‘I guess.’ Vivian drew the words out, as if she was reluctant to accept what he was saying.
‘Listen, get Broadbent to release me from what I’m doing and I’ll get on to this like a shot.’ He paused for a moment, remembering how hard it was for Jimmy to trust anyone after what he’d already lost. ‘He’s a good kid,’ he said. ‘I hate to think of him being among strangers, scared. All that. I’ll do everything I can to help.’
‘OK. I’ll put in a call to your boss.’
‘Thanks. And . . .’ His voice tailed off. He wanted to let Stephanie know he was there for her, but using an FBI agent as conduit probably wasn’t the best way to do it.
‘Yeah?’
‘Will you be releasing Stephanie any time soon?’
‘We’re not holding her in any formal sense. She’s a cooperative witness, that’s all. A case like this, we try to get as much background info as we can. I imagine we’ll be talking for a while yet. Why?’
It was a question that didn’t have an easy answer. ‘If she wants to talk to somebody – somebody that knows Jimmy, I mean – tell her she can give me a call any time.’
‘Sure. I’ll talk to you soon, Sergeant Nicolaides.’
And the line went dead. Nick strode back to the office to pick up his jacket. He was confident enough of Broadbent to believe he wouldn’t be back at Wapping for as long as it took to sort out whatever had happened in America. Already he was making a ‘to do’ list in his head.
The only problem was that the most important item on the list was the one he could do nothing about right now. ‘Talk to Stephanie’ was going to have to wait till Special Agent McKuras had finished raking through her past. Nick couldn’t resist a wry smile.
Given how much past there was, it could take a while.
17
Vivian had gone back to her own office to call DCI Broadbent. She’d wanted privacy, a chance to pick up a latte at Starbucks and access to her computer in case Sergeant Nicolaides’ boss wanted the request in writing. He turned out to be remarkably cooperative but yes, he wanted an email to confirm her request. She sipped her coffee and hammered out what she wanted from the English cops. She was glad Broadbent hadn’t made a big deal out of it. If she’d had to run it through her boss, God alone knew how long it would have taken today. But then, it wasn’t like she was asking for much. Just a few hours of a detective’s time. It was amazing how a child’s life on the line could cut straight through red tape.
She leaned back in her chair and considered what she had learned. Either Stephanie Harker was as decent as Nicolaides believed or else she’d comprehensively fooled him over some time. Not knowing him, it was hard to tell. For the time being, she was inclined to believe Stephanie. Her reactions thus far seemed credible to Vivian. She’d have behaved in much the same way, she reckoned. But teasing out what lay beneath those reactions was not quite so straightforward.
The ping of her email inbox derailed her thoughts. Broadbent had confirmed his agreement to her request for help. She forwarded it to her boss in the Chicago office, just to cover all the bases. While she was waiting for Abbott and Nicolaides to fill in some of the blanks, she’d see what else Stephanie Harker was willing to tell her.
When she returned to the interview room, Stephanie eyed her coffee greedily. ‘Any chance I could get one of those?’ she said. ‘I’ve been up for a long time and I’m pretty much running on empty.’ It was hard to argue against; she looked frayed and frazzled. They always did when they went into adrenalin deficit.
Vivian dug into her pocket for a twenty and gave it to Lopez. ‘Get one for yourself, Lia. You want a latte, Stephanie?’
‘Could I have a mocha? I need sugar as well as caffeine. And maybe a muffin or something?’
Vivian nodded to Lopez. ‘Get me a receipt, please.’ She took a sip of her own coffee. ‘Tell me about Pete Matthews,’ she said. ‘And before you say it, I know it’s a long story. But until we have some positive leads to chase, we may as well use the time.’
What with one thing and another, it was a couple of days before I made it back home. I’d barely had time to put the kettle on when Pete turned up with a face like a poisoned pup. ‘About bloody time you got back,’ he grouched as soon as I opened the door.
‘And it’s lovely to see you too.’ I was trying to tease him out of it, not to be sarcastic. But when he was in that kind of mood there was no point in anything other than total capitulation. ‘I did text you yesterday. Didn’t you get it?’
‘I should have a key for this house,’ he said, stomping down the hall into the kitchen. ‘I was frantic with worry when I didn’t hear from you for two bloody days. I tried to ring you, I tried to text you. But nothing.’
‘I told you. My phone was dead, and there was no Nokia charger at Scarlett’s. I didn’t manage to get another one till yesterday.’ I followed him through and carried on making a pot of coffee.
‘I came round the house to check on you. To make sure nothing had happened.’
I burst out laughing. ‘What was going to happen? I’m not an invalid, Pete. I’m a healthy woman who can take care of herself.’
‘Anything could have happened. You could have slipped in the bath and hit your head. You could have fallen downstairs. You could have been attacked by a burglar.’
I shook my head, my back to him as I pressed down the plunger in the cafetiere. ‘It’s being so cheerful that keeps you going.’
Suddenly he gripped my upper arms and whirled me round. Then he clamped his hands tight round my biceps and shook me. ‘You silly bloody woman. I was worried about you.’ The anger in his face was frightening. I knew it was rooted in fear and concern, but that didn’t make it any less scary.
‘Let go, Pete, you’re hurting me,’ I yelped.
My words seemed to break the spell of his rage. Abruptly he let go and turned away. When he spoke, his voice sounded choked. ‘You have no idea how upset you made me,’ he said. ‘And over what? That bloody slapper Scarlett Higgins.’
‘She’s not a slapper,’ I said, rubbing my arms. I’d have bruises later, I knew it. ‘I happened to be with her when she went into labour. And then there were things that needed sorting out.’
He turned back and poured himself a cup of coffee. ‘And why’s that your responsibility? You’re her bloody ghost writer, not her mother.’
‘Because she hasn’t got anybody else. Joshu’s as much use as a cardboard hammer, most of her mates are only interested in clothes, clubbing and copping off, and she doesn’t have anything to do with her family.’
‘She’s got an agent, hasn’t she? I still don’t see why it’s down to you.’ He opened the fridge and peered suspiciously at the milk.
‘Because we’re friends, Pete.’
He snorted and sniffed the milk. ‘This is off. That’s what happens when you’re busy chasing after the Scarlett Harlot. You don’t look after yourself or the people who really care about you.’
‘Don’t call her that. It’s horrible. And she’s not. I’m sorry about the milk but there’s a carton of cream in there that hasn’t been opened. That should be fine.’ I reached past him and handed him the cream. ‘Have a bit of luxury for once.’ I was determined not to give in to his bad mood.
‘It’s not the same,’ he grumbled, tipping cream into his coffee with a mistrustful look on his face.
‘So, how’s things with you? How were the Northumbrian pipers?’
‘They were good,’ he said, brightening a little. ‘Very professional. They turned up on time, they got what we wanted straight off and they delivered. It was only the one track we needed them for, but they were a dream to work with.’ His mouth turned down again. ‘I wish I could say the same about the bloody band. Sam changes his mind more often than he changes his socks.’
Getting him off the subject of Scarlett changed the atmosphere between us, and we prepared dinner together, arguing with the radio and laughing at each other’s smartarsed remarks. Later, when we were sitting at
