She nodded.
'You didn't go round to offer your condolences after his death?'
She shook her head. 'No.'
I didn't believe her. She was lying. So was he. The question was why. 'But she was your friend,' I said. 'Someone who'd shown you the ropes when you first went into Coleman House. Who'd helped you when you needed her help.'
This was the cue for Grant to butt in angrily. 'I don't like the tone of your questioning,' he snapped. 'We're only here out of the kindness of our hearts. We don't have to talk to you, and I don't think we're going to any more. Come on, Andrea.' He started to get to his feet, and she moved in her seat as if to follow.
'If you leave, I'll go straight to the police and give them your names. I'll also hand over the evidence as to why I don't think Ann committed suicide. Then they'll come looking for you, only next time you'll have to talk. And if there's anything you're hiding, they'll find it.'
They both stopped moving.
'If you talk to me I'll do everything in my power to protect you as sources. No one'll ever know I spoke to you and you won't be bothered again.'
Grant sat back down. Andrea shuffled in her seat. For a few seconds there was an awkward silence.
I was going to ask them again whether they thought Ann had committed suicide, but then I remembered something from my first meeting with Emma. 'I understand that Ann had recently been receiving treatment for psychiatric problems. Can you tell me about that?'
They looked at each other again. Nervously.
'How much do you know about it?' asked Grant, after a pause.
'Very little,' I said, 'but I can find out more, easily enough. Why don't you make it easier and tell me?'
It was Andrea who spoke. 'She got referred to a psychiatrist about a year ago, after she'd got arrested for GBH. It was part of her bail conditions.'
'GBH? That's pretty serious. What did she do?'
'It was when she was working the streets. She used to do that before she got nicked. She had a bedsit in Holloway she took the punters back to. One night one of them gave her a load of trouble. He tried to get her to do stuff she didn't want to do, so she pulled a knife and let him have it across the face. Then she chased him out of the bedsit and cut him a couple of times round the back of the head. He needed about eighty stitches.' There was an unmistakable pride in her voice as she recounted this story. It was clear that, eighty stitches or not, the punter had got what was coming to him. It surprised me hearing her talk in a manner that so readily condoned violence. She was an attractive, well-dressed girl, and clearly intelligent. It was easy to forget that she'd probably had a few hard knocks herself over the years.
'So what did this psychiatrist have to say?'
'She reckoned she was suffering from some sort of schizophrenia. Ann told me she even wanted her sectioned, but that didn't happen. What they did was put her on a psychotherapy course.'
'And did that help?'
Again she paused. 'Yeah,' she said after a few seconds. 'It did. The jury found her not guilty because of diminished responsibility.'
'And that was that? She was released?'
'Yeah, that was that.' She looked down at the table.
'The schizophrenia Ann was suffering from. Did the psychiatrist say what had caused it?' This time the pause was longer. 'I can find out, you know, but I'd rather hear it from you.'
Grant leaned forward suddenly. 'The doctor who diagnosed her said that she thought it stemmed from her past. Apparently she'd been abused by her father when she was very young, and it was something to do with that.'
He took a generous swig from his beer, before pulling a metal tobacco tin from his pocket. I watched his hands as he took out a roll-up and lit it with a cheap plastic lighter. They were shaking slightly. He took a drag and blew a mouthful of smoke towards the empty chair beside me. I took out my own cigarettes, watching Andrea now, and offered her one. She shook her head and told me she'd quit.
'Why are you so interested in talking about Ann's psychiatric problems?' she demanded.
I could have said that it was because she and Grant were so interested in not talking about them, but I didn't. Instead I asked another question. 'Ann's allegations about her father. Did anyone ever follow them up? Presumably, if the judge believed the psychiatrist about her schizophrenia and what had initially caused it, then the police must have launched some sort of investigation into her father's alleged abuse.'
'Yeah, they did,' said Grant. 'And they nicked him as well. But they never got him to trial. He got released on bail and absconded.'
I felt my skin crawl.
A stifling hotel room in Manila a year ago. A man who wanted to kill a little girl.
'And now he's got what he deserved,' added Andrea, her voice full of barely suppressed rage.
I turned to her and was surprised at the intensity of her expression. She was staring right at me, the earlier furtiveness now completely gone.
'What do you mean?' I asked her, even though I was suddenly very sure of exactly what she meant.
'After he absconded, he left the country,' she said, 'and the next thing anyone heard he'd turned up dead in a hotel room somewhere in Asia. Someone had shot him, and good riddance to the bastard too.'
'I read something about that,' I said. 'But I don't remember it involving someone called Ann Taylor.'
'No,' said Andrea. 'That's because Ann changed her name after she ran away from home. Her real name was Sonya Blacklip.'
28
Andrea clammed up again after that, as if she sensed she'd said too much. And I guess she had, because by now I was beginning to get an angle on things. Grant clammed up as well, and although I kept them there for another ten minutes, I didn't find out anything else of interest.
Before they went, Andrea told me that they just wanted to be left alone, and implored me to respect their wishes. I said I would, feeling sorry for them as I watched them leave with their heads down and shoulders hunched, fearful of the consequences of my unwelcome entry into their lives. But I wasn't sure it was a promise I could keep. They knew a lot more than they were telling me, and I could only assume that Ann Taylor had told Andrea something, which Andrea had then told Grant; something that with Ann's death they'd sworn to keep quiet.
Ann's father, Richard Blacklip, had appeared in a photograph with Les Pope. Pope had ordered the deaths of Malik and Jason Khan. Khan was Blacklip's daughter's boyfriend. Connections. Plenty of connections. But where, and to whom, did they all lead? Fifteen minutes later I was walking down the Essex Road, not really thinking where I was going as I talked on the phone to Emma. She hadn't found out anything of great interest about Thadeus, or any links they might have had with either Malik, Pope or Nicholas Tyndall, and was still waiting for her contact to come back with the phone numbers listed on Slippery Billy's mobile. When I told her I needed details of Ann Taylor's illness, and who had treated her, she was none too pleased.
'I've got a lot on, Dennis. We've got an editorial meeting at three o'clock and I've got to be home at five thirty for the window guy. I've already spent hours on this.'
'Please. It's important.'
'Why? What's it got to do with the case?'
'Just trust me on this, OK? This once. Honestly, Emma, I wouldn't ask if I didn't think it could lead to something.'
She sighed loudly, but said she'd do what she could and I said I'd call her later.
I hung up and realized that I was standing outside the Half Moon pub. I'd drunk in here a few times back in the old days and it was less than half a mile from the police station where I'd spent so much of my working life, and only a few hundred yards from Islington Green and the bright lights of Upper Street. I stopped and peered in the
