Death Trap (9 page)

‘Just a brother,’ Rio answered the other woman’s question. ‘My parents are both gone. My dad cut out on us when I was five and my mum passed away three months ago.’

Ophelia took a few more lazy puffs and, with smoke drifting with her words, said, ‘How did you deal with it?’ She didn’t need to tell Rio what ‘it’ was. Death.

Rio’s eyebrows shuffled together. ‘I was lucky enough to know both my grandparents. My dad was from Trinidad but my mum came from the neighbouring island of Grenada. When my grandmother in Trinidad died we all went down for her funeral. My grandmother’s mother was from the Punjab and I think my gran still held on to some of her Hindu beliefs.’ A tiny smile creased Rio’s lips. ‘There was a bit of a tussle between her African blood and her Hindu relatives about what her send-off should be. But in the end they all agreed that whatever it was, whatever it looked like, it had to be a journey of peace. I never forgot that word when my dad died. My mum died. Peace. Peace.’

Ophelia pushed the ciggie to her lips and sucked hard. She shifted her gaze and head away from Rio. Smoke clouded around her face, leaving a hazy mask that dulled the glossy red of her hair. Rio had an impulse to wave the smoke away; this woman had had too much dirt thrown at her recently.

Ophelia turned back to her. ‘Why did you become a cop?’

‘Why did you become an actress?’ Getting people to talk was one of Rio’s specialities. Over the years she learned that sometimes the best way of doing that was by going an indirect route.

The other woman flicked the butt on to the ground, then folded her arms reminding Rio how skinny she was.

‘Don’t get me wrong. I had one of those blissful childhoods – attentive parents, top of the range schools, lived in a neighbourhood that had style mags gagging. But I always found myself wanting something else. Someone else’s life I suppose. At uni I got involved in the drama society and it just seemed that the natural progression would be to attend drama school.’ Her cherry lips twisted.

‘Your parents didn’t approve?’ Rio pulled out an energy-protein bar from her jacket. She offered it to Ophelia, but the other woman wrinkled her nose as if she was being offered poison.

Rio ripped the wrapper as Ophelia started talking again. ‘It was Dad really. He wanted me to become part of the business—’

‘And what business was that?’

‘Aren’t you Ophelia Bell?’ a voice interrupted.

Both Rio and the actress turned to find the couple who’d been smoking nearby, less than a metre from them. It was the man who spoke, his cheeks high-red with excitement.

‘No. Now push off.’ Ophelia’s cherry lips snarled fiery peppers style.

‘But that’s you up there isn’t it?’ the man persisted, pointing.

Both Rio and Ophelia looked at what he pointed at; a poster on the wall advocating the work of a charity called, ‘Love Yourself’ which was having a week’s awareness about eating disorders. One of the charity’s patrons was photographed on the poster – Ophelia Bell.

‘Can you please leave us alone?’ Ophelia’s voice was harder, but Rio noticed that her cheeks had pinked over as soon as she spotted the poster.

But the couple weren’t going anywhere. The man peered closer like the actress was an exhibit in a shop window advertising sales. This time when he spoke his tone was scornful. ‘You’re her alright; I’d recognise that voice anywhere. And that show you’re in is crap, love, and you’re crap in it.’

Rio stepped in. Showed her warrant card. ‘Maybe you want to talk a bit more about your own personal crap in Interview Room Number One down at the station.’

Her threat got the couple rapidly moving along.

‘See what I have to put up with? Every little tosser’s a critic these days.’ Ophelia pressed the sunglasses closer to her face. ‘I suppose you’re wondering now if I’ve got an E.D?’ Seeing the confusion on Rio’s face she added, ‘Eating disorder.’

‘It’s none of my—’

‘Well I have,’ the actress carried on as if Rio hadn’t spoken. ‘Or had. It’s no big secret. It was years back when I was a teen. When ‘‘Love Yourself’’ asked for my help I gave it.’ She took a deep breath. ‘‘Now, where were we? Ah yes, Dad’s business. The honest God truth is I don’t really know. I think he had a partner before I was born, but I’m not sure. When I was young I think he made his money in property, but once again I’m not sure. Whatever it was he sold up and diversified into something else. Something more lucrative.’

‘What could be more of a money spinner than property in a place like London?’

‘Who knows? I didn’t much care. He just wanted to make lots of money and I wanted to entertain people.’

‘He must’ve been proud when he saw you on the telly, especially when
The Wilcotts
became such a success.’

Ophelia removed her Ray-Bans. Her eyes were bright and glassy. ‘I like to think he was. He belonged to a generation that didn’t really open up about their feelings.’ She shrugged, a small one that was more continental than British. ‘He did pat me on the back last year when I was nominated for the National Television Awards. He didn’t say anything, just touched his palm to my back.’

Ophelia shivered and Rio knew she was feeling that loving touch on her back all over again. She placed her glasses back on her face in an action that was more a fumble than a sure move.

‘In the last few days, did your parents mention seeing anyone out of the ordinary near where they lived?’ Rio then took her first bite of the bar. It tasted just as it always did – like wood shavings mashed together with glue – but it kept her energy levels going.

Ophelia ruffled the front of her hair with her fingers. ‘The last time I spoke to them was a few days ago. It was Mum’s birthday and I was meant to go over, but then a rehearsal came up.’ She shook her head. ‘They didn’t mention seeing anything strange. Mind you there were always weird goings-on at the home nearest to them: that pop star living with his wife, mistress and two adopted kids from Cambodia.’

‘And what about your brother? Cornelius? We haven’t been able to locate him because we don’t have any contact details.’

‘I don’t have a clue where he is or a number for him. Nor do I want one. He doesn’t appear to understand the concept of work but fully understands the role of a full-time parasite. The last time I saw him he looked like he needed a good hose-down to clean up his life.’

‘Would your parents’ lawyer, Stephen Foster, know where he is?’

Ophelia face screwed up fiercely. ‘Foster?’

Rio remembered the repulsion the other woman had displayed earlier when his name was thrown into the conversation in her dressing room. ‘You don’t like him?’

‘I hate that man.’

‘Why?’

Ophelia pulled her neck long. ‘I don’t have time to talk about Stephen Foster when I’ve got to think about burying my parents.’

She twisted around, walking hurriedly away, leaving Rio alone among the smell of smoke and trash. Rio gazed up at Ophelia Bell on the ‘Love Yourself’ poster.

‘The parents still inside?’ Rio asked the protection officer when she arrived back on the ward.

He quickly explained that Nikki’s parents had gone to the canteen while a partner from Stephen Foster’s law firm had just arrived to speak to Nikki and didn’t want to be disturbed. Rio scoffed when he told her Foster’s associate had said that the lawyer was indisposed for the next few hours. She couldn’t believe that he had a vulnerable client, who’d witnessed a woman being murdered, and he was off doing God knew what for the day. Probably glad-handing some of his celeb clients.

‘What was it like speaking to Lady Clarissa?’ the officer quietly asked her.

‘You a fan?’

‘Me and the missus watch it every Sunday.’

Rio remembered the man abusing Ophelia outside. ‘I think that it’s one tough business.’

‘She should try arresting drunks on a Saturday night. Now, that’s what I call a rough business – not dressing up and reading autocues.’

Rio looked over at Nikki’s hospital door. ‘Did you double-check the identity of the guy from Foster’s?’

‘Sure.’

‘You’re certain about that?’

The guard appeared slightly put out. ‘I rang Foster’s office. He’s OK.’

Just as Rio raised her hand to lightly tap on the door, her mobile rang. She checked the caller ID.

Calum Burns.

Rio froze, like she wasn’t in the hospital ward anymore but being dragged back into the past. What did he want? They hadn’t crossed words with each other in three years. Maybe DSI Newman had given him a bell and told him to contact her? The saliva in her mouth started drying up. The phone kept ringing.

Rio took the call. ‘Don’t phone me again.’

She cut the call. That was easy. Then why was her heart pumping like it had just learned to beat for the first time?

‘Detective Inspector Wray.’

Rio looked up to find Stephen Foster striding towards her.

‘I thought you were indisposed?’

‘Indisposed?’ He gazed at her confused.

‘Yes, that’s what the associate you sent over to speak to Nicola Bell told our protection officer.’

‘Hang on a minute, I was going to send a colleague, but I decided to come myself. I never told him—’

But Rio was gone, racing over to Nikki’s door. The blind was down, the door locked. Rio didn’t hesitate; she kicked in the flimsy door. A man, sporting a black Kagoul coat, hood up, stood over Nikki holding a syringe.

twelve

3:08 p.m.

The man jerked to face Rio, the raincoat zipped to his nose, hood low down on his forehead. The only part of his face on display were light brown eyes and a touch of white skin.

‘Put it down,’ Rio shouted.

She stayed where she was, just inside the doorway, knowing that any move could force him to plunge the syringe into the teenager’s neck. Nikki’s head was still, her eyes wide with terror.

‘Back. Off,’ Rio continued yelling, stretching her arms wide and frantically waving her palms behind her to keep the protection officer and Foster outside.

The man’s hands moved quickly; one flipped the syringe around so he now held it like a dagger while the other pulled out a slim pistol fitted with a silencer. He jammed the silencer against Nikki’s temple. A strained, protesting noise came from the back of the sixteen-year-old’s throat, but she still didn’t move.

Shit.

Rio took a step forwards. ‘Put the gun and the syringe down.’ She kept her voice calm. Even.

But he ignored her, instead shouting, ‘You two gentlemen behind her, please join us inside.’

Confident, professional, and polite: that’s what Rio noticed about his voice and tone; all he was missing was the briefcase, suit and tie. Another policeman in the room would work to Rio’s advantage, but another civilian? No. That was going to make things messier. But she could do nothing as the protection officer – Officer Drake (his name was suddenly really important to her if anything happened) – and Stephen Foster followed the gunman’s instruction. Rio felt the body heat of both men as they stood close behind her right side.

The gunman addressed Officer Drake. ‘Drop any weapons on the floor.’

Rio could feel her colleague’s gaze shift sharply to her for guidance what to do, but she couldn’t look back, couldn’t take her eyes off the gunman and Nikki.

‘Do. It,’ she ordered.

While the officer dropped his taser and CS gas, Rio mentally jammed as many facts in her mind about the gunman’s physical characteristics.

White-olive skin.

Skin only visible around the eyes.

Five ten to eleven

Light brown eyes. Can’t see if they had another colour mixed in with them.

Defo English accent, but a slight roll in some words. West Country?

Black Kagoul. Black tracksuit bottoms. No distinguishing marks on tracksuit. Black trainers, no marks on those either.

Right-handed from the gun in his hand, but using his left hand with equal confidence.

‘You next, lady cop,’ the gunman continued his instructions.

Rio eased her taser out and let it drop on the floor.

‘And the gas,’ the gunman’s voice held heat in it for the first time.

Rio shook her head. ‘No CS. Search me if you doubt my word.’ She said the last deliberately, hoping he would take the bait to come into her personal space, which would give her the opportunity to attack. The material of the raincoat under his eyes moved and Rio realised that he was smiling. No, this man wasn’t fool enough to fall for that trick.

‘You.’ He now addressed Foster. ‘Lock the door.’

But instead of following the instruction, Stephen Foster started running his mouth like the overpaid shark he was. ‘You’ll get at least ten years for threatening behaviour, five more for carrying a firearm . . .’

‘Shut the fuck up.’ It wasn’t the gunman but Rio who spoke. ‘Do what he said. Shut. The. Door.’

‘The lock is broken—’

Rio just did it because she was frightened what might happen next if this legal prick kept sounding off; swiftly she twisted right and belted Foster a stinging open palm across his cheek. As his head rocked back in shock, Rio faced the gunman again, her palms in the air.