EIGHT
Dan watched Eve go, listened to her footsteps on the stairs, followed by the distant thud of the front door.
Zofia thrust his coffee and a paper bag at him. ‘I got you a couple of croissants. That’s all they have left. The painkillers are in there too. What’s she talking about? Does she think Sean’s guilty?’
‘No. She’s just kicking the tyres.’
‘Why do you have to speak with her?’
‘Because I do.’
He yawned, sat down again and reached for the coffee, burning his fingers as he peeled off the plastic lid. He felt too weary to explain, although he didn’t blame her for being suspicious. Where she came from, the police were mostly corrupt or incompetent, or at least so she said. But he didn’t like her telling him what to think and what to do.
He took a swig and downed a couple of pills. He hadn’t slept at all well and felt nauseous. If Zofia hadn’t been there, he would have gone straight back to bed. Eve had been more than thorough. His first instinct was to dislike her. He resented her irritatingly professional, probing questions, but reluctantly he had to admit she seemed to know what she was doing. She had also picked up on his weak spot. Was Sean Farrell really innocent? He had gone over it all in his mind again and again until he was convinced that he was right, but his previous two mistakes had made him wary. Was Sean Farrell really innocent? He still thought so. He had been sure of it in the beginning, but the passage of time, and the increasing pressure of the looming deadline to turn up something new, which might, or might not exist, had eroded his confidence. The doubt was doing his head in. He was battle-scarred and weary; in no fit state to do battle at all, if he was honest. He had lost all feel for the case. At the very least, Sean’s conviction was unsound, based on the lack of direct evidence and the bungled defence, but that was not enough. He wanted so much to believe in Sean. He was ninety-nine per cent sure, but the other one per cent was keeping him awake at night. He needed to speak to Kristen, but she wasn’t returning his calls.
Zofia was staring at him disapprovingly. ‘What does she want?’ she asked.
‘To help, I guess. At least that’s what Alan Peters said.’
She spread her hands. ‘But why?’
He shrugged. ‘I don’t know. It doesn’t really matter. He’s paying her, not us.’ She was still staring at him. ‘What’s your problem? We need all the help we can get.’
‘What do you think of her?’ Her tone was matter-of-fact as usual, but the remark was loaded, accompanied by a sideways glance, as she crossed the room to her desk.
‘What do you mean?’
‘She’s very pretty, isn’t she?’ She peeled off her coat, swung it over the back of her chair and sat down.
He was aware of her eyes again upon him, searching and critical. Even without her, the voice in his head was saying the same unspoken things: You’re a fool if you think Kristen will take you back. You’ve blown it for the last time. She’s gone for good. Wake up. Get real. Pull yourself together. Sean Farrell deserves better than you can give. Yes, Eve’s more than pretty. Almost as beautiful as Kristen. But it wasn’t the sort of beauty that brought peace or happiness or pleasure, in his experience.
‘I hadn’t noticed,’ he lied.
‘Really?’
‘Actually, I don’t think she’s very pretty, so shut up about it. It’s irrelevant anyway what she looks like.’ Did Zofia really think that he would allow a woman’s looks to cloud his judgement? Anyway, the last thing on his mind was sex.
‘If you say so.’ Zofia turned back to her screen.
‘Have you managed to track down Mickey?’ he asked sharply.
‘No. He’s not answering his phone. I leave messages for the last three days but no reply.’
‘Shit.’ He banged his fist on the desk.
Zofia looked around. ‘If he wants his pay, he will have to come in sometime.’ When he didn’t answer, she leaned forwards, eyes narrowed, and peered at him. ‘Dan? When you last see him?’
‘Last week. I bumped into him outside the Tube. He was on his way over here but I was running late and couldn’t stop.’
‘You give him money?’
He left the question unanswered for a moment, then closed his eyes and nodded wearily.
‘Dan, how could you? I tell you not to trust him. Kristen never gives him money unless job is done. You know this.’
He let her words wash over him, then opened his eyes and blinked several times. They felt sore and dry. ‘Yes, but we owed him some. And, as you damn well know, Kristen’s not here any longer.’
‘No we don’t owe him. We are up to date. I keep record.’
‘Well, he said we did, plus he needed some float for travel and expenses, and you weren’t here. Anyway, when he’s good, he’s very, very good. He finds things out like nobody else. He’s a wizard.’
She rolled her eyes. ‘He’s a drunk wizard. He’s no good now, Dan. He smell of drink when I last see him. I tell you this many times. Why you give him money?’
He sighed. Like all real geniuses, Mickey was erratic and needed tight management.
‘He said his mother was in hospital.’ It sounded so lame. ‘He also said something about going to the races. To do with Jane McNeil.’
‘Jesus, Dan. Are you born yesterday? How much you give him?’
‘Five hundred.’
‘Jesus.’ She waved her plump hand in the air. ‘You totally crazy, Dan. In future, you let me deal with Mickey, please. I take care of him.’ She made a gesture of slitting her throat.
He closed his eyes again and sighed deeply, as much out of exhaustion as for the physical relief of expelling the stale air from his lungs. His head was still throbbing and he felt like shit. The last thing he wanted to do was trail around London looking for wherever Mickey had gone to ground, then try to extract the money from him. If he still had it, which was doubtful.
‘OK. OK. I agree it was a mistake.’
‘You need to find him, Dan. Now. We need this information now and maybe we get some money back. You want me to come too?’
NINE
‘I swear to you, I didn’t kill Jane,’ Sean Farrell said, for the third time, holding Eve’s gaze as though his life depended on it.
‘I believe you,’ she repeated, just to shut him up. She also wanted to placate him, so that he would talk to her openly, but underneath, she was far from convinced. In the back of her mind was what Dan had told her about the charges of rape, even if nothing had come of them. According to statistics, two women a week were killed in the UK by their partners, or former partners, one fifth of all homicides each year.
They were sitting opposite one another in the main visits hall at Bellevue Prison, just a table between them. The cacophony of noise and smells was distracting. She had no idea why they hadn’t been given a closed room, like her interview the previous day with John Duran. Maybe Farrell was considered less of a security risk. Or maybe Duran had the power to request such a thing. But the place was full, Farrell was quietly spoken and, against the background buzz of voices, she had to strain to hear what he was saying. He was at pains to emphasize his innocence but she could tell nothing from his words and body language. It had