The Lost

Chapter 22

If the intention was to crush the resistance of those inside, then the interview room was a triumph of design. Overhead, a strip light cast a harsh glow that leached life and emitted a hum like a tireless insect trapped in the ceiling. The walls were a cold grey and the metal legs of the scuffed table were bolted to the floor. The chair Jonah sat on was moulded plastic but seemed to have been engineered for a different shape to the human body. After the first twenty minutes, his thighs had gone numb, and a dull ache had begun in his lower back. He stretched from time to time as he waited, but otherwise tried to shut his mind to the discomfort. He was hardly a stranger to rooms like this. He’d been in dozens like it over the course of his career.

Just not on this side of the table.

He’d been driven to the station by two uniformed PCs who’d arrived as the street outside the bedsit filled with police vehicles. They’d ignored him, chatting desultorily to each other in the front of the car while he sat alone behind them. He’d hated that, hated the sense of being on the wrong side of the procedural machine. At the station he’d been taken to an interview room, and then left. Time had slowed to a crawl and it was almost a relief when Fletcher eventually walked in. The DI looked tired, his baggy clothes creased and the usually taut, livid skin on his face was slack and pale. Bennet came in afterwards, closing the door behind them. They took the two chairs on the other side of the table. After the rigmarole of identification for the benefit of the records, the DI stared at Jonah without speaking, letting the silence stretch before he spoke.

‘How long have you been a police officer?’

‘You know how long.’

‘Remind me.’

‘Sixteen years.’

‘Sixteen years,’ Fletcher echoed. ‘Long enough to know you don’t trample over a crime scene. Although you’ve a habit of doing that, haven’t you?’

‘I didn’t know it was a crime scene until I got there. And I was careful not to touch anything with my bare hands.’

‘You shouldn’t have touched anything at all.’

There was nothing Jonah could say to that. Worst of all was knowing that he’d brought this on himself. He’d hoped that Fletcher and Bennet hadn’t seen him arriving at Marie’s as they’d left, but of course they had. The DI had told her to drop him at the nearest tube station, and then double back to wait outside Marie’s. When Jonah had set off after Dylan, he’d been so intent on keeping the silver Vauxhall in sight it never occurred to him that someone might be following him as well.

The shock of finding Bennet outside had been replaced by the realisation of how much trouble he was in. And anger at his own stupidity. He’d been hoping that his news about Gavin’s bedsit and the hidden money would offset any censure over the fact that he shouldn’t have been there in the first place. Now, instead of him offering up the information voluntarily, he’d been caught apparently sneaking out. That placed him in a very different position.

Fletcher studied Jonah across the interview room table. ‘The flat was rented by someone calling himself Richard King. Does the name mean anything to you?’

Jonah shook his head. ‘No. I told you, I knew nothing about it.’

‘The landlord told us King paid six months’ rent in advance,’ Fletcher went on as though he hadn’t heard. ‘Cash up front, plus a chunky deposit. The landlord didn’t ask for an ID or references on account of having a wad of cash waved in front of him, but the description he gave us matches McKinney, and he identified him from a photo. McKinney’s son has admitted stealing his dad’s keys and selling a laptop from the bedsit. That was before he found the money and started helping himself to that.’

‘What about the laptop? Have you recovered it?’ Jonah asked.

‘That comes under “none of your business”. But no, we haven’t. I think we can safely say it’s gone for good.’

That was no surprise, but its loss was still bitterly disappointing. If Gavin had kept any additional information on Stokes, the chances were that it would have been on the second laptop he’d kept in the bedsit.

‘There was a whisker under seven hundred and forty thousand pounds hidden in the roof space,’ Fletcher continued. ‘Whisker in this case being around five grand filched by the boy. Nearly three quarters of a million in used notes. Any suggestions how McKinney got his hands on that much cash?’

‘I’ve no idea.’

‘OK, then let’s put it this way. Do you think he came by it honestly? A bank loan, maybe? Or perhaps he was just a thrifty saver.’

Jonah started to say he didn’t know, but the words lodged in his throat. ‘No.’

‘At least we agree on that. I think this pretty much puts a bow on the question of whether McKinney was corrupt. Which leaves me, yet again, wondering how you fit into all this.’

‘I keep telling you, Dylan’s mother asked me to keep an eye on him because he’d been acting strangely. I didn’t know the money or bedsit even existed until I followed him there. And I was on my way back to the car to call you when I saw DS Bennet.’

‘Of course you were. And here’s me thinking you only told us because you got caught coming out.’

‘I know how it looks, but that was just bad timing.’

‘You seem to have a lot of that.’

There was nothing Jonah could say to that either. The DI waited to see if his sarcasm would provoke a response before going on.

‘What about the letter McKinney left for his wife? He told her if anything happened to him she should trust you. That you’d explain. How were you supposed to do that if you didn’t know anything?’

‘I’ve no idea.’ Jonah was painfully aware how unconvincing he sounded. ‘He must have planned to tell me when he saw me.’

Fletcher rocked his chair back, contemplating him.

‘For the sake of argument, let’s assume you really were as stupid as you claim and didn’t know about any of it,’ he said. ‘The bedsit, the money, oh my goodness, what a surprise. The thing I’m having difficulty with is why a police officer of sixteen years’ standing would decide the best course of action wasn’t to, I don’t know, maybe report evidence pertaining to a murder investigation rather than search the place himself? And I’m not talking about a quick shufti. You moved the bed to get to a concealed loft hatch! You were looking for something, so if it wasn’t the money, what was it?’

Jonah knew there was no point in denial. ‘I thought Gavin might have information about Theo.’

‘And why would you think that?’

‘You said yourself he must have had a reason for following Stokes and wanting me to meet him that night. The only thing I can think of is that he found out something about what happened ten years ago.’

‘I’ve already told you, there’s no—’

‘I know what you said, but this is my son we’re talking about. If there’s any chance Gavin knew something different, then of course I’m going to want to know about it!’

Fletcher said nothing for a while, studying him through lidded eyes.

‘OK, let’s talk about this mystery visitor you claim you heard outside,’ the DI said, abruptly changing the subject. ‘You told Bennet whoever it was ran off before you saw them. But you knew Owen Stokes had broken into McKinney’s house looking for something, and you’d just discovered a bagful of hidden cash. If you could find the bedsit, so could he. Are you telling me it never even crossed your mind it could have been him?’

All the arguments that had run through Jonah’s mind in the bedsit came back. He remembered standing by the door, separated from whoever was outside by a few inches of timber. He’d convinced himself it couldn’t have been Owen Stokes, but now he felt new doubts forming.

‘I didn’t see who it was. It could have been anyone,’ he said, trying to believe it himself. ‘I didn’t think you’d thank me for pressing the panic button because some tenant was poking around outside. Anyway, Stokes wouldn’t have run off like that. Not if he was after the money.’

‘That’s your reasoning, is it? There’s a possibility the man who killed your mate and put you in hospital, who you still aren’t convinced wasn’t somehow involved in your son’s disappearance, was right there and you didn’t bother to tell anyone?’

‘DS Bennet was outside watching the house,’ Jonah said, the doubts growing. ‘If it was Stokes, she’d have seen him leave.’

Bennet’s voice was as inflectionless as her expression. ‘There was a back door.’

Christ. Jonah could feel a panic sweat break out at the thought that he might have been wrong. ‘Are you saying it was him? Did somebody in one of the flats see him?’

‘We’re still interviewing the residents,’ Fletcher said. ‘Right now, I’m more interested in why you might have decided to keep something like that to yourself when you’re supposedly so keen on catching Owen Stokes.’

Because I didn’t trust myself. Because I thought I saw a dead woman at Slaughter Quay.

‘You can’t seriously think I’d have kept quiet if I’d thought it was him? Why the hell would I do that?’

‘Oh, I don’t know. Maybe the three quarters of a million pounds you’d just found in the loft had something to do with it.’

‘If that was all I was after, why did I leave it up there? I’d have taken it with me,’ Jonah shot back. ‘I don’t care about the money, I want to know what happened to my son! And if there had been anything about him in there, I didn’t trust you to tell me about it!’

‘This is a murder enquiry, Colley, I don’t have to tell you anything!’

‘Then don’t be surprised when I try to find out on my own!’

There was a silence. Fletcher remained impassive, but the tight skin of his face looked flushed and feverish.

‘You know your trouble, Colley? You think the world owes you a free pass. But you don’t have any special rights because you’re a police officer or your son died. I thought at first you and McKinney might have been on some sort of vendetta against Owen Stokes, but now I’m inclined to think it was just thieves falling out. We already know McKinney was crooked, so maybe him and Stokes stole the money from a gang and then fell out over it. And nothing I’ve heard so far convinces me you aren’t in it up to your neck as well.’

Jonah was struggling to remain calm. ‘Then why don’t you charge me?’

‘Oh, don’t worry, I will when I’m ready. I’ll look forward to it.’

They glared at each other. The atmosphere in the small interview room fairly crackled. Bennet glanced at Fletcher and cleared her throat.

‘Sir, perhaps we should...’

‘All right, Bennet, I don’t need reminding,’ he snapped. He seemed on the point of getting up, then he stopped. ‘One other thing. There was a strong smell of dope in McKinney’s bedsit. I don’t suppose you’d know anything about that, would you?’

‘I didn’t see Dylan smoking anything, if that’s what you mean,’ Jonah said. Strictly speaking, he hadn’t: the joint had been quietly smouldering on the coffee table.

‘No?’ Fletcher’s smile was predatory. ‘Well, he didn’t return the favour. He swore blind if anyone was smoking dope there it must have been you.’

Oh, Dylan, you little bastard... ‘It wasn’t.’

‘Then you won’t mind emptying your pockets, will you?’

‘Are you serious?’

‘Don’t I look it?’

Jonah considered objecting, just on principle. But there was no point. The chair scraped against the floor as he pushed it back. He rose to his feet, leaning on the table for balance. One by one, he went through all his pockets, dropping the contents on the table. Wallet, car keys, flat key. Coins, an unused tissue, a packet of chewing gum.

‘Jacket as well,’ Fletcher instructed. ‘The inside ones.’

Reaching inside his jacket, Jonah unzipped both inside pockets. He took his phone from one and put it on the table, then pulled out the pocket linings to show they were empty.

‘Satisfied?’ he asked.

‘Not yet. Don’t have any objection to a quick pat-down, do you?’

Jonah started to object, then gave in. He balanced as best he could, then held out his arms and waited.

‘Do the honours, Bennet,’ Fletcher said.

‘Don’t you think a male officer should do that, sir?’

He gave her a look, then shook his head. ‘Fine, I’ll do it myself.’

Moving Jonah’s crutches out of the way, the DI quickly ran his hands over Jonah’s chest and arms, then crouched to pat down his legs.

‘Are we done, or do you want me to strip off as well?’ Jonah said, lowering his arms.

‘We’re done. For now.’ Fletcher started towards the door, then stopped. ‘On second thoughts, your car’s still at the bedsit. DC Bennet’s heading back over there soon. She can give you a lift.’

The policewoman’s face showed a rare reaction. ‘But sir—’

‘I’m sorry, is there a problem?’

It was a petty payback. Bennet composed her features back into the usual mask.

‘No, sir.’

‘Thought not.’ Fletcher turned a malevolent glare to Jonah. ‘I’ll look forward to speaking again, Sergeant Colley.’

Bennet wasn’t happy. She marched in silence through the corridors to a fenced-off car park at the back of the police station, leaving Jonah to keep up on his crutches. By the time he caught up with her she’d already yanked open the Polo’s door and climbed in. Not convinced she’d wait long enough for him to put his crutches in the back, Jonah wrestled them into the passenger seat with him.

‘This wasn’t my idea,’ he said, struggling to fasten his seat belt as she pulled up to the exit barrier and wound down the window to present a pass.

‘Never said it was.’

Resigning himself to a silent journey, Jonah stared out of the window as she pulled into the evening traffic. It was cold inside the car, the chill from the seat striking through his jeans. Without comment, Bennet put the heater on, filling the cabin with a noisy blast of cool air that gradually began to warm.

Even more gradually, the atmosphere in the car began to thaw as well.

‘What’s going to happen to Dylan?’ Jonah asked after a while. ‘Will he be charged?’

‘Not my call.’

‘He’s just a kid.’

‘He’s seventeen. Old enough to know you don’t help yourself to a bagful of money you’ve found stashed in a loft.’

‘He thought it belonged to his dad.’

‘Right. Because every police detective can salt away three quarters of a million. Nothing wrong with that at all.’

Bennet’s profile was stern and unforgiving in the glow from the passing streetlights. But after a moment or two she shrugged.

‘He’ll probably be let off with a warning. But that’s only a guess. Like I say, it’s not my call.’

Jonah badly wanted to ask how the search was progressing for Owen Stokes, but he knew she wouldn’t tell him. There was one thing he needed to say, though.

‘Is it true one of the male victims has been identified?’

‘I thought I told you not to listen to rumours.’

‘This was more than a rumour. I was told his name was Daniel Kimani.’

Bennet’s momentary silence was confirmation enough. ‘Who told you that? The journalist again?’

Jonah hesitated. But Daly hadn’t said anything about the information being confidential. In any case, if she was going to publish it, the enquiry team had a right to know.

He nodded. ‘Is it true?’

‘What else did she say?’

‘That he was Kenyan and here on a student visa.’

‘Did she tell you anything else?’

‘No, that was all. But she’s still digging for a story.’

‘She’s a reporter, of course she is.’ The only outward sign of any agitation was the tapping of Bennet’s index finger on the steering wheel. ‘Are you helping her?’

‘No, of course not.’

‘Why was she confiding in you?’

‘She was hoping I’d give up something in return. Don’t worry, I didn’t.’

But even as he said it he wondered if that was true. The memory of Daly’s visit was still an uncomfortable one.

‘Why didn’t you mention this to DI Fletcher earlier?’ Bennet asked.

‘It slipped my mind.’

It had, though only at first. But by then Jonah had only wanted to get out of that interview room. He didn’t want to give Fletcher any more excuses for holding him.

‘I wouldn’t let anything else slip, if I were you,’ Bennet said.

She dropped him off by his car. It was only when he was back in the familiar seclusion of the old Saab’s cabin that he realised how tired he was. It had been another long day, so he parked on the road near his flat again rather than walk back from his garage. As he approached the lighted entrance to the flats, his thoughts were already on sitting down with something to eat, watching a game or something non-demanding on TV.

The first he realised he wasn’t alone was when the bottle exploded at his feet.

Jonah was spattered with beer and shards of glass. Startled and furious, he looked in the direction it had come from. A short distance away, a group of shadowy figures stood under a concrete awning. It was too dark to make them out properly, but he thought he recognised the two youths who’d got into the lift with him the night before.

Jonah stared at them, waiting for them to do something else. When they didn’t, he turned away, making a show of not hurrying as he continued to the entrance. Part of him wanted to confront them, to vent his frustration with himself and Fletcher, but he’d got into enough trouble for one day. Teenagers or not, there were more of them than him, and he was on crutches. And if they had knives, all bets were off.

No footsteps sounded behind him as he limped into the foyer. As he waited for the lift, he kept an eye on the entrance, half expecting the gang to appear. But the glass doors showed only the floodlit concourse outside. Getting into the lift, Jonah watched the indicator tick off the floors as it ascended. With everything else that had happened, he’d forgotten all about the would-be muggers. They obviously hadn’t forgotten him, though, and now they had friends. Great. He didn’t kid himself that being a police officer would put them off for long. Even if they believed it, he was too obviously on his own, and his crutches marked him as vulnerable. Sooner or later they’d try something.

But that was a problem for another day. Back in his flat, Jonah locked the door then went into the kitchen and sat down at the table. Leaning one of his crutches against it, he reversed the other. It was the one he’d snagged on the worn stair carpet as he’d left the bedsit, pulling loose the rubber ferrule. Taking hold of it, Jonah pulled and twisted until it slid off the aluminium tube with a soft pop. He held the hollow end of the crutch over the kitchen table and gave it a gentle shake.

Dylan’s half-smoked joint, cigarette papers and twist of foil fell out.

After the day he’d had, Jonah was almost tempted to smoke the joint himself. Instead, he threw the papers, foil and joint into the bin. He’d hidden them in the crutch when Bennet had gone upstairs to the bedsit. Just as well, because Fletcher would have loved to charge him with possession of a Class B drug. He’d probably have searched him even if Dylan hadn’t pointed the finger.

Like father, like son, Jonah thought, replacing the ferrule on his crutch. Gavin might not have intended to drop him in the shit, but that’s what he’d managed to do. First with his phone call, then the letter to Marie. And now with a secret bedsit and three quarters of a million from God knew where. Even dead Gavin was still causing him grief.

Opening a beer, Jonah hoped he hadn’t left behind any more surprises.