren’t doing their jobs right but he knows someone that will help.’

A lot of what Raj said made sense, but most of it was
circumstantial. Unless the video footage came through, there was nothing concrete they had on Nathan Collier.

‘She mentioned a friend,’ Raj said. ‘I remember her saying something about meeting a friend for drinks. Can’t remember her name but might be worth trying to track her down. Ask if Chloe ever spoke about Collier?’

‘Chloe’s face has been all over the news,’ Ellen said. ‘Surely this friend would come forward if she knew something?’

‘Maybe she’s away,’ Raj said. ‘I don’t know. But we should try to find her, at least.’

By the time Ellen left Raj’s apartment, it had grown dark outside. She decided to walk home, giving her a chance to clear her head. She walked up Lee Road, the houses on either side gradually becoming grander the closer she got to Blackheath village.

Nathan Collier. Lots of different parts of the investigation were coming together now. She took out her phone and called Abby. Got voicemail, left a message.

‘Abby, Mark ran a tox report on Chloe. Results came back late this afternoon. Traces of Diazepam in her blood, just as we suspected. Have you checked Collier’s medical records yet? We need to find out if he’s been prescribed Diazepam anytime over the last few years.’

Abby was up to something. Earlier, Ellen had tried to speak to her when Abby had come back from seeing Carl Jenkins. Except as Ellen walked over to Abby’s desk, Abby had slammed her laptop shut and walked off. If Ellen was a paranoid sort of
person, she’d think Abby was trying to ignore her.

Whether she was or not, Ellen needed to speak to her. She was over the heath now, across Charlton Way, under the shadow of the high wall of Greenwich Park and round the corner onto Maze Hill. Nearly home. She put her phone away and covered the last stretch quickly. It was late and she didn’t want to think about work any longer. Quality time with the children followed by food and a bottle of wine. There were worse ways to spend an evening.