David Raker 05 - Fall From Grace Read online

  I went through the cases again, trying to familiarize myself with names, phone numbers, crime-scene locations and investigating officers. I remembered something Ellie had said to me and flipped back through my own pad to part of the conversation I’d had with her earlier. I’d written down verbatim what she’d said: From a distance, and from what I can remember, it seemed like the type of file you’d expect the police to compile. I mean, it was in a folder – a beige one, I think. Just a standard A4 loose-flap folder.

  It wasn’t an official police file – that much seemed obvious now. But then my eyes moved to a note I’d made the day before: Was the sender an ex-cop? That would explain it being tidy and well put together. It explained how someone could compile a compelling case, know what they were doing, what details to make available to Franks – and what might get him to sit up and take notice. The alternative, of course, was that it wasn’t an ex-cop at all – it was a serving cop, working something off the books.

  Serving cops like his friends Murray and Paige.

  I studied the document I’d put together and zeroed in on their names. There was no doubt that – just as in his email inbox – those two were the most dominant forces in his diary system. Mentions of Carla Murray mostly seemed to be in relation to individual cases, first as Franks’s number two, then – as the years went on and Franks started climbing the ladder – as his most trusted investigator; Jim Paige was referenced mostly in social events – golf days and fund-raisers – but also in a series of meetings between command leaders.

  Returning to the contents I’d removed from the inner pockets of the Moleskines – the scraps of paper, the Post-it notes, the birthday card, lists, everything he’d scribbled on to – I did what I hadn’t done first time round: I dumped anything that didn’t feel relevant. The two piles were a graveyard of random ideas, snatched moments, of things Franks had probably thought were important to note down – there and then in someone else’s office, or in a meeting – but which he most likely never looked at again. In truth, it wouldn’t have surprised me if, a week after adding something to the diaries, he forgot what they were even in reference to. Even so, by the end, a couple of things had caught my eye: one from the 1995–2004 notebook, and one from the second.

  The first was a scrap of paper with a drawing on it.

  The second was a pub flyer.

  The scrap was a piece of torn, lined paper about four inches across. On it, Franks had drawn something in biro:

  Next to that, he’d written, ‘BROLE108’. There was no date on it, no indication as to when it might have been added, other than at some point between 1995 and 2004. When I checked it against the document I’d created, of all the crime scenes he’d listed in the notebooks, I didn’t find a single case that featured the name ‘BROLE108’.

  I grabbed my phone, took a photograph of the sketch and dialled Craw’s mobile. She didn’t answer, so I called her home number. Ellie picked up. After a brief conversation, I said to her, ‘Does the word “BROLE108” mean anything to you?’

  ‘No. Whatever is that?’

  ‘I just found a reference to it in Len’s notes.’

  ‘Do you think it’s a code for something?’

  My eyes flicked between the scrap of paper and the pub flyer. ‘Maybe. Difficult to say at the moment. What about the number 108 – does that have any significance?’

  ‘One-oh-eight? No.’

  ‘The letters B, R, O, L and E. Could they stand for something?’

  ‘They could do, I guess.’

  ‘But nothing Len ever mentioned?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I’ve just sent you another email. Could you take a look?’

  She put the phone down. About a minute later she was back on the line, having looked at the sketch. ‘What’s that?’

  ‘You don’t recognize that either?’

  ‘No.’

  I set the scrap of paper away from everything else and moved on to the pub flyer. It was for a place called the Hare and Badger. I instantly recalled the name from an email that Franks and Paige had passed back and forth in 2012. It was on Broadway, close to the entrance to St James’s Park station and within spitting distance of Scotland Yard. Paige had talked it up for its ales, and then the conversation had got softer and Franks had said he missed their weekly pint. Paige responded by saying things hadn’t been the same since Franks retired. That exchange stuck with me because it was one of the few times they’d tried to articulate their friendship. It suggested the pub held good memories for both of them, that it had become special, a part of their routine.

  The front of the flyer was advertising a promotion. Banish those New Year blues! it screamed. Our mighty triple-decker sandwich on home-made rustic bread, plus an ale of your choice, only £7 – this lunchtime and every lunchtime this month! Below were the terms and conditions. The promotion ran from 1 February to 28 February 2013.

  I still had Ellie on the phone, so I said to her, ‘Do you remember if you and Leonard travelled up to London back in February? Maybe you came to see Melanie?’

  ‘February …’ A pause. ‘Uh, I’d have to check my diary.’

  ‘Can you do that for me?’

  ‘Yes. Okay. If you think it might help.’

  I heard her place the phone down again. As I waited, I returned my attention to the flyer and flipped it over. The reverse was unprinted and blank, except for random doodles Franks had made – yet something about them caught my eye.

  ‘Got it.’

  Ellie was back on the line.

  ‘Any luck?’

  ‘Yes. That second weekend in February. We spent a couple of days with Melanie. On the Monday, there was a lecture at the Black Museum that Len said he wanted to see. It was an all-day thing, so I dropped him off and then picked him up again later on.’

  The Black Museum was the nickname given to Scotland Yard’s Crime Museum. It wasn’t open to the public, but police and invited personnel could attend lectures on forensic science, pathology and investigative techniques, and see the murder weapon of Jack the Ripper, or the protective apron worn by the acid-bath murderer John Haigh.

  ‘Did Len go to the lecture with Melanie?’ I asked.

  ‘No. She was busy at work.’

  ‘So he went on his own?’

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘He met Jim Paige there.’

  I thanked her and hung up, then returned to the flyer and to the doodles Franks had made on its reverse. He could have made them during a break in lectures, when he and Paige had headed across the road to the Hare and Badger for a drink and a bite to eat. Or he could have made them later on, somewhere else, having taken the flyer with him. But, whenever he began drawing them, it was clear – that day – something else was preying on his mind.

  Because in among the doodles was a two-line list.

  Milk?

  Double-check 108.

  ‘One-oh-eight,’ I said quietly.

  Years before, he’d written the same number on the scrap of paper.

  The Boyfriend

  July 2005 | Eight Years Ago

  The corridor was sterile and cool, walls painted a neutral white, doors a uniform blue for as far as she could see. This part of the hospital was always quiet. Whenever she sat and waited for her appointment, she’d hear occasional hushed conversations, doors opening and closing, trolleys being wheeled along the linoleum, but not a lot else. When two nurses emerged from either side of her, saying something to one another as they passed, it felt out of the ordinary. Mostly, whenever she waited for Garrick, she waited in silence.

  Her eyes returned to his door.

  He had his name stencilled on it now: Dr John W. Garrick.

  It had been six months since Garrick had replaced Poulter, and she had to admit that slowly, perhaps reluctantly, she’d found herself taking to him. In a way, they were all the same, piling questions on top of questions. And yet what she liked about Garrick, what made him different from Poulter, and from the others she’d seen, was that
he wasn’t a complete blank: he didn’t shut her down the moment she asked him who he was, what his opinions were, what mattered to him. He didn’t give much of himself away either, but he at least met her part of the way. That was enough. She didn’t want to feel like she was returning to this place to talk to a blank wall. She wanted the comfort of another voice.

  A few minutes later, he came to the door.

  ‘How have you been feeling this week?’ he asked, beckoning her in.

  ‘I’ve been feeling good,’ she said.

  Garrick watched her sit down opposite him, and then seated himself in his black leather chair. He crossed one leg over the other, put one hand on the arm of the chair and laid the other flat to the desk next to him. She looked at his desk. There were never any pictures on it.

  ‘You’ve been feeling good?’ He smiled. ‘Well, that’s excellent.’

  He watched her get comfortable, pulling a pad across the desk and flipping open the front page. He removed his fountain pen from the spiral binding. Right down to his choice of pen, he had an old way about him, older than his fifty-something years. He moved smoothly, purposely, was quick-witted and smart, so it wasn’t physical.

  It was something else.

  Sometimes she wondered whether the fountain pen was him trying to recapture the feeling of some past point in his life. Maybe it was a line in the sand for him, an anchor, something to connect him back to a longed-for notch in his timeline. She wondered these things because she was the same. She’d frequently thought about getting another dog, the same breed and colour as Bear, a living, breathing memory that might tether her to a time in her life when things had been better.

  ‘Are you okay?’

  She looked at him, realizing she’d drifted off. He shifted in the chair, his slight frame coming forward, the pad on his lap now, pen in his long fingers, a half-smile on his face.

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Sorry.’

  ‘You don’t have to apologize.’

  ‘I was just thinking about the past.’

  ‘Past regrets?’

  She rolled her head from side to side. ‘I suppose.’

  ‘We’ve talked a lot about those regrets over the past six months. Lucas’s death. The impact that had on you. Your suicide attempts. Your divorce from Robert.’

  ‘I wasn’t thinking about Lucas, or Robert.’

  ‘So, if not your son, or your ex-husband, then what?’

  There was a single window in the office, about two feet above their heads. She couldn’t see anything from where she sat, but there were birds out there, swipes against the blue, drifting in the cloudless sky.

  ‘It doesn’t matter,’ she said.

  He didn’t say anything. She knew all their tricks by now: his silence was a way to coax the information out of her, or to tell her he didn’t agree. But she didn’t fold.

  Instead she changed the subject.

  ‘I’ve met someone,’ she said.

  Garrick seemed surprised. ‘Really?’

  ‘He works on a building site.’ Her eyes fell from the high window and, before she knew it, a smile had crept across her face. ‘Not where I usually look for my men.’

  Garrick laughed. ‘But that’s okay.’

  She nodded.

  ‘How do you feel about it?’

  ‘Feel about it?’ She shrugged. ‘I haven’t been with anyone since Robert and I got divorced, so I suppose I’m nervous. What if dating has changed over the past five years?’

  ‘I’m pretty sure it hasn’t.’

  ‘Yeah, but when was the last time you dated?’

  ‘Admittedly, quite a while ago.’

  She smiled again. ‘Well, we’ll see.’

  ‘How did you meet him?’

  ‘He gets the same bus as me in the morning.’

  ‘You just got chatting?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Are things going well?’

  She shrugged. ‘It’s only been a few weeks, but I think it’s going okay. He’s rough around the edges, but he seems quite fun. I figure I probably need a bit of fun in my life.’

  ‘Of course. What’s his name?’

  ‘Simon.’

  ‘What have you and Simon done together?’

  ‘He took me for a curry on our first date.’

  Garrick nodded, a knowing smile moving across his face. In one of their sessions a few months before, they’d ended up talking about eating out and she’d told him she wasn’t a big fan of Indian food.

  ‘Why didn’t you tell him you preferred to eat somewhere else?’

  ‘I felt sorry for him.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘He was trying so hard.’ She looked down into her lap. ‘Like I say, he’s rough around the edges; different from the sort of men I’ve dated before. Usually I wouldn’t even contemplate going out with a man who thinks Da Vinci is the name of a pizza restaurant, but when he started talking to me at the bus stop …’ She paused. ‘I felt like I wanted to take a risk.’

  ‘A risk?’

  As her fingers laced together in front of her, she looked up at Garrick again. ‘I get the sense there’s something up with him; that he’s carrying something …’

  ‘Something he’s not telling you about?’

  ‘That’s what I want to find out.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I like to know who I’m dating.’

  Garrick paused, his eyes fixed on her, his forefinger tapping out a gentle beat on the fountain pen. ‘So you’re dating him in order to find out what secret he’s keeping back?’

  She shrugged again. ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Do you find him attractive?’

  ‘He’s okay.’

  ‘You don’t find him stimulating.’

  ‘I never said that.’

  ‘You said he thought Da Vinci was a pizza restaurant.’

  ‘That was a joke.’

  Garrick watched her for a moment more, then noted something down. When he was done, he sat back. ‘So what happens when you find out?’

  ‘His secret? I don’t know. Maybe I won’t.’

  ‘But if you do?’

  Her eyes drifted to the high window again, to the square of blue sky visible beyond the room. ‘I guess it depends on what kind of secret it is he’s keeping from me.’

  17

  Four-Seven-Four, the location of the Met charity event, was on Millbank, overlooking Victoria Tower Gardens. Through what remained of the rust-coloured trees, we could see the Houses of Parliament, brightly lit against the dark of a freezing December night.

  Inside, the event was in full flow: the buzz of conversation; music playing in the background; a line of televisions above the bar, showing pictures of police officers. Some were in uniform, some plain clothes; some were posing for shots in hospital wards, others out on the streets. I led Annabel through clusters of people I didn’t recognize to the bar.

  The dress code was smart-casual, but a lot of what I imagined were CID officers had come straight from the office, undone their top button and lost the tie. Most uniforms seemed to have traded in their garb for jeans and T-shirts, and the Whitehall contingent were visible a mile off: suited, mannered, stiff, caught in conversations with cops neither side really wanted, given that budget and manpower cuts were the elephant in the room. I bought us both a drink, then fished out one of the tickets Craw had emailed through.

  ‘Maybe smart-casual means really smart or really casual.’

  She smiled. ‘I feel overdressed.’

  She was wearing black heels with a subtle pattern on them that matched her top, mauve trousers and a stylish fitted jacket, buttoned up at the front.

  ‘You look great,’ I said. ‘I don’t know if that’s what a father is supposed to say to his daughter, but I’m learning on the job here.’

  She smiled again. ‘Thank you.’

  Although I hadn’t admitted as much to Annabel, I was frequently conscious of saying the wrong thing. She was twenty-five, years out from childhood, and
I was finding the balance difficult: when you’d been a part of your child’s life, when you’d watched them grow, you could grab them and hug them, tell them they were beautiful, that you loved them. There was little to be misconstrued in that. But when they were her age and there was only an eighteen-year gap between you, when you’d spent most of your lives apart, compliments might be felt as improper and hugging her might sometimes be inappropriate.

  It was clear Annabel was struggling too, maybe even with the same issues, but definitely with other, smaller things: in the year I’d been taking trips cross-country to see her, she’d yet to call me anything. Not David, certainly not Dad. I didn’t expect the latter: for her, it was near-impossible to make that adjustment after a quarter of a century calling someone else that. But, at the very least, I’d hoped for David. I understood the reasons for her reticence, for the conflict that must have arisen in her, but although I liked to suppress it and pretend it wasn’t a problem, it hurt just a little. Without a name, it felt like I was just drifting aimlessly through the space between us.

  ‘Are you okay?’

  ‘Sorry,’ I said, looking at her. ‘Caught in a moment.’

  I scanned the room for any sign of Craw, or of Carla Murray and Jim Paige. I’d googled both and had managed to find pictures of them online, Murray sitting in front of a nest of microphones at a press conference, Paige in uniform in a press release, when the Met announced he was heading up Sapphire. The downside was that neither picture was recent, so my idea of how they looked was based on a version of them that had existed six or seven years ago: Murray, a stout, blonde-haired woman in her early forties, with flint-grey eyes and a small mole on the ridge of her jaw; Paige, the total opposite – stick thin, no more than eleven stone, with a shiny, hairless head and warmer, blue eyes.

  ‘I promise I’ll make this quick,’ I said to Annabel and, as I looked out again, I was surprised to see Melanie Craw break from behind a cluster of people and make a beeline across the room towards me. As was her style, she’d left the dress behind – if she even owned one – and gone with a charcoal-grey trouser-suit, but she’d added a red blouse and red heels. The only time I’d seen her with more colour on was when she’d answered the door to me at her home. In her hand was a glass of red wine. She stopped short of me, nodded once, then introduced herself to Annabel. The two of them chatted politely for a while about Annabel being in London.