significant. He found a brown jiffy bag containing a photograph in a plain black wooden frame. It was the sort issued by official photographers. The photo showed a group of men and two women in army camouflage uniform. They were smiling self-consciously at the camera, the way comrades and friends do, caught in a moment of time and out of context.
One of them was now lying on the floor nearby, a bullet hole in the back of her head.
Harry compared faces, identifying Archer in the photo. She looked confident and easygoing, her head cocked slightly to one side as if she’d been caught momentarily off guard. Not for the first time, Harry thought grimly. But certainly the last.
Rik joined him and peered over his shoulder. ‘Regimental Provosts,’ he said, pointing to a badge worn by both women and two of the men. ‘Tough bunch.’ He looked down at the body. ‘She was an army cop.’
Harry nodded. At least he now knew where the photo frame from the flat in north London had gone. She’d carried it with her. Though it was so mundane, she must have valued it. ‘Park thought she’d been trained to handle herself.’
He walked through to the kitchen, where a pair of faded yellow Marigolds hung over the edge of the sink. They were small but with a bit of pulling, fitted well enough. While Rik went to keep an eye on the back stairs, Harry carried out a more thorough search of the place, starting in the bedroom. He found a few neatly folded clothes in a chest of drawers, some shoes in the wardrobe, but not much else.
It was the same with the bed and bedside cabinet; nothing helpful, merely items for everyday living. Through to the kitchen, which showed two empty wine bottles, a mug and a glass, all wet. Maybe Joanne Archer had been a drinker, in spite of the exercise regime. He checked the cupboards, drawers and air vents. There weren’t many places to look and it was soon clear that whoever had killed her must have cleaned out anything that might have helped fill in her background.
‘Nobody’s life is this empty,’ he muttered, sensing Rik coming back to see how he was progressing. ‘Even after a few days you pick up some rubbish.’ He checked the small waste-bin in the bedroom. ‘Not even a tissue. It’s unnatural. Either the killer had help to clean up, or. .’
‘Or what?’
‘Or Archer had already sanitized the place as a matter of routine.’
‘Makes sense. No clues, no trail. Just like her place in Finchley.’ Rik frowned. ‘Heck of a way to live, though. Who the hell is this woman?’
Harry shook his head. The choice was stark, either way. It would take a professional killer to leave the area so empty of clues, and only a person living an extremely cautious life to have so little to show for her presence.
He returned to the bedroom and studied the body. He checked the fingernails and knuckles, found them clean and unblemished.
‘I don’t get it,’ he muttered. ‘If Archer was such a hotshot in the gym, and a regimental cop, why didn’t she put up more of a fight? She should at least have got one good shot at the bastard who did this.’
‘Unless she knew him.’
‘I suppose.’
Then Rik said softly, ‘Harry.’
Harry looked up. Rik was staring past him towards the bedroom door.
When he turned his head, he found himself looking down the barrel of a semi-automatic pistol.
TWENTY-SIX
‘Who the hell are you two?’ The pistol was held unwaveringly at shoulder height. Behind it stood a young woman wearing a bomber jacket and jeans, with the nylon straps of a rucksack over each shoulder. She looked fit and toned, with cropped, dyed-blonde hair and nice skin. Her mouth was tight with tension and her gaze said both men would be in trouble if they made a wrong move.
She glanced down at the dead woman, then up at the two men. There was no sign of emotion and the pistol didn’t move.
Harry broke the tension. ‘I’m Harry, he’s Rik. We didn’t do this.’ He wasn’t sure why he thought she would believe him. ‘Who are you?’
The woman ignored him and moved sideways, gesturing with her free hand. ‘The bed. Sit. Both of you. Hands away from your bodies.’ Her voice brooked no argument.
‘Hang on a sec-’ Rik began to protest, but she cut him short.
‘I said,
Harry sat down and motioned Rik to do the same. From the way in which the woman had positioned herself, she was just beyond their reach and it was obvious that if they made a move towards her, they wouldn’t get more than a few inches.
‘Unusual weapon,’ Harry commented, nodding at the gun, although he thought the only unusual feature about it was that she had it and they didn’t. It looked workmanlike; anonymous, small calibre, no markings and disposable. ‘You got a licence for it?’
She barely gave him a glance and looked disturbingly at ease with the gun. Distracting her evidently wasn’t on the cards.
‘Why are you here?’ she asked. She moved to the chest of drawers and rested her gun on it, the barrel still pointing between the two men. Harry kept very still. He knew that resting her arm was not a sign of weakness. Guns are heavy pieces of equipment designed to stand fierce pressures and handling. But the weight can play havoc with the wrists and arm muscles, whether held by a man or a woman.
‘We were looking for her,’ Rik explained, nodding towards the body. ‘Joanne Archer,’ Harry let him speak. Since the woman had the upper hand and neither of them was about to get within six feet of her without being popped, there was little point in using delaying tactics. ‘We thought she might be in some sort of trouble,’ Rik added. ‘Looks like we were right.’
‘How do you know Joanne Archer?’ The question came back instinctively, but with a momentary hesitation in uttering the name.
‘We don’t,’ said Harry, deliberately drawing her eyes towards him. He smiled, aiming to get her to relax. ‘We’re paid to find people. It’s what we do.’
‘Paid? By who?’
Neither of them replied. Instead, Harry said quietly, ‘That’s not her on the floor, is it?’
He was holding the photo frame and looking down at the faces, his finger on one of the women. Although the cap and brown hair was enough to fudge the picture slightly and throw them off, it was now obvious that the woman he was looking at wasn’t the one lying here.
She was actually standing right in front of them.
‘She was staying with me overnight.’ The comment was matter-of-fact. ‘Her name was Cath Barbour; we were in the same unit. She just got out.’
‘What kind of trouble are you in, Miss Archer?’ queried Harry.
She blinked rapidly, then surprised both men by kneeling down by the body. If she saw either of them as a threat, she no longer seemed to care.
‘It would help if you put the gun away,’ Harry suggested. He was careful not to move, however; this woman was too full of surprises and might have a miniature Uzi tucked inside her bra.
‘I heard you talking,’ she said vaguely. She touched her fingers to the dead woman’s face, then sat back on her heels. ‘What are you — army?’ Her voice was dull, lifeless.
‘Used to be,’ said Harry. He left it at that. She wouldn’t be impressed by their background in the security services.
‘Recently?’
‘No. Not recently.’
‘Then you won’t be able to help.’ Her voice was soft, almost regretful, as if they were not what she had been hoping for. ‘You won’t be used to this.’
