92
Mickey was back at his desk. Doing what he hated most. Paperwork. Or rather electronic work, as most of the things he was following up were all online.
He had kept his head down after Glass had stormed out, and in the absence of anything else happening, or any other leads to follow up, kept trying to track down the Shaw connection. Find out where it all intersected.
And then his phone rang.
At first he thought it must be Lynn. She probably wanted to tell him what a great night she had had, wondering when they might do it again. He was smiling as he went to answer it.
He took it out of his pocket, checked the screen. Number Unknown. His heart sank slightly, his hopes dashed, his fantasy put on hold. Probably a sales call, he thought, and made to answer it, ready to tell whoever it was that he wasn’t interested and to never call him again.
‘Detective Sergeant Philips.’
That should spook them, he thought. Make them hang up, even.
But it wasn’t a sales call.
‘What’s the matter with you, then?’
Mickey was taken aback. The voice was indignant, angry. But familiar.
‘Sorry?’ he said.
‘Sorry? Yeah, you fuckin’ should be.’
He placed who it was. Stuart. His informant. ‘What should I be sorry for, Stuart?’
‘For all the bloody effort I’ve put in for you, that’s what.’
Mickey was on the back foot, really confused now. Let him talk, he thought, fill him in. ‘Effort?’
‘Yeah, effort. It wasn’t easy finding out all that stuff, you know. Risked life and limb, I did.’
‘What stuff?’
‘What you asked me. You havin’ a thick day or somethin’?’
Mickey smiled. ‘You risked life and limb? To tell me Weaver was probably killed by some Lithuanian hitman?’
There was a pause.
‘What? What the fuck you talkin’ about? Hitman? I didn’t leave no message about no hitman.’
Mickey was interested now. He leaned forward, covering the mouthpiece so the rest of the office couldn’t hear what he was saying.
‘What message
An angry sigh. ‘I left… You know what I left. You must have got it. What’s the matter? Can’t you work your phone now?’
Mickey took the phone away from his ear, checked the display. Number Unknown. He replaced it.
‘I think we’d better talk, Stuart.’
‘Damn right we should talk. That’s what I’ve been telling you, haven’t I?’
‘When?’
‘Soon as. Red hot, this is. As you should know.’
Mickey was standing up. ‘Usual place. Ten minutes.’
‘Gotcha. And bring your foldin’. You’re gonna need it.’
‘One other thing,’ said Mickey. ‘You calling me on a new phone?’
‘Yeah,’ said Stuart. ‘That’s right. Made of money, me. No, same old phone. You should know, you’ve got my number. Or you’re supposed to have.’
He hung up. Mickey broke the connection, looked down at his phone.
He knew something hadn’t been right with Stuart’s message. It wasn’t just his copper’s intuition; it was something definite.
He sat down again, checked his phone once more, writing down the number that Stuart had just called him on, checking it against the one in his phone’s memory.
They didn’t match.
Mickey sat back, rubbed his chin. Tried to think it through. He checked through all his other numbers, trying to find a match. Nothing. There had to be something. Maybe he’d entered Stuart’s number wrongly. No. Completely different number. And he’d called him on it yesterday. He hadn’t received any calls from Glass, either. All night. Admittedly, he hadn’t had his phone on, but they should have been there when he turned it on in the morning.
No. Couldn’t be.
Not wanting to believe what his intuition was telling him, he took out the business card Lynn Windsor had given him. Checked the mobile number on it against the one Stuart was supposed to have texted him on.
Direct match.
He sat back again.
No. Couldn’t be.
It felt like his whole world had undergone a seismic shift. This finding had taken him – and the investigation – into completely new territory. He had to do something about this, formulate some plan.
But first he had to go and meet Stuart.
Standing up, taking his phone with him, he left the office.
93
Phil looked at the lock on Donna Warren’s front door, tried to find a way to open it.
‘Think we’ll have to break it down,’ he said.
‘What, and alert the whole street?’ said Don. ‘Give it here.’
Phil stepped out of the way and allowed Don to move in front of the door. He fished inside his jacket pocket, brought out a small silver object.
‘What’s that?’ said Phil.
‘Lock pick,’ Don replied calmly. ‘We all used to carry them. Back in the day, as you youngsters are so fond of saying.’ He shook his head. ‘Call yourself a copper. You lot, I tell you. Don’t know you’re born.’
It didn’t take him long. Phil stood all the while looking up and down the street, checking for twitching curtains, interfering or challenging neighbours, someone calling the police.
Ultimately he decided they were safe. It wasn’t, he concluded, that kind of neighbourhood.
‘And,’ said Don, ‘we’re back in the room.’
The door opened. The two men entered, closing it quietly behind them.
‘Don’t touch anything,’ said Phil. ‘Don’t move.’
‘And don’t teach your grandmother to suck eggs,’ said Don.
They stayed where they were, just inside the doorway. Phil saw close-up what he had glimpsed through the window. Rose Martin’s lifeless body sprawled on the floor.
‘Oh God… ’
‘She didn’t die easily,’ said Don. ‘They never do,’ said Phil, and sighed. ‘We’re too late. Too bloody late.’
He looked down again. The body had been there a while. It was starting to lose its resemblance to the person it had once been, her spirit having long since departed, turning into something else, just another collection of matter, another organic component of the planet.
‘That phone message,’ said Don. ‘She must have gone to meet him straight afterwards.’
Phil nodded, not taking his eyes off the body. ‘He ran out of the hospital when you turned up. When Lister killed himself.’
‘D’you reckon he did this?’
Phil sighed. ‘I wouldn’t like to think that another officer could be responsible. But… ’ He shrugged. ‘It looks that way. Circumstantially, anyway.’
He kept staring at the body.
‘Poor Rose… ’
