Chapter Seventeen
Seventeen
After waking, Preston seemed clear and calm, an outcome neither Nikki nor her aunt had imagined possible. He joked with the nurses and doctors as they did their evaluations. When they were finished, Preston held Izzy’s hands and kissed her palms.
“ ‘Thy sweet love remembered such wealth brings,’ ” he said. “ ‘That then I scorn to change my state with kings.’ ”
By afternoon, however, his good humor and clarity were gone.
“He’s not out of the woods yet,” the doctor told them. “We’ll keep him here a few more days. When he’s stabilized, we’ll talk about moving him to a rehabilitation facility.”
Nikki offered to stay the night again but her aunt gently rejected this.
“I need to be here,” she said. “I simply won’t sleep without him next to me.”
—
Nikki left the hospital and walked to Whitechapel station.
Her mind felt stretched out. Wobbly. She considered going back to Izzy and Preston’s house, but the thought depressed her.
She checked her watch. It was 17:32. If she hurried, she would make it in time for the memorial for Claire Sexton at the pub near Gidea Park.
—
Nikki shucked her jacket as she entered the Three Horseshoes.
A handful of people clustered in the dim space.
These seemed to be locals—three middle-aged men in construction boots, a family of four, and a couple on a date.
It smelled of fried fish, vinegar, and malty beer.
There weren’t any signs about the memorial—a shamble of papers pinned to a message board showed rooms for let, and declared the upcoming Friday as pub quiz night.
Nikki asked the woman at the bar, who said, “To the left and up the stairs, love.”
—
The room upstairs was wide and deep, but felt cramped, due to a low plaster ceiling with heavy wooden beams. About two dozen people milled together, talking and cradling drinks.
Others sat at tables, eating sandwiches and crisps.
Most were in their twenties—friends or colleagues of Claire.
They wore an awkward array of clothing—some in busty black funeral dresses, others in jeans and sweatshirts. A Taylor Swift album was playing.
One table near the entrance was draped in a white tablecloth and set with pink roses, artificial candles, and a condolence book.
Nikki crossed to the book and scanned the notes and names, discreetly snapping a few photos with her phone before leaning in to write a message.
Then she went past the beverage table and grabbed a bottle of Fosters to keep in her hand.
—
A woman in her early twenties sat alone. She wore an oversize sweater, jeans, and no makeup. Her cheeks were full and pink and dimpled. Her long, reddish-blonde hair was pulled back into two clips, frizzing a little with the humidity.
“Hi,” Nikki said, approaching with a smile. “I’m Nikki.”
“Sally,” said the girl.
“How did you know Claire?” Nikki asked, taking the seat opposite.
“Went to primary school together, didn’t we?
” Sally’s voice was oddly high-pitched and wispy.
Nikki had to lean in to catch it. “So I’ve known her the longest. If anyone should be feeling sad, it’s me, right?
Not like everyone else here, all looking so tragic.
Everyone pretending like they gave a toss about her.
But they didn’t really know her, did they? ”
“So, you were close friends?”
“That’s what I’m saying, right? Not like anybody cares what I’m feeling.”
“Tell me about her.”
Sally glanced at Nikki with hungry eagerness.
“We met when we were, like, eight years old. Her mum and dad split when she was six, and she was proper upset about it, yeah?”
“Is her mum here?” Nikki asked. “I’ve never met her.”
“That’s her over there. Lydia.”
She pointed at three middle-aged women standing near an artist’s easel where a large photograph of Claire was displayed.
One of the women, wearing a cotton dress and jumper, bore a striking resemblance to Claire—with the same smooth skin and full, expressive mouth.
Her eyes were swollen with crying and there was a hopeless agitation to the way she gripped her coffee cup, and shifted from foot to foot.
“Are you a nanny, too?” Nikki asked.
“Not a chance! That was Claire’s gig. She was all about kids. Just mad for ’em. But I reckon I should’ve jumped on that bandwagon—’cause let me tell you, the dads Claire worked for were absolutely fit. Have you seen Jayston Lake? Absolute dish. Claire was all over him, too.”
“Claire was interested in Jayston Lake?”
“Who wouldn’t be?” She glanced at Nikki as if for confirmation, then added, “I mean, come on? He’s proper famous. Can you imagine?”
“Did she ever tell you that she was interested?” Nikki asked.
Sally shrugged. “Blogged about it, didn’t she?”
Nikki sat up straighter. “She did?”
“Not with her own name, ’course.”
“What name did she use?”
“What was it?” Sally grabbed her phone and started scrolling. “Something proper weird…thorny…something. Ah! Yeah…Omygod. It’s him.”
It took Nikki a moment to follow Sally’s attention, which was drawn away from her phone and to the entrance.
Nikki half expected to see Jayston, but instead there was a startlingly good-looking man in his early thirties—refined features, hollow cheeks, and a mane of shining brown hair.
He wore stylish black trousers and a skintight jacket over a clinging T-shirt.
Striding into the room, he was welcomed by the crowd with exclamations and evident excitement.
“Who’s that?” Nikki asked.
“Teddy Sexton. Claire’s half brother. Isn’t he fit? And he’s dead clever. He’s, like, some sort of genius inventor.”
“He doesn’t look like Claire,” Nikki observed.
Sally made a snorting noise. “I said half brother, didn’t I? Same dad—white dad.”
“I should go,” Nikki said, standing. She started to reach for a handshake, but Sally’s eyes narrowed and she tossed her head, clearly taking offense.
“Fine, go on, then. Ain’t nobody bothered about what I gotta say, anyway.”
—
The women with Claire Sexton’s mother had apparently left their post. Nikki was about to approach when Lydia seemed to gather herself and, with a look of desperation, slipped from the room. Nikki followed her—down the stairs, into the pub, and through the front doors.
Lydia Sexton stood alone in the cold outside, without a jacket, facing traffic on the noisy street. She dug through her purse for a packet of cigarettes and lit up, staring into the distance.
Nikki approached cautiously, sensing something fragile in that lost expression.
“Hi, Lydia,” she said. “I’m Nikki. I wanted to say…I’m sorry for your loss.”
Lydia nodded, seeming to make an effort to come back into the present.
“Thanks. Thanks for coming. It’s nice, isn’t it? Everybody here for Claire. It was decent of the agency to arrange this.”
“Was Claire your only…?”
“My one and only. She was something special, you know? Just brightened up my world. My angel. That’s what I called her. My angel.”
She was crying, but didn’t seem aware of it. Tears slid down her cheeks and dripped off her chin.
“I can’t imagine what you’re going through,” said Nikki honestly. She wondered how much Lydia knew about the way Claire had died. She thought of Monica’s hair painted in Claire’s blood and, in her mind’s eye, saw the photographs of the gruesome crime scene.
“How did you know her?” asked Lydia.
Nikki had considered a cover story, but the thought of lying to this grieving woman suddenly repulsed her.
“I didn’t know her when she was alive,” she confessed.
“But, from everything I’ve heard, she sounds like a kind and caring person.
My name is Nikki Serafino. I work for a unit called Phoenix Seven—we help the police sometimes.
I was involved in the investigation of Claire’s death in Naples.
I’m not involved anymore, but I happened to be in the neighborhood and I wanted to understand… the person she was.”
Lydia looked stunned, then she stirred as if waking up. Her eyes were suddenly intense.
“You aren’t with the press, are you?”
“No. As I said, I’m with Phoenix Seven. I’m really sorry for intruding. Maybe I shouldn’t have come. I know this is a special event.”
“Do you have identification?” Lydia asked.
Nikki took out her ID and showed it to her, bracing, ready for her anger.
Lydia examined the card and seemed to consider. “No. I want you to stay. That’s all I want, you know? Someone to give a damn that she’s gone. Someone to care enough to find out…why anyone would do this to my baby. What do you want to know about my Claire?”
“I’m not on the case anymore,” Nikki said. “I’m not able to formally investigate.”
“But you want to investigate? You want to find out what happened to her?”
Nikki met Lydia’s gaze. It was unexpectedly alert and determined.
She nodded. “I do.”
“That’ll do for me,” said Lydia. She pulled a crumpled tissue from her purse and wiped her nose. “Tell me what you want to know.”
“Okay.” Nikki took a deep breath. “The police will already have asked you these questions, so I may repeat them.”
“That’s fine.”
“Did Claire talk to you about her work?” Nikki asked.
“Some of it. She’d signed these business deals that tied her hands, couldn’t blab about her work, but she still spilled to me.”
“How often did you two talk?”
“A few times a week. We were tight. She’d drop me an email when they were out at sea—and then she’d ring up whenever they docked.”
“Was she happy working for the Lakes?”
“Well…she was crazy about Audrey. Lovely little thing. And she was head over heels for Jayston. But the mother—Fiona—was a real piece of work.”
“I understand that Fiona may have been…jealous. Suspicious of Claire and Jayston.”