The Unquiet Dead (22 page)

Jessie had assumed the barrister would know nothing about his old schoolmates. Clearly he’d kept a close eye. ‘I think you’ll find that Vincent is still alive,’ said Jessie.

‘No he isn’t. The drugs finally got him – bad batch. His heart stopped. They found him dead in his cell.’

Jessie was genuinely taken aback. Peter Boateng saw it in her face.

‘What a surprise, a long-term convict dies of an overdose in the slammer and they sit on the story. A statement will trickle its way into his file in a few months’ time, that’s the usual practice when this sort of thing happens.’

Jessie needed to recover some ground. ‘You seem to have taken a keen interest in your fellow witnesses’ lives.’

‘As I said, I have kept the estate in my sights.’

‘Mr Romano sends his regards,’ said Jessie, watching him closely.

‘Does he?’

‘Yes.’

‘Have you found his wife yet?’

Jessie wasn’t to be deflected. ‘I have a body in the morgue that I would like to identify, a body that fits your description of Ian Doyle perfectly. Would you be willing to do that for me?’

‘No.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because I am neither his GP nor his next of kin, nor was I his boyfriend, girlfriend or significant other.’

‘Off the record then, while we are tracking down any of the above?’

‘He would have aged. I wouldn’t recognise him as the man I saw in the baths,’ said the barrister.

‘Ah, but he didn’t age. Though he died the same day as Jonny, his body was so well preserved that he will look the same as he did the last time you saw him.’

‘That’s impossible,’ said Peter Boateng.

‘Freakish, I know, but not impossible. Unless of course by impossible you mean you didn’t see him?’

‘I meant about the preservation.’ Peter Boateng rubbed his chin. Now Jessie had the upper hand.

‘How did he die?’ he asked eventually.

‘Someone chained him up and drowned him.’

‘Murdered?’

‘Definitely. I gather you are going for silk,’ said Jessie, closing her file. ‘You have to have a spotless record for that, don’t you?’

‘My record is spotless,’ he said, refusing to appear threatened.

Jessie ran her eyes over the room. ‘Are you sure about that, Mr Boateng?’

The lawyer stood up.

‘Yes, I know,’ said Jessie. ‘You have an appointment. Don’t worry, we’re going.’ As Jessie placed her hand on the door handle she heard the lawyer return heavily to his seat. He’d relaxed just a fraction of a moment too soon. She turned. Peter Boateng straightened up.

‘You know what I think?’ she said, slowly turning the polished chrome handle. ‘I think that Jonny Romano wasn’t the only boy on speed that day. The lifeguard described you lot as out of control; all the papers backed up that claim with independent witnesses. There was no girl who sneaked to Mr Romano – he talked to you, Mr Boateng. He talked to you rather than accompany his dead son to hospital. That means he had something very important to say, or something very important to hear. And immediately after that conversation took place he started searching for a man called Ian. He asked every single person as they left the baths whether they’d seen him. In fact the only people he didn’t mention Ian to were the police. When you remember the details of that conversation, perhaps you would give me a call. Save me the trouble of returning to your chambers again, and again, and again.’

Jessie and Niaz made their way out through the aged buildings of the Inner Temple to Fleet Street. She had assumed that a visit to Peter Boateng would be the quickest way to determine whether or not Doyle had a limp, but it seemed that nothing about the Romano case was straightforward. Like Mr Romano, Peter Boateng had reacted with genuine disbelief and confusion at the news of Doyle’s death. That should have laid to rest any suspicions about their involvement, but Jessie was still uneasy. There was something strange about Mr Romano that she couldn’t put her finger on, and not for a moment did she believe someone as meticulous as Peter Boateng would have forgotten the man responsible for his best friend’s death. She turned to Niaz.

‘If Peter Boateng knew about the deaths of his old peers, it’s fair to assume he’d have kept an eye on Mr Romano and his search for Jonny’s murderer, right?’

‘Right,’ said Niaz.

‘And yet, when the solution to the mystery of Doyle’s whereabouts is finally revealed, neither of them seemed …’

‘Enlightened?’ offered Niaz.

‘Exactly. At last they understand why Mr Romano’s years of searching got nowhere – because Doyle was dead all along – and yet it doesn’t seem to make any impression on them. Why?’

‘Perhaps they had their own explanation for why he couldn’t be found. For example, if he never existed …’

‘You’re saying Peter Boateng made Doyle up?’

Niaz nodded.

Jessie thought for a while. ‘I suppose that would explain why he doesn’t want to go over the details now. He has taken an oath to uphold the law. Lying as a seventeen-year-old schoolboy isn’t the same as lying as a qualified barrister, but damaging nonetheless. And Mr Romano, was he in on it?’

‘Why would Mr Romano spend his life searching for a man he knew never existed?’

‘Haven’t you ever told a lie so many times that you actually start to believe it?’

Niaz looked horrified.

‘No, of course you haven’t.’

‘With respect, ma’am, isn’t it more likely that Mr Romano doesn’t know that Peter Boateng lied? It seems to me that Burrows was correct: searching for Doyle has given the man a reason to live,’ said Niaz.

Jessie could see the strength in Niaz’s argument.

‘So it was Peter and his friends who claimed they saw Doyle sell Jonny the drugs, and in doing so exonerated themselves.’

‘Why would they want to exonerate themselves?’

‘Because they gave Jonny the drugs. They were kids, their friend had just died; they would have been terrified. Peter Boateng especially; he was about to go to public school on a scholarship and couldn’t risk the scandal ruining his chances of a better life. So he concocted an evil drug pusher and got his less intelligent friends to back him up. That
would explain why Peter Boateng kept such a close eye on the others. Now they’re all dead, there’s no one to contest Boateng’s version of events. He can afford to be relaxed.’

‘Except, he wasn’t relaxed, was he?’

‘No. He had more to tell.’

‘So, ma’am, if Ian Doyle the evil drug-pusher never existed, who is the man in the morgue, the man with the limp?’

‘I have no idea, and neither does Mr Romano or Peter Boateng.’

Jessie closed her eyes in concentration. Peter Boateng was an intelligent man, trained to ask questions and give nothing away. A man who spoke and acted by design.

‘What was the most interesting thing Peter Boateng said in there?’ she asked.

‘That it was impossible Doyle’s remains had been preserved?’

‘No. When we were talking about Mr Romano he said, “Have you found his wife yet?”
Found
, Niaz. Why would we need to find her?’

‘I thought he was just changing the course of your questioning.’

‘So did I. But he could have said any number of things about Mrs Romano’s departure from Lisson Grove. Instead he asks, have you found her? He chooses his words very carefully, by “find” he meant to tell me that she was missing – and missing is very different to divorced and living elsewhere.’

‘What do you want me to do?’

‘Find Mrs Romano.’

Jessie expected nudging and whispering, sniggering and pointing, but there was nothing. The usual greetings from the usual people: the staff on the front desk nodded hello, the beat officers stood smartly to attention as she walked past. Mostly she was ignored as her fellow officers waded through another hectic day. Mark Ward could not have returned from the Ritz, thought Jessie, pushing open the door to the canteen. But there he sat, surrounded by his usual cronies, eating gammon and pineapple. He waved a curt hello to her. Where were the P. J. Dean posters? The humiliating chants? The crippling comments? Jessie wandered nervously to the lunch queue and picked up a sandwich. Talk was of the spoilt little rich kid who’d run away to the Ritz. No one mentioned Jessie’s presence there. This was very strange. Had Mark kept his mouth shut? She took her sandwich and headed back to the door. Mark joined her on the staircase.

‘So Anna Maria was found safe and well,’ he said. ‘What a relief for her poor mother.’

Jessie wasn’t sure where Mark was going with this one, so she remained silent.

‘Lucky for me, you’re unlikely to feel in a gloating mood, having been found in such a compromising position yourself.’

Focusing on the metal treads, Jessie took one step at a time.

‘Gold-digger,’ he whispered.

Jessie turned.

Mark held up his hand. ‘Now, now, settle down. We wouldn’t want anyone hearing about your little indiscretion. DCI Moore was quite taken aback – she’d begun to think there was nothing in the Dean rumours and that you were a dyke. Imagine how surprised she was to discover that you’re actually a whore.’ He held on to her arm. ‘What, you can’t take a little teasing? That’s a pity, because you’re going to be getting a lot more, and worse besides. But then you should have thought about that before banging a suspect. Jesus, I thought you might have learnt by now, but he obviously has something that keeps all those women coming back for more. I guess it’s his sparkling personality.’

Jessie prised his fingers off her arm.

‘Of course, we could keep your dirty little secret quiet, I suppose …’

She backed away from him.

‘… come to some sort of agreement. Let’s say I get to keep my nice new office and you get to keep some sliver of respect among your peers.’

Mark stepped closer until Jessie had her back against the wall.

‘I wouldn’t have thought it was a difficult choice. But I know how slowly a woman’s brain works, so I’ll give you until the end of the day. You should know that I’ve come to like my new office a lot, and I would be very sore to lose it. Catch my drift?’

He left her standing on the stairwell. Jessie hated
to think what Mark Ward had done to suspects over the years he’d hidden his anger behind the protection of a badge. She wandered to her shoebox of an office and sat in her slightly wobbly chair.

Across the hallway, Burrows’ door was open but his office was empty. On his desk was a small cross. By not taking on Mark, she was like the empty-worded fisherman, she was like the battered wives who walked into doors. If Burrows was brave enough, she was brave enough. Mark Ward wouldn’t get his office and she wouldn’t allow him to degrade her any more. Jessie picked up the phone.

Niaz knocked on Jessie’s door.

‘Hang on a sec.’ She blew her nose and quickly straightened her hair, then shouted, ‘Come in.’

‘There is someone here to see you. I’ve put her in the conference room.’

‘Who is it?’

‘She says her name is Mary Adams – she is the medium who works with Father Forrester.’

‘She doesn’t have an appointment and I don’t have time for that kind of thing right now.’

‘I think you should see her,’ Niaz said calmly. ‘What harm can it do?’

A lot, thought Jessie.

‘For your information,’ said Niaz, ‘the structural engineers have finished checking the Marshall Street Baths. They couldn’t find anything wrong with the electricity.’

‘I don’t care what any of you think, I refuse to believe in anything I can’t see,’ she said as she stood up and stalked off in the direction of the conference room.

Mary was sitting by the window in an electric wheelchair. She wore a frumpy blue nylon trouser suit and jaunty red trainers. Her hair was pulled back in a bun and Nana Mouskouri-style glasses hung from a chain around her neck, entangled in an amber pendant.

‘Can I help you?’ asked Jessie.

‘I was hoping to be able to help you,’ said Mary in a voice that stroked the soul. This was how it began, thought Jessie angrily.

‘That’s where you are
all
wrong. I don’t need your help, or Father Forrester’s, and I certainly didn’t ask you to come here.’

‘Well, now that I am here, perhaps you will give me a few minutes to explain why I thought it was important to come all this way.’

Jessie winced as she involuntarily looked down at the wheels. Mary laughed and said, ‘Yes, they are a great help in the art of manipulation.’

‘All of it is manipulation,’ replied Jessie, suddenly feeling too tired to stand. Too tired to fight.

‘I agree that certain elements of institutionalised religion depend upon manipulation. A big clue is if they start taking donations by direct debit. Those churches are definitely to be avoided.’

‘You’re not religious then?’ asked Jessie.

‘I spend a lot of time with religious people, but I’m a heathen compared to them. Luckily, Father Forrester and Beatrice are not the type of fundamentalists who deny the right to Heaven to anybody outside their particular sect. Those churches, too, are best avoided – though they usually go hand in hand.’