An ambulance went shrilly by outside.
‘Della and I, we used to work at a massage parlour. Over Stroud Green. Where I met him, wasn’t it? Marshall.’ She laughed a short, disparaging laugh. ‘Girl like you, you shouldn’t be working in a place like this — I think he’d heard it somewhere, some trashy film on TV.’
‘While you were there,’ Margaret asked, ‘the massage parlour, was it raided by the police?’
‘You’re kidding, right? Only regular as clockwork.’
‘And were you ever charged with any offence?’
‘No, no. Took our names, that was it. Too concerned with getting their freebies, half of ’em, to do much else.’
Margaret called up a car to take Jennie and Alice home and she and Kiley carried on their conversation over lunch at Pane Vino.
‘What do you think?’ Kiley asked. ‘Is any of this really going to stand up?’
‘The brothel charge, no. I can’t see it getting past first post. But the other, getting the little girl taken into care, if they were to really push it, get social services on board, I’m not so sure.’
Kiley forked up a little more chicken and spinach risotto. ‘Let’s take a step backwards, remind ourselves what’s at the root of this.’
‘Okay.’
‘Dave Marshall is angry. He doesn’t like having his name plastered over half the billboards in North London.’
‘Who would?’ Margaret reached across for the bottle of wine.
‘That aside, there’s going to be all manner of stuff between himself and Jennie, unresolved. I think he’s just striking out in any way he can.’
‘To what end?’
‘To see her hurt; have her climb down, leave him alone.’
‘You don’t think it’s a way of getting eventual custody of the child?’
Kiley shook his head. I think that’s the last thing on his mind.’
Margaret drank some wine. ‘So what do we do? Prepare a defence for Jennie in the remote possibility things get to court? File a report with the Child Support Agency, suggesting they re-examine Marshall’s financial position?’
‘The arresting officer,’ Kiley said, ‘that was him leaving the custody suite just before you this morning? Around forty, suit, bright blue tie?’
‘DS Sandon, yes, why?’
‘I saw him having a drink with Marshall last night; Marshall and the guy who trashed Jennie’s flat.’
‘No law against that.’
‘But more than a coincidence.’
‘Probably. But unless you had your Polaroid camera in your back pocket…’
‘I might be able to do better than that.’
‘How so?’
‘Marshall isn’t the only one with friends inside the Met.’
Seeing his expression, Margaret smiled.
At two thirty the following afternoon, they were both sitting in the fifth-floor office of Paul Bridge, Deputy Assistant Commissioner (CID). Margaret, feeling that Ghost might be deemed frivolous, had opted for a Donna Karan suit; Kiley had ironed his shirt.
Bridge was pretty much the same age as the pair of them, fast-tracking his way up the ladder, Deputy Commissioner well within his sights. He was clean-shaven, quietly spoken, two degrees and a nice family home out at Cheshunt, a golf handicap of three. He listened attentively while Margaret outlined the relationship between Sandon and Marshall, beginning when they were stationed together in Balham, DC and DS respectively. Drinking pals. Close friends. Still close now, some few years on, Sandon apparently at Marshall’s beck and call.
‘I’m not altogether clear,’ Bridge said, when he’d finished listening, ‘if misconduct is where we’re heading here.’
‘Given the evidence-’ Margaret began.
‘Entirely circumstantial.’
‘Given the evidence, it’s a distinct possibility.’
‘Depending,’ said Kiley.
Bridge readjusted his glasses.
‘Sandon’s not just been harassing Peter’s ex-partner, he was also the officer in charge of investigating the assault on Nicky Cavanagh.’
Almost imperceptibly, Bridge nodded.
‘Which was carried out, as almost everyone in Holloway knows, by four of Bob Nealy’s sons. And yet, questioning a few of the Nealys and their mates aside, nothing’s happened. No one’s been arrested, no one charged. And Nicky Cavanagh’s still in a wheelchair.’
Bridge sighed lightly and leaned back into his chair.
‘Marshall, Sandon, Nealy,’ Kiley said. ‘It’s a nice fit.’
‘One wonders,’ Margaret said, anxious not to let the Assistant Commissioner off the hook, ‘how a case like this, a serious assault of this nature, could have been allowed to lie dormant for so long.’
Bridge glanced past his visitors towards the window, a smear of cloud dirtying up the sky. ‘The lad Cavanagh,’ he said, ‘he should’ve been black. Asian or black. There’d have been pressure groups, demonstrations, more official inquiries than you could shake a stick at. Top brass, myself included, bending over backwards to show the investigation was fair and above board. But this poor sod, who gives a shit? Who cares? A few bunches of flowers in the street and a headline or two in the local press.’
Bridge removed his glasses and set them squarely on his desk.
‘I can make sure the investigation’s reopened, another officer in charge. As to the other business, the woman, I should think it will all fade away pretty fast.’
‘And Sandon?’ Kiley asked.
‘If you make moves to get the Police Complaints Authority involved,’ Bridge said, ‘that’s your decision, of course. On the other hand, were Sandon to receive an informal warning, be transferred to another station, you might, after due consideration of all the circumstances, think that sufficient.’
He stood and, smiling, held out his hand: the meeting was over.
Whenever Kiley bought wine, which wasn’t often, he automatically drew the line at anything over five pounds. Kate had no such scruples. So the bottle they were finishing, late that Friday evening, had been well worth drinking. Even Kiley could tell the difference.
‘I had a call today,’ he said. ‘Margaret Hamblin. She managed to sit Marshall and Jennie Calder down long enough to hammer out an agreement. He makes monthly payments for Alice, direct debit, Jennie signed an undertaking to stop harassing him in public.’
‘You think he’ll stick to it?’
‘As long as he has to.’
‘You did what you could,’ Kate said.
Kiley nodded.
There was perhaps half a glass left in the bottle and Kate shared it between them. ‘If you stayed over,’ she said, ‘we could have breakfast out. Go to that gallery off Canonbury Square.’
Kiley shot her a look, but held his tongue.
Almost a year after his first encounter with Dave Marshall, Kiley was in a taxi heading down Crouch End Hill. Mid-morning, but still the traffic was slow, little more than a crawl. Outside the massage parlour near the corner of Crescent Road, two women were standing close together, waiting for the key holder to arrive so they could go in and start work. Despite the fact that she’d changed her hair, had it cut almost brutally short, he recognised Jennie
