The Unquiet Dead. Gay Longworth

       2

      Jessie woke early to wash her hair. Determined to rectify the situation with DCI Moore, she dressed with her new boss in mind. She wouldn’t stretch to a skirt; not just because they made chasing criminals very hard, but because the piss-take she’d receive would be extreme. More extreme than normal. Instead, she opted for her black trouser suit, hoping it would endear her to the woman. If looking good was important to her new boss, well, this suit made Jessie look good, even if she said so herself. DCI Moore was obviously a hard nut. Fair enough, you had to be hard to succeed in this game. Jessie would dance to her tune. The line of command was more important than personality.

      Clipping her hair off her face with slides, she put on enough make-up so that a woman would notice but a man wouldn’t. If Anna Maria hadn’t reappeared from wherever she was holed up, there was the possibility Jessie would be in front of the camera before the day was out. But when she saw herself in the hall mirror she nearly tore it all off. Dressing like this went against her self-imposed laws of survival. Rule number one: camouflage. You can’t attack what you can’t see.

      Bill appeared from his bedroom in his boxer shorts, smiled at her sleepily and went to the bathroom. She envied him his fitness. The more she progressed in the police force, the more sedentary her life was becoming. She made a promise to herself that she would run home from work at the end of the day and went into the spare room to fetch her kit.

      ‘Jesus, Bill, you should think of opening a window occasionally,’ shouted Jessie. ‘It stinks in here.’

      ‘Sorry,’ replied a voice as the loo flushed. ‘Give me a second and I’ll buy you breakfast.’

      Jessie glanced at her watch as Bill entered the room.

      ‘Come on, just a quick fry-up round the corner. It’s still early.’

      ‘Don’t you want a lie-in?’

      ‘This is a lie-in. I’m used to getting up at five.’

      ‘Well, all right – but we’d better make it quick.’

      Jessie walked down the deserted hallway of the CID unit and felt very uneasy. She sat at her desk and listened to the sound of traffic from the street below. No doors opened and closed, no radios crackled, no phones rang, so she got up again and went upstairs to Jones’ recently vacated office. A group of her fellow officers were coming out of his room; perhaps she was being paranoid, but they appeared to be giving each other knowing looks.

      ‘What’s up, Fry?’ she asked one of the passing detective constables.

      ‘Best you ask the new boss,’ he muttered before shouting to another group of officers about meeting them in the canteen. When Jessie got to the office door she saw Mark sitting at the former DCI’s desk. He was looking out of the window, which offered a remarkable view across Mayfair to Hyde Park. In the evenings it filled with the rarely seen light of the setting sun. Jones had always had the blinds down, but Moore obviously had other decorating plans.

      ‘Hi, Mark, you been promoted after all?’

      ‘No,’ said a now familiar voice. DCI Moore walked into the office from the secretary’s side room.

      ‘Morning, ma’am. Have I missed something?’

      ‘Yes,’ she said.

      Okay, so the woman was a hard nut and didn’t mince her words. All good qualities in a commanding officer, Jessie told herself. ‘What’s going on?’ she continued.

      ‘Don’t you think, given the circumstances, it would have been wise to get in early?’

      It was only eight thirty, but Jessie didn’t think it ‘wise’ to argue.

      ‘Sorry.’

      ‘I’ve spoken to you twice, Driver, and twice you’ve had to apologise. Is this going to be a running theme with you?’

      ‘No,’ said Jessie, stiffening.

      ‘Good. DI Ward has made some rather interesting discoveries regarding the Klein case. Mark, although it’s a waste of your time, would you mind telling DI Driver what you told everyone this morning?’

      He tried to look humble, he even tried to look sympathetic, but neither look could hide the way his body inflated slightly. The man was enjoying this more than he should. Jessie saw months of team-building slip away from her and wondered if he had really tried as hard as he claimed to track her down. Even if her mobile didn’t have any reception, she had a pager and he hadn’t called that.

      ‘Anna Maria Klein has form,’ said Mark.

      ‘At her age?’

      ‘At her age an official warning is as close to form as you can get,’ said Mark indignantly.

      ‘I’m sorry you didn’t look into this yesterday,’ said Moore sternly.

      Jessie wasn’t going to apologise again. ‘What was it for?’ she asked Mark.

      ‘Possession.’

      ‘Dope?’

      ‘That doesn’t lessen the charge,’ said Moore. ‘Buying any kind of drug at fifteen is a serious concern.’

      ‘I don’t dispute that, but there are often extenuating circumstances. Buying it once to show off to your friends about how “showbiz” you are is not the same as mugging pensioners to get a crack fix.’

      ‘Do you know Dufour’s Place?’ asked Moore, ignoring Jessie’s observation.

      ‘Yes, it’s a cul-de-sac at the back of Marshall Street, it doesn’t go anywhere.’

      ‘It may not go anywhere, Driver, but it houses rather a historic building, as Mark has been explaining to us all this morning.’

      Jessie looked to Mark for back-up and was saddened when she saw that he was busy with the papers on his knee. She waited. He didn’t look up.

      ‘I presume you’re referring to the Marshall Street Baths. I believe it was built in the twenties as a communal bath house, and was still in use up to the end of the nineties as a public swimming pool. Then Health and Safety closed it down. The City of Westminster has been trying to work out what to do with it ever since. It’s a listed building –’

      ‘Used by addicts and dealers,’ said Mark, cutting Jessie short.

      ‘I thought the drug unit had cleared up that problem?’

      ‘Drugs are a recurring problem,’ said Moore, sitting on the edge of Jones’ old desk.

      ‘Normally the baths are patrolled and checked by a caretaker called –’ Mark checked his pad – ‘Don Firth. But he’s been off sick for three weeks.’

      ‘We