Alex nodded.
‘Placed under arrest, charged — presumably with the go-ahead of the CPS.’
Alex nodded again.
‘Everything’s fine almost up to the trial and then, out of the blue, someone at the CPS decides, after looking through the evidence again, oh, no, sorry, this isn’t going to stick, and recommends no further action be taken.’
‘Yes. At least, that’s what I understand.’
‘And you don’t think that’s a bit funny?’
‘Funny, no. Lazy, maybe. Slipshod, possibly. And whether that’s down to the officers involved in the arrest, or the CPS barrister, I don’t know. Most likely a combination of the two. But, Karen, you know, it happens. More often than we’d like. More often than it should.’ She sipped some more wine. ‘Water under the proverbial bridge.’
‘You don’t think it might have been a matter of money changing hands?’
Alex looked at her appraisingly. ‘Whose hand did you have in mind?’
‘Take your pick.’
‘It’s possible, I suppose, but …’ She shook her head a trifle wearily. ‘Corruption, it’s there, certainly. Fact of life. Just turn on the news.’
‘But in this case?’
‘If there’s anything more than the usual vague suspicions, I haven’t heard.’ Alex pushed herself to her feet. ‘Let’s go into the garden. I need a cigarette.’
Who was it who said in London you could never see stars? There they were, peppering the purple darkness above their heads; the night clear and cold, intimations of a frost.
Alex’s lighter flared.
‘Sure you won’t join me?’
‘Sure.’
‘I always thought you smoked.’
‘I did.’
‘When did you give up?’
‘Which time?’
Alex laughed. The tip of her cigarette bobbed like a firefly in the dark.
‘It’s nice out here.’
‘Yes.’
‘Quiet.’
‘Yes.’
They stood there, silent, absorbing the small sounds around them. Other people’s lives. Lights were showing, muted, at the rear of several other houses, but not many. Alex’s husband and children were inside sleeping. The other side of the city seemed far away.
Karen shuddered involuntarily, as if someone had stepped over her grave.
‘You okay?’
‘Yes. Yes, fine. Just thinking.’
‘What about?’
‘Whatever it is I’m missing.’
‘Are you missing something?’
Karen looked into Alex’s face before answering. A long moment, wondering. ‘Probably. Yes, maybe.’ A small laugh, shake of the head. ‘I don’t know.’
Alex touched the back of her hand to the smooth skin, slightly chilled, of Karen’s arm. ‘Best go back inside.’
Dropping her cigarette, she ground it out on the path.
In the kitchen, Alex made coffee while they waited for a cab and Karen asked about Roger’s job — she could never remember exactly what it was — the kids, how the two eldest were getting on at school. In less than the promised fifteen minutes, the driver was at the door.
‘Anton Kosach,’ Alex said, as they stepped into the hall. ‘The guy Charlie Frost was interested in. You’ve not turned up anything that involves him, I suppose?’
Karen stopped. ‘Kosach, no. Why d’you ask?’
‘Oh, no special reason. Just thought you might have run across the name, at least, that’s all.’
Karen shook her head. ‘If I had, I’d’ve reported back. You’d’ve heard.’
‘Yes, of course.’
The cab was in the middle of the road, indicators clicking on and off.
Alex squeezed her hand, brushed her cheek. ‘Keep in touch.’
Karen gave the driver her address and settled back. Her head had started to swim and it wasn’t just the wine.
38
Karen woke to the low thrum of music from the flat above; rolled over slowly, groaned, raised herself gingerly up on to one elbow, reached out and illuminated the small bedside clock. 6.03. What the hell was going on? For weeks on end it was as if no one was there, not even the faintest of footsteps criss-crossing above her head, and now, suddenly, it was whatever sad DJ had pulled the early breakfast show on Kiss or Choice, kicking things off with a chunk of dubstep reggae her neighbours seemed to be playing at full volume.
When she sat up something akin to a squash ball caromed, side to side and front to back, inside her head. Wincing, she closed her eyes and levered her legs slowly round, and as her feet touched the floor, the music stopped.
Thank you very much.
Gingerly, she made her way to the bathroom, peed, splashed water in her face, pressed two paracetamol out of their foil and swallowed them down. The last time she’d had a hangover to equal this had been Carla’s birthday the previous September, the night Carla had insisted on treating them to her impression of Christina Aguilera at full shriek and she herself had come close to copping off with a startlingly beautiful black man who claimed to have played for Leyton Orient.
Now, as then, she should never have had that last glass of wine. Although, at Alex’s, she hadn’t realised she was drinking much at all.
Pulling back the curtains, she gazed out into the empty street, the convoy of parked cars. A cyclist in reflective gear, front light pulsing, swished past and out of sight.
Karen leaned slowly forward and rested her forehead against the welcoming glass.
She was in the kitchen, making coffee, trying to decide whether or not she wanted toast, when her mobile trilled to life.
That bloody phone!
Tim Costello’s voice. A shooting outside the twenty-four-hour Tesco at Woodford. Close on four in the morning. Sixteen-year-old using the ATM. Bullet wounds to the side, shoulder, backs of the legs. Taken to Whipps Cross. Still touch and go.
‘The ATM, a robbery?’
‘Either that or drug related. Local Drug Squad’ve had half an eye on him. Lot of manoeuvring going on, apparently. Usual squabble over territory.’
‘Could be a hit, then.’
‘Possibility.’
‘Witnesses that early?’
‘Not so far. But CCTV. Still checking.’
‘Let me know, Tim, anything shows.’
