‘I’m sorry,’ Costello said. ‘For what did happen.’
She was still avoiding his eyes.
‘Had you known him for long?’
‘I didn’t. Not really.’ Her voice quiet, quieter. ‘Know him, I mean.’
He waited. Knew she’d either talk or walk away.
‘Look, he wasn’t my boyfriend, right? I only met him, like, a couple of times. It wasn’t, wasn’t like that, it …’
She faltered back into silence.
‘What was it like then?Your relationship?’
‘There wasn’t a relationship.’
‘Lesley, we need to know.’
‘Why?’
‘Because we’re trying to find out what happened. Who did that to him. I thought you’d want to help us.’
‘I can’t.’
‘Anything, anything you might tell us, it could help. Even if you don’t see how.’
‘But I told you …’
‘He wasn’t your boyfriend, yes, I know.’
‘So?’
‘So what was he?’
‘Oh, God …’ Swinging away.
‘Lesley, he phoned you, three times, the night he was killed.’
She started to walk, angling back towards the school, and he walked with her.
‘Why did he call so many times?’
‘Because he wanted to talk to her, that’s why.’
‘Her? Who’s her?’
She stopped again, faced him. ‘I can’t tell you.’
‘Just let me try to understand. He wanted to talk to somebody else, really wanted to talk to them, it was important — so why not call them, why call you?’
‘Because it was how …’ She bit down on an already jagged nail. ‘He wasn’t allowed to call her, right? Not any more. Not without … He’d call me first and I’d text her and then she’d call him. That was how it worked.’
Why? Costello asked himself and slipped the question to one side.
‘That night, then, that’s what you did? His girl? Sent a text?’
‘Yes.’
‘And did she contact him?’
‘No. That’s why he kept on. Where is she? Where is she? Tell her she’s got to ring me.’
‘And after the last time? The last time he called?’
‘I don’t know. I don’t think so, no.’
‘Do you know why? Had they fallen out? What?’
A ragged breath. ‘She was scared, wasn’t she?’
‘Of him?’
‘No, not of him.’
‘Then who?’
‘Her father, of course. Her sodding father.’
Muffled, inside the main building a bell was ringing; the rising distant sound of voices, people moving.
‘Lesley …’
‘What?’
‘Sooner or later, you’re going to have to tell me her name. You know that, don’t you?’
9
While Tim Costello was making himself familiar with the Borough of Lewisham, Karen’s destination was more upmarket: Kensington within spitting distance of Harrods, a small block of purpose-built flats away from the main road. The exterior was outfaced in off-white stone, curved windows with square panes that brought to Karen’s mind the deck of a ship, a liner, the kind that cruised people with too much money and time around the world’s oceans. Her uncle would talk of watching them come past the long sand spit of the Palisadoes and into Kingston harbour, all those white faces crowded along the rail, eager for the sanitised taste of another culture, the quick whiff of ganja and a frisson of danger.
The name Milescu was clear beside the entryphone.
Karen identified herself and was buzzed through.
Clare Milescu met her as she stepped out of the lift with a firm handshake and a ready, open smile. Close to fifty, Karen thought, and not disguising it, little need: trim, neat, and next to Karen herself, almost petite; short dark hair well cut, laced with grey. She was wearing a dark skirt and pale lavender blouse, black tights, red shoes. Her only accessory, watch aside, a wedding ring.
‘Please,’ she said. ‘Please come in.’
The door to the flat was open behind her.
There were photographs, black-and-white, arranged along both sides of the hall: family portraits, Karen thought, formal, informal, children in their best Sunday clothes, a picnic, an elderly man in a hospital bed.
The room they went into was like something from a magazine Karen might have thumbed through at the hairdresser’s. Low settees in muted colours at right angles to one another; blonde wood, glass and chrome; a lamp like an oversized pebble on the parquet floor. More photographs, mounted and framed. The paintwork the palest of violets, barely a colour at all. Someone with money and a certain taste.
A large window led out on to a balcony busy with plants that had survived, somehow, the winter frosts. A wide mirror reflected pale winter light back into the room.
‘So, Detective Chief Inspector, is that what I call you?’
‘Karen.’
‘Then, Clare.’ The smile was more genuine this time, less professional. ‘Please, sit down. I’ve made some coffee.’
‘I don’t want to take too much of your time.’
‘Time, for the moment, is the one thing I have plenty of. And besides, Ion isn’t here yet.’
‘I thought you said …’
‘He would be here, I know.’ A quick glance towards her wrist. ‘He stayed with his father last night. But don’t worry, he knows you’re expecting him.’ Another smile. ‘For a teenage boy, he’s quite reliable.’
Adding that she wouldn’t be a moment, she left the room.
Swivelling round, Karen looked towards the photographs on the rear wall. Some, again, in black-and-white, but most in colour. More recent. Young men in T-shirts, some with tattoos, posing; older men in suits, dark haired, stubble, what she thought of as Eastern European faces. A few were staring at the camera, as if on request; others caught unawares, halfturning, as if angry, at the soft click of the camera.
‘They’re all Ion’s,’ Clare Milescu said, tray in hand, returning. ‘A project he’s been working on.
‘They’re good,’ Karen said. ‘Accomplished. Not that I’d really know.’
‘His father gave him a camera for his twelfth birthday, a really good digital SLR. For the first couple of years after that he almost never let it out of his hands.’
‘You and Ion’s father …?’
‘Ah.’ She eased a small cup of espresso in Karen’s direction. ‘There’s milk if you wish.’
‘No, this is fine.’
‘When you phoned,’ businesslike now, ‘you said you wanted to talk to Ion about some calls to his
