The Unquiet Dead. Gay Longworth
on the threshold of that bizarre old boiler room. Since the fry-up at breakfast, her only sustenance had been two whiskys – no wonder she was feeling low. Two whiskys and a fry-up, thought Jessie ironically; whatever Mark might think, she was becoming a card-carrying copper despite herself.
She stood on Regent Street long enough to get bored, wet and cold. Welcome orange taxi-lights were evading her. The queues at the bus stops stretched back to the shop doors, Oxford Circus tube station was closed due to a security alert and the rain was now falling in a relentless stream. Even returning to work seemed more appealing than attempting public transport, so she crossed the busy road and headed down Maddox Street. Rain had brought its usual effect on the commuter traffic and the customary crawl was now stationary. Horns blared to no effect except to increase the blood pressure of all who heard them. The pavements were slick with grease and rainwater, but at least off Regent Street, they were empty. Each step made a small splash. She stopped to wipe water from her eyes and thought she heard someone stop behind her. She listened through the falling rain then started walking again, stepping carefully and precisely, changing momentum. Now she was almost sure she could hear someone walking in the rain behind her. She stopped again and turned. Her ears were playing tricks on her. Ears and eyes, all in one day. Marshall Street Baths was getting to her.
Up ahead, Jessie could see the panda cars and the IRV drivers waiting for instructions and, although it was silly, she felt relieved. Behind her, a phone played a ring-tone she recognised. Jessie turned involuntarily and looked around. The street was still empty. The P. J. Dean song started revolving in her head. That was something she was haunted by.
The Klein incident room was empty. All the boys were probably in the pub. She didn’t blame them. It was a good night for a Guinness or two. Or three. She sat down at the computer terminal and inserted the CD-ROM that the CCTV tapes had been transferred on to. If she could prove that Anna Maria was not in the Marshall Street Baths she could make sure Mark had no excuse to disrupt her investigation again. The two of them couldn’t be in that building without fighting. One location, two crime scenes and two investigating officers was a recipe for disaster as today had already proved. Mark was going to do everything in his power to remain in Marshall Street Baths, even if it meant prising up every floorboard, every tile. What really saddened Jessie was that the girl’s disappearance clearly meant half as much to him as getting Jessie out of CID – which came as a real shock to her because she had genuinely thought things had improved between the two of them. Well, she wasn’t leaving CID, and she wasn’t going to rest until she had handed Anna Maria Klein to him on a plate.
Jessie began as the sixteen-year-old moved out of range from her position on the corner. Green high-heel boots, a fur-trimmed coat under which peeked a long, floating skirt. She looked stockier in the CCTV images than she did in the ‘professional’ photographs her mother had shown them. Had the photos been touched up, like so many were, stretching her to seem longer and leaner? Or was the photo accurate and something else accounted for Anna Maria’s bulky appearance on the CCTV. Not the dress. That was made of very thin material. Too thin to be worn in February, surely? Jessie carried on watching frame by frame for the next fifteen minutes until something finally caught her eye. A girl walking quickly through the CCTV’s range. She had long dark hair and wore a stripy woolly hat. She wore a thick, oversized jumper and jeans, and carried a large duffel bag over her shoulder. A perfectly normal-looking girl. Jessie had watched hundreds come in and out of the frame. Runners. Shop assistants. Secretaries. Models. Schoolkids. Language students. Tourists. They all looked the same, except this one. This one was wearing green six-inch heels. Jessie froze the image and saved it. Next she brought up the clearest still of Anna Maria standing on the corner. She enlarged the picture to get a more detailed image of the boots she was wearing. They were high. The shape of the heels matched. The colour matched. A lawyer could argue that boots like this were sold in their thousands, and they were probably right, but these weren’t the clodhoppers with thick robust heels that most people wore. These had thin soles and spiky heels, and that made them expensive. Expensive and green reduced the likelihood of a sixteen-year-old girl wearing them. The build and height of the two girls were the same. The hair colour and the clothes were different. Jessie tried to remember what was up Marshall Street that would allow a girl to change her wardrobe with no one noticing. There was a cafe, but it was very small, some doorways in which to hide maybe, a telephone booth, a car park. Jessie smiled to herself. A car park would have security surveillance of its own. She picked up the phone and made the request.
‘Hello, Jessie,’ said a voice from the door. Jessie looked up. It was Jones. The person who’d given her the job in CID.
‘Sir!’ Jessie leapt to her feet and bounded towards him, then checked herself. ‘It’s great to see you.’
‘So great that you can’t even make time for my leaving party?’
Jessie put her hand to her mouth. ‘No. I could have sworn Mark told me it was …’ Her voice trailed off.
‘I think it was, then it got changed,’ said Jones, ever the diplomat.
‘I thought it was a surprise. You’re not supposed to know,’ said Jessie, seeing right through him.
‘Trudi keeps me in the loop.’ Trudi had been Jones’ assistant for years. Jessie had seen her moping about the corridors since Jones announced his retirement.
‘Has she told you about your replacement?’ she asked hopefully. Jessie believed she and Trudi had always had a certain understanding.
‘Trudi only told me that they hadn’t had time to get acquainted yet.’
Which Jessie interpreted as, Stupid cow hasn’t bothered talking to me yet because I’m a woman and only a secretary.
Jones shook his head. ‘No, Jessie, it wasn’t anything like that at all. Give Carolyn a chance. She appears a little frosty, but she’ll thaw. She’s just nervous.’
‘As nervous as a panther.’
‘Come on, Jessie. Usually you have very good intuition for people in pain. It’s what makes you a good police officer, seeing in people what they are trying to hide from themselves.’
Jessie relented. It was as much the power of the compliment as the word ‘pain’. ‘What happened? Her husband run off with a thirty-three-year-old DI with dark hair who drives a bike?’
‘Drop the bike, and you’re pretty much there.’
‘There’s no hope for me,’ said Jessie, lowering her head.
‘You’ll win her over in the end.’
‘Great,’ said Jessie. ‘By which time I’ll be in an institution. Honestly, guv, why should I be punished? It wasn’t me.’
‘No. You’re just lower down the food chain, that’s all. Now, are you coming to my party or not?’
‘Course I am. I wouldn’t miss it for the world.’
Jones smiled. ‘You nearly did.’
They’d taken over a room above a local pub. There were barrels of beer, bottles of whisky and endless sausage rolls. The three ingredients to make a perfect policeman’s party. There was a huge roar of respect and admiration as Jones entered the room. DCI Moore turned and looked at Jessie and Jones. Jessie smiled and moved straight for the whisky.
‘Is it true?’ asked Niaz.
‘Is what true?’ Jessie accepted a tumbler from the PC behind the table and took a sip.
‘What the SOCOs are saying.’
‘What are the SOCOs saying?’
Niaz lowered his head to one side. Something he did when he was concentrating or confused. Tonight he was confused. ‘Boss, why are you angry? This is a party. DCI Jones has had many years in the service. You should respect that by making sure he has a very good party. And good parties require happy people.’
‘Sorry, Niaz, I fear I’m losing my only ally. I’m suddenly quite afraid,’ she said, speaking honestly before she had the good sense to stop