Chapter 23 Research
‘Right, darling, well done! Great workout,’ I say to Stephen, as we arrive home after a morning run around Ally Pally. As he’s gasping for breath, I decide the time is right.
‘I think we should make an offer on the house,’ I say. This is a little disingenuous as I’ve already made an offer, but it’s important to make him feel in charge.
‘We can’t offer because we can’t afford it,’ he says, in such a depressive tone that I wonder if the early run was worth it at all. I was hoping the dopamine hit would make him more optimistic.
‘An offer doesn’t hold us to anything, at this stage, so let’s have some fun,’ I say. ‘We could even ask your mum for help.’
He looks at me, handsome but forlorn, shakes his head and trudges up the steps in his running shorts. His calves are spattered with mud, which, sadly, arouses me slightly.
I am showered, dressed and out within thirty minutes, heading towards the blue Toyota, which is a godsend.
Until you have an untraceable car, you never know how useful it can be.
Especially living somewhere like Muswell Hill, as you’re so visible.
I mean, you can buy lemongrass in the morning and by the afternoon someone at yoga will ask if you’re making Thai curry for dinner.
I park outside Tor’s in my hat and shades.
It’s not that I don’t trust Cait, but who else could’ve told the police that Jason Mercer had been at my house?
When I make a promise, I stick to it, but when Cait makes a promise, it feels conditional.
That’s emotions for you. Better without them, frankly.
I know she’s had to flee her own home, is having to endure Tor treating her as if she’s infectious, has a vicious estranged husband threatening significant harm, and buried her first body this week, but even so, trust is everything.
I imagine she couldn’t sleep after burying him, and called Crimestoppers at four in the morning.
It’s not myself I’m worried about, it’s the children.
Nathan would probably be fine. Boys have their needs for food, activity, company and hierarchy, and that’s it.
They’re like dogs in this respect, and any decent owner would do.
Nelly needs something else and would take revenge on the world when it didn’t bend to her will. And we all know how that ends.
As I wait, I call Sophie. She’s on her way to work but sounds strangely cheerful.
‘Just wanted to check in and see how Paolo reacted to your date?’
‘Well, there’s a story!’ she says. ‘I got all dolled up – new dress, matching underwear, the whole shebang – flaunted it around the flat before I went out. Paolo was asking all kinds of questions, but I batted them all away and left, humming Beyoncé’s “Single Ladies”.’
‘Go girl,’ I say, and Sophie tuts at me, which I think is for my poor American accent.
‘I went to the bar, but I couldn’t go through with it.’
‘Always disappointing to find you have moral boundaries,’ I say.
‘I realized I didn’t want to spend an evening with anyone else. It made me feel grubby,’ she says sweetly. ‘So I went for a long walk and took in a late film at the Everyman. When I got home, he was waiting up, head in hands.’
‘Poor Paolo,’ I say. ‘Oh, wait, Cait’s here!’
I have to wave three times to Cait as she doesn’t recognize the car.
Eventually, the car door opens, Cait gets in.
No happy smile from her, just a glum look of what I imagine is guilt sitting like a lump of lead in her stomach.
I tell her Sophie’s on the phone telling me about her date and put it on speaker.
‘You’re on speaker now,’ I say. ‘Go on with the story.’
‘Hi, Cait!’ Sophie calls. Cait barely responds. ‘Anyway I thought Paolo was angry, but he was crying. He said he didn’t want to lose me.’ Sophie pauses. ‘And . . .’
‘He threw you against the wall and . . .’
‘He proposed!’ she shouts.
‘Oh, that’s wonderful,’ I say. ‘One fake date and he’s in the bag. Good on you.’
‘Congratulations,’ says Cait more quietly.
‘More later, the kids are staring at my ring,’ Sophie says, as we hear the chatter of children in the background.
‘Isn’t that wonderful news?’ I say to Cait.
‘Yes,’ says Cait. ‘I suppose the wedding will be nice, although, sadly, we’ll be in prison.’
‘Oh, you little cloud of gloom,’ I say. ‘Of course we won’t.’
I drive Cait to Muswell Hill explaining all about the identity of the dead man.
The fact that he’s a disgraced policeman, had my address in his home, that the police are now actively searching for him, and they’ve already been to my house, all seems to make Cait feel jittery.
When I explain that the Toyota is his stolen car, we have to stop on Bishop’s Avenue while she leans out and vomits. I expect it’s the guilt.
We go to Sable d’Or for a quick cup of sweet tea to put her right and then head for the library to conduct some research. I leave Cait at the bank of computers next to an old man who keeps asking her what a mouse is and head for the self-help section.
After forty-five minutes of reading a book about how to save your marriage, Cait appears and sits next to me on the stained foam sofa.
‘He wasn’t a nice man,’ she says. ‘A long-serving Met officer in the Serious and Organized Crimes Command. Multiple disciplinary issues. He was suspended pending his trial for sexual harassment and assault, bribery, fraud, and witness intimidation.’
‘But why was he in Muswell Hill, and what was he doing in my house?’
‘No idea,’ says Cait. ‘But I know why they’re so keen to find him. The Met is facing criticism for letting him get away with it for so long. They wanted to set an example, and now he’s on the loose.’
‘That’s good news,’ I say.
‘How is this good news?’ says Cait. ‘They think you’re his girlfriend. One search warrant and they’ll find evidence that he died in your living room.’
‘Think about it, Cait, it’s actually perfect. He’s disappeared because of the trial, right? No one’s wondering why he’s gone missing, and they’ll never find him anyway. They’ll think he made it to the Costa del Sol.’
‘At the moment, they think he made it to your house.’
‘Did I tell you that they’d had an anonymous tip-off too?’
‘About what?’
‘Someone told the police that they’d seen Mercer at my house.’
‘But he had your address anyway.’
‘Whoever blabbed didn’t know that, did they?’ I say.
‘Why are you staring at me?’ she says. ‘You don’t think it was me, do you?’
‘Well, who else could it be, Cait?’
Cait throws down her notebook and leaves in a mood, slamming the library door – which pleases no one.
From her carefully handwritten notes, I find out that Mercer has three children from three different relationships, was a gambler, drinker, and philanderer as well as a serial sex attacker and bully.
He wasn’t working on a case as he’d been suspended for over four months.
He was either making a living as a burglar or he was a serial sex offender looking for his next victim.
Perhaps he was trying to kill two birds with one stone.
I leave the library feeling an overwhelming sense of moral pride that I dispatched him so forcefully.