Truth or Dare (8 page)

‘I
’m very happy here.’ Fiona Welch sat back. Like she was reclining in her favourite seat at her favourite bar.

‘Good,’ said Marina. ‘That’s good. And is that why you’re here? Because it makes you feel happy?’

A smile played across Fiona Welch’s face. The kind that concealed secrets. Not altogether pleasant ones. ‘Let’s just say it suits my purposes at present.’

Marina waited for something more. Nothing came. ‘That’s it? That’s why you wanted to come here?’

‘I’m here of my own free will,’ Fiona Welch said.

‘While you’re being investigated,’ said Mickey. ‘While your testimony is being checked out and we wait to charge you properly.’

Fiona Welch looked at Marina, her eyes mocking. ‘How do you put up with him? Hmm? I mean not just him personally, but the whole police mindset? Especially the male police mindset. Intractable. Prosaic. Boring. Dull and predictable. Don’t you think?’

Again, Marina didn’t rise to it, although she was aware of Mickey’s position stiffening. She hoped he would manage to rein in what he wanted to say too. Not give her the ammunition.

‘This is the perfect place for me to continue my work,’ said Fiona Welch.

‘The perfect place?’ said Marina. ‘But you’re a patient here.’

‘Willingly,’ she said. ‘But it gives me ample opportunity to work. This place is alive with potential case studies. I have full, unfettered access to some of the most damaged, deviant psychopathologies in the country. And they’re all female. The work that has been done in this area is sparse and, if I may say so, rather ill-informed. Ignorant. And I do know what I’m talking about. I’ve read it all. No. This is my opportunity, my chance, to contribute something truly groundbreaking to the body of work that exists about deviant female pathology. In fact, by the time I’m ready to leave, my work, I feel sure of this, will be hailed as the standard reference on the subject.’

‘Right,’ said Marina. ‘I see.’

Fiona Welch’s face darkened. Her eyes locked on Marina. ‘Don’t mock me.’ Her voice was low, dangerous. ‘Please don’t make the mistake of doing that.’

Marina felt herself reddening. The sudden change in tone from the woman was unnerving. ‘I wasn’t mocking you. I just think it’s a… lot to take in. That’s all. Lot of work.’

‘Which I am more than equal to, I assure you.’ She stopped talking, stared at Marina. Head to one side, scrutinising her. ‘You know,’ she said eventually, ‘I thought you’d be younger.’

Marina tried not to let her startled expression show. ‘What d’you… what d’you mean?’

‘Just that. Younger. I mean, knowing Phil as I do I thought the woman he married wouldn’t be as… old as you. I thought he’d gone for someone younger, that’s all.’

Marina regained her composure. ‘Did you? Right. Well, what can I say? He didn’t. He went for me.’

Fiona Welch nodded. ‘He did. Yes. But…’ She shook her head. ‘I’m sure sometimes when he looks at you, when he notices that your hair is no longer the natural colour it once was, even though it’s a good match I’ll admit, and your make-up has become slightly heavier, and you take longer in the gym, put in more effort for less results, I’m sure he must look at you and… well, not want someone else. That’s not his style, is it? He’s big on loyalty, Phil. No. But there must be flashes, don’t you think? Just for a few seconds. Nothing more. Ripples of unease. When he thinks… she’s old. She’s getting older. And he’ll still feel young inside himself, like he’s staying still and you’re not… and —’

‘Is this leading anywhere?’ said Marina, slightly louder and less controlled than she had intended.

Fiona Welch smiled. ‘Just something to think about. That’s all.’

Anni stood up. ‘Was there anything else? If not, we should be on our way.’

Fiona Welch made a mock gesture of surrender. ‘Don’t let me hold you up.’

The other two made ready to leave. Fiona Welch got up, crossed to Marina. Took her hand. ‘I’m glad I finally got the chance to meet you. Face to face.’

Marina said nothing.

‘Please give my love to Phil, won’t you?’

Marin took her hand away.

The three of them made for the door. Fiona Welch laughed. ‘Yes, Marina, I’m sure we’ll be seeing a lot more of each other soon.’

Marina turned, puzzled and, if she was honest, slightly unnerved. ‘What d’you mean by that? How do you think we’ll be seeing more of each other?’

‘I think we will. Wait and see what happens. Then you will think the same too.’ She made as if to turn away then turned back, struck by a sudden thought. ‘How’s your daughter? She must be… what, four now?’

Marina could feel herself shaking. ‘That’s none of your business.’

‘Send her my love too. If you like.’

‘Come on,’ said Mickey. ‘Let’s go.’

The three of them reached the door.

‘Oh, Marina,’ said Fiona Welch, ‘one last thing.’

Marina, despite herself, turned.

‘Just tell Phil…’ She paused, moved her mouth silently as if auditioning the right word. The perfect word. ‘Tell Phil… Justice. It’s all about justice.’

Marina frowned. ‘What’s all about justice?’

She turned away, looked out of the window. ‘He’ll know.’

They didn’t speak until they were walking away from the hospital, out in the crisp autumn sunshine.

‘Well, she wasn’t creepy, was she?’ said Mickey.

‘I feel like I want a bath now,’ said Anni. ‘Jesus.’

Marina said nothing.

‘What was all that about?’ asked Anni. ‘All that stuff aimed at you?’

‘Oh, just crazy talk, I should think. The usual stuff that her kind of nutter spouts.’ Marina was trying to brush it off, but there had been something in Fiona Welch’s words that had unnerved her. Hit her. She knew that was the idea and she was cross with herself for letting her do that, but nevertheless, the feeling was there.

‘I’m going home,’ said Marina.

‘Oh,’ said Anni, unable to keep the disappointment out of her voice. ‘We were hoping you’d come back to ours. Make a night of it.’

Marina looked around. Felt a chill in the air. Felt unseen eyes watching her.

‘I’d better go home,’ she said.

B
ank restaurant in Brindleyplace, Birmingham. All glass and steel and fine dining, it looked out over the canal and a host of other chain restaurants and businesses. It had had a busy lunch-time. In fact, it was now well after lunch-time but some of the diners didn’t seem to know when to stop, when to leave.

And, being one the worst offenders, that was just the way John Wright liked it. After all, what was the point of being in charge if you couldn’t award yourself a few perks now and then?

Their meal was all but finished, the dessert plates cleared away. Coffees and liqueurs were now the order of the day. A supposed strategy meeting-cum-self-congratulatory lunch. He did it every time they were awarded bonuses. The staff looked forward to it and he always obliged. Liked to feel that he was still one of the workers. One of them. Up to a point, of course. Now their after-dinner drinks were being accompanied by them all trading war stories, the louder and cruder the better. Each one trying to outdo the previous one. Even lunch was competitive.

He looked around at the others in his party. He’d been in banking so long he could spot the types straight away. There were the young, eager sharks, the tyro princes who thought they were on the way to the top and didn’t care who they sold out or what they sold to do it. Laughing raucously at all his jokes, angling with each other to be the one to sit nearest to him. He couldn’t complain. He had been like them once.

Then there were the time servers, the loyal beta males and yes men, the court eunuchs. Just there to do their boss’s bidding. Punch in, punch out. Usually older, they did their time, kept their heads down. He used to despise that sort until he moved higher up the ladder. Then he realised just how useful they were. Diary keepers. Gate keepers. Shit deflectors. Human shields. Worth their weight in – well, not gold exactly, they were too interchangeable, but something semi precious, perhaps.

And then there were the women. Always the women. A lot of his peers thought that banking was no place for a woman. The cut and thrust of such an intense, testosterone-driven environment, the sheer adrenalin rush, they thought it was all too much for them. Plus they were all too bloody fecund. That was the unspoken truth, of course, the one no one dare utter aloud for fear of a court case. But it was the truth, nonetheless. You couldn’t trust them. Let them get into the organisation, start climbing the ladder, invest time and expend energy on them and then they ran off to start popping out babies. And you had to start again. But still, he didn’t mind them. Especially when they were as attractive as Denise sitting opposite him. A shapely brunette, her figure-hugging skirt showed off not only her curves but also the outline of her suspenders and stockings. Just for him. He knew that.

He smiled at her over the general raucousness of the rest of them. She returned it. Put her glass provocatively to her lips, swallowed. He watched the liquid make its way down her throat. He knew she was doing it for him and felt himself getting hard at the sight.

God bless those little blue pills, he thought.

She replaced her glass on the table. The cue, he knew, for them to leave. He had been pacing himself all lunch-time. Not overeating, keeping a fairly clear head. All for Denise. He didn’t want the experience to be wasted.

He was sure the rest of them knew what was going on. He didn’t care. He knew that most of the Young Turks would be jealous, seeing her as one of the perks of the job, a bonus they hadn’t yet earned but would always aspire to. The others, the beta males, would just turn a blind eye. It was what they were best at. Banking needed a steady supply of those sorts.

John Wright stood up. ‘Gentlemen…’ His voice cut through the latest anecdote, stopping the speaker in his tracks. Silence fell. ‘As always, it’s been a pleasure. Don will take care of the bill. Enjoy the rest of your afternoon.’

They all toasted him and, feeling like a king, he walked away from the table. Denise at his side.

They walked along by the canal.

‘Same place as usual?’ he said, knowing the answer.

‘Of course.’

The Malmaison hotel was just opposite Harvey Nichols at the front of The Mailbox, an upmarket shopping centre that, John Wright thought, had never quite lived up to its potential. Denise threw covetous looks at the items in the Harvey Nicks window displays.

‘Looks like you’d rather be shopping in there than spending the afternoon with me,’ he said, smiling.

She grinned and grabbed his arm. ‘Not at all.’

Liar, he thought, cheerfully.

‘They have some beautiful things in there,’ he said.

‘Then perhaps I could spend my bonus there later.’

‘Or perhaps you’d like me to treat you to something, hmm?’

She didn’t reply immediately. He knew she wanted to say yes but she knew that perks like that had to be earned.

‘You’ve already treated me to something,’ she said eventually, almost whispering into his ear. ‘I’m wearing it under my clothes.’

‘Good girl,’ he said.

He smiled. He loved it when they knew how to play the game.

She stood to one side while he went up to the reception desk and sorted out the room, then accompanied him up to the top floor in the lift. A suite all to themselves. The same suite they always had.

John Wright stepped into the room. The champagne was waiting, on ice, just as he had ordered.

‘I’m just going to freshen up,’ Denise said and disappeared into the bathroom.

He smiled again, anticipating the sensual, erotic sight that would emerge from the closed door. He opened the champagne, poured two glasses. Not waiting for Denise, he raised his to his lips, downing a little blue pill with it.

He sat on the bed, waiting for it to take effect, and began to remove his clothes. He always started with his socks. He hated the way so many people, especially Englishmen, kept their socks on during sex. Women he had been with on the continent and elsewhere had assured him of that. He now made damn sure it wasn’t an accusation that could be levelled at him.

He neatly disrobed, hanging his suit up in the wardrobe. He crossed to the bed, ready to get in, caught sight of himself in the mirror. Saw not a flabby, overweight, middle-aged, balding jowly man. No. He saw a vital, energetic lover. A powerful man. An important man. He smiled. Got into bed.

And there was a knock at the door.

‘Oh, for God’s sake…’

He got up once more, pulled on the white towelling robe that was two sizes too small. They were always two sizes too small.

‘Yes?’ he said, letting the irritability show. ‘We weren’t to be disturbed.’

‘I’m sorry, Mr Wright,’ said a quavering, muffled voice from behind the door, ‘and I realise that. But it’s urgent. Your wife…’

He didn’t need to hear any more. He flung open the door.

And stopped dead.

A figure was standing there, dressed from head to foot in black wearing a close-fitting, skull-like gas mask. He was carrying something in his hands.

John Wright was too surprised to call out, to move.

The figure stepped into the room. Sprayed him in the face.

Locked the door behind him.

‘I
’m not sayin’ word one. Not word one. Till my brief gets here.’

Moses Heap sat behind the table in Number One Interrogation Room at Birmingham Central on Steelhouse Lane. He seemed angry enough to burst, as if his rage could spill out and illuminate the room with white heat.

Sperring and Khan sat down opposite him, Sperring with a manila folder in front of him and a smug smile in place. Khan was aping his mentor move for move.

‘All in good time, Moses. We’ve sent for him. In the meantime, we just want a chat, that’s all. Clear up a few things.’

‘I’m not sayin’ anythin’. You can try whatever copper tricks you like. I’ve seen them all. I’m sayin’ nothin’.’

Sperring kept his smile in place. He’d dealt with this kind before. Loads of times. Built a whole career on it. The street lawyers. Prison smart-arses. Those that thought they could outsmart a detective, thought they were cleverer than the person doing the questioning. If that was the case, why were they always in and out of prison? Why was he, the stupid, thick copper, always the one to put them away? Some people, he thought.

‘Whatever you say, Moses. We’ll wait, DC Khan and I, we’ll sit here patiently until your brief arrives. We don’t mind. We’ve got nothing better to do. And then when he gets here we can charge you properly.’

Fear penetrated Moses Heap’s mask of anger. ‘Charge me? With what?’

Sperring shrugged, folded his arms. Leaned back in his uncomfortable chair. ‘We’ll wait till your brief gets here. Then you can say word one. And two and three, and all the rest, I shouldn’t wonder.’

‘What?’ said Moses. ‘What bullshit charge you got me on now, eh? You’re stitchin’ me up, an’ you know it.’

Sperring shrugged. Khan, taking his cue, kept his features impassive.

‘You got nothin’ on me, ’cause I ain’t done nothin’. An’ you know it.’

‘Whatever you say, Moses.’ Sperring made a big show of checking his watch. ‘Taking his time, isn’t he?’

Moses’s left leg began to vibrate. Up and down, faster and faster, like he couldn’t keep it still, like it was readying itself to separate from his body. Sperring said nothing.

‘So what’s this charge, then? Eh? Come on, I’ve got a right to know.’

So easy to play, thought Sperring. All of them. All the hard men. Reel him in a little longer, though. Not quite yet. Make him beg first.

‘All in good time.’ Sperring leaned slowly forward. ‘But if I were you, son, I wouldn’t go making plans for Christmas. Not this year. Or for the next few, for that matter.’

Fear was ramping up behind Moses’s eyes. He looked around the room, eyes darting to all corners, off the walls, the door. Like a captured wild animal thinking of making a desperate bid for freedom.

‘You can’t do this to me, man. You can’t… Whatever it is, you got no evidence, nothin’…’

‘We’ll see.’

Moses sat silently for a few seconds. Tried to regain his breathing, steady himself. ‘Just tell me, man. Tell me.’

‘Thought you wanted to wait for your brief, Moses?’ Sperring smiling once more as he spoke.

‘Just tell me… tell me…’ His voice loud, desperate.

‘Well, if you insist…’ Sperring sighed, as if it was costing him a great deal of effort, and opened the manila folder. He looked down at a piece of paper, read from it. ‘It says here, Moses, that nearly two years ago you were arrested for threatening behaviour.’

Moses Heap frowned.

‘Maybe you don’t remember that particular incident,’ said Sperring, ‘maybe it was one of many back then. This one involved you confronting a rival gang member and threatening him with a crossbow.’ He looked up, straight at him. ‘That right?’

Moses Heap looked more confused than angry. ‘That was years ago. When the gangs had beef. Nothin’ more happened.’

‘You got let off with a caution.’

‘Right. An’ the guy I did it with was with me today, chillin’ at the studio.’ He shrugged. Gave a stuttering laugh. ‘So what? That all you got on me? You dragged me in for that?’

Sperring gave a patient smile. ‘Not quite. Like I said to you earlier, I believe you’re a friend of Letisha Watson.’

His manner changed, became suspicious. ‘Used to know her. Not any more.’

‘You used to be her pimp.’ A statement, not a question.

‘You can’t make accusations like —’

‘Don’t fuck me about, Moses. You used to be her pimp. You know it, I know it.’

Moses shrugged, said nothing.

‘Cast your mind back to earlier today when I paid you a visit. Remember what I said? Letisha’s ex-boyfriend, the one she had after she left your stable, when you got out of the game.’ He made the sign of inverted commas with his fingers. ‘He’s in hospital now. His new girlfriend – the one he left Letisha for – is dead.’

‘You told me that.’

‘And their daughter.’

‘You told me that, too.’

‘Indeed I did, Moses.’

‘An’ I told you then and I’m tellin’ you now. I had nothin’ to do with it. An’ I was never her pimp.’

Sperring sat back. Looked at Moses intently.

‘You still got your crossbow, Moses?’

He looked between the two detectives, wondered what answer to give. Which would work best for him.

‘Have you?’

‘Why d’you want to know?’

‘Just answer the question.’ Khan’s first contribution to the conversation.

Moses still didn’t know which way to jump.

‘I mean, we could find out,’ said Sperring. ‘Get a warrant, search your place, your crib, as your sort call it, and see what we find.’ He leaned forward once more. ‘But it’s so much easier to ask a straight question and get an honest answer. Do you still have your crossbow?’

Moses sat back in the chair, hitting his back hard. Defeated. ‘Yeah, yeah, I do.’

‘There you go now, that was easy, wasn’t it? And have you used it recently?’

‘No.’

‘Sure?’

‘Yes. What’s this got to do with Letisha Watson?’

Sperring smiled once more. Coming in for the kill. He opened his mouth to speak but the words never emerged. The door to the interrogation room was flung open. In walked Glen Looker, seemingly as angry as Moses had previously been.

‘Good afternoon, gentlemen. Trampling all over my client’s rights once again, I see? Getting him to talk when you know it’s against the law once he’s asked for his solicitor to be present? What have you got to say for yourselves?’

Sperring felt anger rise within him. If there was one thing he hated more than the scum he had to question it was the professionals who made a living from representing them. He stood up.

‘Your client’s all yours.’

He slammed the door as he left the room, Khan barely making it out in time to avoid the blow.