Acid Lullaby (14 page)

There was a brief pause as the gathered police officers tried to absorb the strange information that Leach had imparted to them. Harrison broke the hiatus.

‘What was the third similarity?’ he asked. ‘You said there were three.’

Leach nodded. ‘Coins. Ian Stark had three ten pence coins in his pocket. There were also three ten pence pieces placed next to Jack Harvey’s body.’

Dexter had been wondering whether to impart the additional piece of information she had on a scrap of paper in front of her. She decided to chance it. ‘Uniform also found two ten-pence pieces on the driver’s seat of Jensen’s car two hours ago. That information is not to be discussed outside this room.’

Quietly, Underwood withdrew a ten-pence piece from his pocket and studied it for a moment, rolling it between his thumb and forefinger.

‘In conclusion then,’ Dexter cut through the chatter, ‘I will be heading the investigation into the murders of Stark and Harvey. DS Harrison will be co-ordinating the search for DC Jensen and Mrs Harvey. Check the duty sheets and see which team you’ve been seconded to. I have asked PC Sauerwine to help us out in CID until we get Jensen back.’
Might
as
well
try
to
end
on
a
positive
note,
Dexter
thought.

The meeting began to break up. Underwood hovered for a second, uncertain what to do. Dexter approached him.

‘What do you think?’ she asked.

‘You handled it well,’ Underwood replied.

‘I meant about Jensen and Mrs Harvey.’

Underwood looked at her. ‘I think Jensen is dead.’

‘Why?’

‘The coins.’

‘Explain.’

‘Let’s find an office. I’ll walk you through what I think. If it’s all right with you, I’d like to hear what this Botany bloke at the university has to say tomorrow.’

Dexter looked at her watch. Her stomach flipped. It was nearly time. ‘John, I can’t really talk now. I have to go and meet someone. But let’s talk in the car tomorrow morning. I’ll pick you up at eight.’

‘Fine.’

Underwood watched her leave. He couldn’t hide his disappointment.

Forty minutes later, Dexter sat in her Mondeo in a dark corner of Meadowview Car Park. The car park was a huge concrete tundra that extended behind New Bolden’s Meadowview Shopping Centre. It was also – Dexter was convinced – the ‘MCP’ mentioned in Ian Stark’s diary entry. Now she was keeping Stark’s appointment for that night. The accompanying mobile phone number had told her who to expect.

Rain ran across her windscreen. The car idled quietly. Occasionally, Dexter flicked the wipers and caught a brief reflection of her features in the darkened glass. The image vanished as quickly as it had appeared. The English rain always knew exactly where to find her.

At 22.04 a Land Rover Freelander pulled into the Car Park and stopped about fifty yards away from her. Dexter leaned forward, peering through the glass, as Mark Willis emerged from the driver’s side door. He looked around him suspiciously, then apparently satisfied, he shot a disgusted look up at the heavens and clambered back into the jeep.

Dexter hesitated, suddenly uncertain of how to proceed. She was in danger of losing control: a prospect that filled her with anxiety. She tried to make sense of her emotions. She recognized fear, resentment and, to her shame, excitement. For a split second she remembered a sunlit park, a grassy bank hard against her back, Mark Willis inside her, his stubble grazing the side of her face.

Fuck
it.

Alison the Brave got out of her car into the rain and walked directly over to the Freelander. She tapped on the shaded glass of the driver’s window. The window descended an inch electronically.

‘Not tonight, love,’ said Mark Willis from inside, ‘I’m not paying for it.’

‘Get out of the fucking car!’ Dexter hissed. ‘Police.’

She took a step back as the door opened. She knew exactly what Mark Willis was capable of. Willis flicked his cigarette out of the car. It sizzled for a second on the wet tarmac then died as Willis stepped outside. He was tall with cropped black hair and the wary eyes of the CID officer he had once been.

‘What’s the problem, officer?’ he squinted through the dark and streaming rain at Dexter’s silhouette. ‘Can I see some identification?’

‘You know me,’ said Dexter firmly.

Willis’s eyes focused on Dexter’s face. He looked surprised for a brief moment before a slow smile crawled across his face. ‘I don’t believe it!’ He advanced to kiss her but Dexter backed sharply away. ‘Is that you, Sparrer?’

‘Don’t call me that name,’ said Dexter, crushing her emotions.

‘You’ll always be my little cockney sparrer, Dexy,’ he insisted.

‘What are you doing here?’

‘I might ask you the same question.’

‘You’re not a copper any more. I am. I work here. What’s your story?’

Willis ignored the question. ‘Of course!’ Willis slapped his forehead in mock amusement. ‘I forgot that you got rusticated, Sparrer.’

‘I applied for the transfer.’

‘Mmmm. Course you did.’ Willis rubbed his chin thoughtfully. ‘Nasty business that.’

It wasn’t a subject Dexter wanted to dwell on. ‘Ancient history,’ she said, ‘like you. Until now.’

‘You know what they say: bad penny an’ all that.’ Behind his smile Willis was trying to work out how Dexter had found him. Plenty of other people were trying. He had to find out. ‘Tell you what, Sparrer,’ he said in the broken glass cockney of the Hackney Council Estate he’d never truly escaped from,
‘I’m staying at a nice little hotel locally. Why don’t you and me go for a nightcap. Catch up on old times.’

Dexter felt the idea wrench at her. ‘I don’t think so. Why are you keeping appointments with Ian Stark?’

So
that
was
it.
He’d
batter
Stark
when
he
caught
up
with
him.

‘Never heard of him,’ Willis sniffed.

‘Don’t insult my intelligence. He’s a drug dealer. Like you are.’

‘Sparrer, I’m hurt.’ He clutched at his broken heart mocking her.

‘He had an appointment to meet you here.’

‘You’ve made a mistake.’

‘Not me. Not this time. Stark is dead. Someone tried to chop his head off. Then who should crawl out from his rock but Mark Willis, copper gone bad, Hackney’s shittiest export.’

‘Am I a suspect, then?’ Willis was thinking hard and fast. Stark was dead. That presented him with a problem and an opportunity.

‘I haven’t decided yet.’

‘Arrest me, then.’ He looked around the deserted car park. ‘I don’t see any uniform plods though. I might be a bit of a handful for a little Sparrer in the dark.’

‘Don’t tempt me.’

‘To be honest, Sparrer I’m impressed,’ he leaned back against the wet wing of the Freelander. ‘Out here in the dark all by yourself. You don’t have bad dreams any more then?’

‘Fuck you.’

Willis was growing in confidence. He was beginning to see that Dexter didn’t have anything on him; that she’d just come to have a look and get wet for old time’s sake.

‘Used to wake me up – all that screaming. Good job I was there to console you. Still, you liked a bit of CID pipe to cling on to in those days. Especially when bad Uncle Vince turned up in dreamland.’

Dexter struggled to contain her fury. ‘I want you out of New Bolden tonight.’

‘This shit-hole ain’t big enough for the both of us, right?’

‘Tonight! Or I’ll stitch you up, I swear it.’

‘Dunno, Sparrer. I’ve got some business on. Maybe I’ll hang around for a few days. I thought you’d be glad to have an old friend up here with you. Word is you went a bit peculiar after you left the Smoke: cut all your hair off and started carpet munching. Must be tough being out here with all these in-breds.’

Dexter unclipped her police radio from her belt. ‘Dexter to Control. Need immediate assistance. Meadowview Car Park.’

‘Acknowledged,’ squawked the radio back at her. ‘Will despatch.’

Willis grinned. He knew when it was time to go. The last thing he needed was a wagonload of plods pulling out the side panels of his Freelander. He climbed back inside. ‘I’ll be off, Sparrer. You know my number if you get lonely.’

The engine roared to life and Willis reversed quickly. He honked his horn and flashed his headlights at Dexter as he pulled away.

‘Control to Dexter,’ the voice barked from her radio. ‘Respond, please.’

‘Go ahead.’ She watched the Freelander disappear into the night.

‘Mobile unit despatched. ETA five minutes.’

‘Cancel it,’ Dexter ordered. ‘False alarm.’

‘Acknowledged.’

Soaked and exhausted, Alison Dexter returned to her car and flopped inside. She started the engine. Warm air rushed across her face from the car’s powerful heating system. She closed her eyes.

The
warm
air
had
rolled
across
her
skin
like
his
breath.
It
was
a
steamy
Paris
day
and
the
Parc
des
Buttes-Chaumont
had
been
busy
all
afternoon.
Now
in
the
orange
light
of
early
evening
it
was
almost
empty.
She
had
loved
the
Parc
for
its
steep
undulations
and
eccentricities.
Its
winding
grass
banks
and
twisting
paths
created
many
private
spaces.
They
had
laid
back
and
marvelled
at
the
Parc’s
strange
stone
cliff
faces,
its
gazebos
and
bandstands.

She
had
tasted
the
champagne
on
Mark’s
breath
as
his
tongue
had
explored
her
mouth.
She
had
writhed
underneath
him,
her
dress
riding
up
to
her
waist.
He’d
pushed
her
knickers
to
one
side
and
forced
himself
into
her.
The
grass
had
felt
cool
against
her
back.

She
had
been
vaguely
aware
of
the
hazy
Paris
skyline;
of
the
distant
Latino
clatter
of
a
marching
band;
of
bees
and
after
-
shave;
of
pure
uninhibited
happiness.

Eight years later in the desolation of a rainswept car park, Alison Dexter wondered at her mixed emotions as she touched the place where Mark Willis’s baby had grown inside her.

Willis had driven away from Dexter at speed then doubled back through a confusing maze of side streets until he could see the exit to the car park. He pulled over and watched.

Alison
Dexter:
the
perennial
spanner
in
the
works.

He wondered how much she knew about his relationship with Stark, about his problems in London. He couldn’t risk his location leaking back to London. Logic told him it was time to move on. He certainly didn’t need any unnecessary attention from the Old Bill: least of all, Old Bill with hormones. He had to turn the situation to his advantage.

And yet, Ian Stark was dead. Willis didn’t really care how his associate had died. What he did care about was the hundred and twenty grand Stark owed him. He had important debts to pay: quickly. There was an opportunity here. He guessed that Dexter didn’t know the details of his transactions with Stark: after all, he mused, if she did know he’d be banged up by now. Stark was too smart to keep his business records and stock in his flat. Willis knew he would have to take some risks if he was to find Stark’s lock-up. However, he knew exactly what was waiting for him back in London if he didn’t.

He tensed as he saw the headlights of Dexter’s Mondeo illumine the road ahead of him. He allowed her to pull well away from Meadowview and his position before he started his own engine. From a discreet distance, Willis followed Dexter back to her home.

Underwood took a long look at the single photograph he had placed on the mantelpiece in his living room. It didn’t make him feel excited or aroused as Rowena Harvey’s had once done. It just made him feel guilty: then angry.

Best
to
keep
busy,
he
told
himself.

It was 11.25 p.m.

It had been an unsettling and terrible day. Jack Harvey was dead. DC Jensen and Rowena Harvey were missing. He was convinced Jensen was dead: the coins had told him that much. Rowena Harvey’s fate seemed more ambiguous to him. Retrieving Julia’s picture from the box where he’d buried it had reminded him of the missing portrait of Rowena.

The box had been Jack’s idea. It had been part of Underwood’s therapy. Jack called it the ‘box of bad memories.’ He had instructed Underwood to strip his life of the visible reminders of his former existence: tear down the wallpaper of his depression. So Underwood’s photos, work files, music, even videos had all gone into the ‘box of bad memories’. Jack’s theory was that it would be impossible for Underwood to reconstruct himself while weighed down by the burdens of his failures. ‘When you feel stronger, more confident, more able to face the past,’ he had said to Underwood, ‘you can choose some items from the box and bring them out again.’ Julia’s photograph was the first thing he had removed from the box. Now, he was unsure why.