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  ‘Charlotte,’ she said, almost blushing.

  ‘Charlotte! Why, that’s an elegant name,’ said Munro, rising from his desk. ‘Which do you prefer, Charlotte, is it Lottie? Or Lola, perhaps…’

  ‘I prefer Charlotte, Sir.’

  ‘Good. Charlie, it is, then,’

  She shook her head and smiled.

  ‘If you don’t mind me saying so, Charlie, you look a wee bit… young, to be a Sergeant. A Detective Sergeant, at that.’

  ‘I’ll take that as a compliment,’ said West, leaning back, grinning.

  ‘Please do.’

  ‘I’m old enough, if that’s what you’re thinking.’

  ‘Oh, I’m not after your age,’ said Munro, ‘it would be rude of me to ask. You’ve worked your way up, then? Paid your dues, as they say?’

  ‘Of course! I’ve…’

  ‘Good. Call me old-fashioned, but I’d hate to think you were one of those university types, you know, the graduates who join the force and leapfrog their way to promotion just because they have a degree or two instead of pounding the streets, doing it the hard way, as it were.’

  From the pained expression on her face, it was obvious to Munro that, unless she was in dire need of root canal surgery, he’d hit a nerve.

  ‘It takes brains as well as brawn,’ she said, defensively. ‘I’ve been out there with the best of them. I’ve felt a few collars, as they say.’

  Munro returned to his desk, eased himself into his chair and, with his hands clasped beneath his chin, regarded her like a doctor assessing a patient. He smiled gently with a reassuring tilt of the head, aware that her confidence had tripped the line to arrogance.

  ‘Let’s not get off on the wrong foot, lassie. I’m not questioning your ability. I’m just curious, I like to get the measure of the folk I work with. That’s all.’

  West relaxed and finished her drink.

  ‘That’s alright, then,’ she said, curtly. ‘And just for the record, I’ve worked bloody hard to get where I am. I’ve earned the right to be here, you know.’

  ‘I’m sure you have,’ said Munro, smiling. ‘So, how long have you been a D.S., Charlie?’

  ‘Eighteen months, Sir. Nearly.’

  ‘Eighteen months? Why, you’re an old hand at the job, lassie. And what have you bagged, so far? A few stolen cars, I expect. The odd burglary, perhaps, maybe even an armed robbery?’

  ‘I should be so lucky,’ said West, glibly. ‘Mainly assaults and road rage. There was one hold-up, no shooters, though. Guildford isn’t really the place for them.’

  ‘Guilford? So you transferred? Life a wee bit dull in the suburbs?’

  ‘You could say that,’ said West. ‘Thought things might be a little more interesting with the City.’

  ‘And that’s what you’re after, is it, Charlie?’ said Munro. ‘Action?’

  ‘Yes, Sir. I’d like…’

  ‘You’d like to feel your knees turn to jelly when you approach a rucksack someone’s left on the concourse at, let’s say, Liverpool Street station? Afraid it’ll blow up in your face?’

  ‘Well, not exactly, I mean…’

  ‘You’d like to feel your bowels loosen when some bampot in Hatton Garden holds a pistol to your head, knowing he’s not afraid to use it because to him, you are the scum of the earth?’

  ‘I hadn’t thought of it like…’

  ‘Well, you’d better start thinking,’ said Munro, fixing her with a steely gaze and lowering his voice, as if delivering a mournful lament, ‘you’ve not even scratched the surface, lassie.’

  ‘I don’t follow,’ said West, ‘just because…’

  ‘Have you never walked a railway track in search of a limb or two? An arm or a leg that’s been severed from the body by an Intercity train? Have you not tried to scrape the remains off the track, scrape it because the voltage has fused the flesh to the line? Have you never had to knock the door and tell the parents that wee Jimmy’s dead? And all because of a game of chicken?’

  D.S. West sat, ashen-faced, at once abhorred and enthralled.

  ‘Do you know what it’s like to wander round a derelict scheme in the dead of night, wading through pools of vomit and discarded needles, trying to reach a junkie who’s pumped his body full of fentanyl, looked into his heroin eyes and seen nothing but despair? Or perhaps you’ve not yet experienced the feeling of utter helplessness when a young lass dies in your arms, just because some ned thought it was clever to drive at eighty miles an hour the wrong way up a one-way street?’

  West fidgeted nervously in her seat as Munro’s voice dropped to barely more than a whisper.

  ‘Have you ever hauled a body from the canal? An anaemic, bloated carcass, bobbing on the surface like some inflatable whale, full of putrid, toxic gas, and heaved your guts up because the pike, and the roach, and the eels, have eaten his eyes and his lips? Have you not experienced the frustration of trying to convict some nutter who’s skelped his wife so badly she’s in the infirmary but says nothing for fear of retribution? Stays quiet, even though she’s been battered black and blue, from head to toe?’

  D.S. West simply shook her head.

  ‘Then I assume you’ve never had to wipe another man’s blood from your face either. And I hope to God, you never will.’

  West sat perfectly still, dumbfounded and shocked, as Munro slowly raised his arm and slammed the desk with the palm of his hand. She jumped.

  ‘So, Charlie!’ he said, smiling broadly. ‘Let’s lighten the mood a little, tell me now, why did City of London send you here? Surely, whatever you did, can’t have been that bad?’

  West’s shoulders slumped with relief, as if she’d just been given the all clear. Flustered, and slightly unnerved, she cleared her throat, took Munro’s cup from his desk, and switched on the kettle.

  ‘Pulled the short straw, Sir,’ she said, nervously. ‘I’m afraid no-one else wanted to work with Taggart.’

  ‘Taggart?’ said Munro.

  ‘You’ve a reputation.’

  ‘I’m flattered.’

  ‘It’s a missing person, Sir.’

  ‘James, please,’ said Munro, ‘we’re not on ceremony, here.’

  ‘I think I’ll stick with “Sir”, if that’s alright with you. I’d like to maintain a sense of, professionalism, hierarchy, then we know where we stand.’

  Munro raised one corner of his mouth, nauseated at the waffle.

  ‘In that case, Charlie, we’ll have a little less of your lip. So, you’re after a missing person, you say?’

  ‘That’s right,’ said West. ‘Chap by the name of Harry, Harry Farnsworth-Brown.’

  ‘How many names does a fellow need?’ said Munro.

  ‘He’s not been seen for four days,’ said West. ‘Today’s the fifth. Completely out of character. Apparently. Even missed Saturday night, which is the busiest night of the week.’

  ‘I don’t follow.’

  ‘He runs a bar.’

  ‘I see. And who reported him missing?’ said Munro. ‘A loved one? His next of kin, perhaps?’

  ‘Neither. Seems he’s single. Unattached.’

  ‘Family?’

  ‘Parents. That’s it,’ said West, handing him a cup of tea. ‘Father’s American, an investment banker, retired, mother’s British, a solicitor, retired, too. Both on holiday. They’ve got a place in Sicily.’

  ‘And you’ve checked their house?’ said Munro, grimacing as he sipped his tea. ‘He’s not making use of the facilities while they’re away?’

  ‘We spoke to the cleaner and the gardener, they’ve not seen him for weeks. Uniform went round yesterday. Nothing.’

  ‘And he’s not the impulsive type? Could he not have taken himself off somewhere? A wee holiday, perhaps?’

  ‘Not according to the bar staff. He’s not missed a day in five years.’

  Munro stood, walked purposefully to the table and tipped three, generous spoons of sugar into his cup.

  ‘Bar staff?’ he said.

  �
�Yes,’ said West. ‘They’re the ones who reported him missing. The manager, actually.’

  ‘I see. And they’ve tried calling him, obviously?’

  ‘They have. No response. Landline rings out and his mobile goes to voicemail. Oh, and his emails are bouncing, which can only mean his mailbox is full.’

  Munro turned his chair to the window, sat down and stared out across the green.

  ‘Unopened mail,’ he said, quietly. ‘Like six pints of milk on the doorstep. A sure sign that someone’s gone away.’

  ‘But that’s not like him,’ said West. ‘They say he’s not the type to just…’

  ‘When I say “gone away”, Charlie, I mean it as a euphemism.’

  ‘Oh,’ said West, suddenly feeling out of her depth.

  ‘Tell me,’ said Munro, ‘where, exactly, is this bar? This, den of iniquity?’

  ‘Shoreditch. Rivington Street.’

  ‘Shoreditch? Why, Charlie, that’s your patch, not mine.’

  ‘It is now,’ said West. ‘I mean, he lives here, Sir. Wanstead. Victory Road.’

  ‘Victory Road?’ said Munro, rubbing his chin. ‘Let me think. I imagine that’ll be the old orphanage, then.’

  ‘Orphanage? What would he be doing…’

  ‘It’s not an orphanage now, lassie. It’s a beautiful building, two hundred years old, at least, full of apartments. Big, fancy, expensive ones. You’d have to be a millionaire to live there, of that I’m sure. It used to be the Merchant Seaman’s Orphan Asylum. Then a hospital. It’s a twenty-minute walk. If that.’

  ‘Can we take a look?’ asked West.

  ‘Take a look?’ said Munro, aghast at the request. ‘Are you telling me no-one’s been already?’

  ‘Er, no. Not really, I mean, a couple of beat officers from Snaresbrook looked in last night but there was nobody home.’

  ‘And that’s it? No door-to-doors? You’ve not met the neighbours? Taken a wee look inside his flat?’

  ‘Well, no,’ said West, adopting the stance of a scolded child. ‘Not yet. I thought…’

  ‘You thought…?’

  ‘Well, he could have gone out, you know, for dinner or something, or down the pub.’

  ‘I doubt it, lassie,’ said Munro, reaching for his coat. ‘I doubt it. Right, I think it’s time you started earning your salary, don’t you? You’ve got the address, ring down and ask for Sergeant Cole, tell him we need a car to meet us there. You and I will walk, oh, and tell him to bring the “big key”, too, we may have to give the door a wee nudge, so to speak.’

  CHAPTER 3

  “HOW WELL DID YOU KNOW HER?”

  Are you kidding? Better than anyone. Inside out, back to front, upside down. I knew everything about her. Which, in a way, is odd. I mean, tell me, how well do we know anyone? Let’s face it, you can know someone for thirty years and yet, not really know them at all. That’s why it’s odd. I only knew her a couple of months. Weeks, in fact. I suppose it all depends on who you’re talking to really, and how open they are with you, after all, it’s the personal stuff that matters, isn’t it? It’s the personal stuff that allows you under their skin.

  On the outside, she was very self-assured, confident, got on with everyone, an extrovert, you might say, but underneath it all, she was actually a very private person. Very demure. I remember asking Harry about her, after all, they had a history. Nothing too specific, just general stuff. I wanted to see what I was getting myself in to. The best he could manage, after a couple of years in a so-called relationship, was ‘yeah, she’s fun, likes The Happy Mondays’. He didn’t know her at all. He didn’t even know she had a degree. Whatever we had, whatever you choose to call it, a dalliance, an affair, a partnership, our ‘liaison’ was, intense. So yes, I knew her pretty well.

  She relished revealing facts about herself, about the past, her present, it was like she was testing me, gauging my reactions, seeing if I’d make the grade. There was no hesitation, no beating around the bush, no fear of causing offence, she’d just come right out and say stuff, as though she knew it wouldn’t go any further, as though she knew she could trust me, which she could, implicitly. Like a priest, but without the confessional. And always with that smile. The smile that told me I was about to become privy to something personal, something ‘naughty’. No, not ‘naughty’. Dark. Something ‘dark’, something she’d never shared before. I listened, intently. I wasn’t there to judge, nor to question, nor to express an opinion. If I had, it would have ruined things. My role was simply to listen, which meant she smiled, a lot.

  It started the day after we met. I was looking forward to getting home, I’d had enough. Apart from the gallery postponing the private view and wanting to increase their commission, I’d locked myself out of the studio and ripped my jacket climbing in through the second floor window. It was about half-six, seven maybe, and all I could think of was an ice-cold beer. I was halfway down the street, glanced up towards my house and saw her, standing by the gate. Another tingle. Part of me wanted to turn around and disappear before she saw me, another part wanted to sneak up behind her, slap her on the backside and give her a kiss on the cheek. I went with the second, but without the slapping or the kissing. Or the sneaking for that matter. Truth be known, I was glad to see her, she made me feel, I don’t know, different, even though it was like, like knowing that if you put your hand in the fire, you were going to get burned. Trouble is, I wanted to shove both arms in. Anyway, I feigned surprise and invited her in for, well, I don’t know what for, a drink I suppose. Coffee or a beer, or a glass of wine. It would’ve been rude not to. As it happens, she declined. The rebuttal took me by surprise, particularly as it was she waiting for me, but there wasn’t time for my pride to reel with rejection, she suggested we go to hers instead. Safe ground, I suppose. I didn’t have time to argue, nor to go indoors for that matter. She slipped her arm in mine and marched me down the street. I knew where she lived. Cowley Road.

  The house was a beautiful, little, terraced cottage. Two-up, two-down. Christ knows how she afforded it, I mean, on a salary from the library? I can only assume the Royal Bank of Winnersh helped her out. Winnersh. Funny name, that. It’s in Berkshire, I think. Anyway, that’s where she lived, or rather, her parents. It’s where she grew up. She took my coat, sat me down and handed me a can of Guinness. She’d obviously made a note of what I’d been drinking the night before. She poured herself a large vodka and tomato juice, put on a CD, Vivaldi, The Four Seasons, and sat cross-legged on the floor in front of me, her skirt hitched up around her thighs. She smiled and asked me if I knew what an aneurysm was. Just like that. I said, I did, why? ‘That’s what killed my father,’ she said, ‘two days before my thirteenth birthday’. One day, fit and healthy, the next, not. Just collapsed in a heap on the way home from work. Brain aneurysm. Found him dead in the car. I was dumbfounded. Didn’t know what to say. I was expecting a conversation about, I don’t know, films, or her job, or how long she’d lived in the area, or, or if I was single. Not death. Not the demise of her father. She drained her glass, said something like ‘Christ, I hate classical music’ and played a Johnny Cash CD instead. Incidentally, she’d never heard of the Happy Mondays. She told me that her father had loved classical music. Everything from Prokofiev and Elgar to Haydn and Bach. Doesn’t take a genius to figure out why she hated it.

  Her father was buried. Cremation, her mother opined, was for Hindus, not Christians, and being interned in a casket six feet under was undeniably more civilised than being barbecued like a rack of ribs in front of your nearest and dearest. She didn’t agree and, much to her mother’s annoyance, let it be known that she would rather be guest of honour at a pyre party than be consumed by a variety of subterranean arthropods until she was nothing more than compost.

  In the absence of a paternal figure to guide and encourage her, there came, soon afterwards, a turning point in her life. She gave up the violin and the horse riding, the piano lessons and the netball, and became, in her own words, ‘a bit of a t
omboy’, obsessed with the outdoors and, in particular, creepy-crawlies. Insects. She smiled. By her own admission, she enjoyed nothing more than collecting earthworms and spiders from the acreage they called a garden, taking them to her room and curtailing their invaluable contribution to the ecosystem by pulling their legs off or slicing them up like a stick of salami. It was past midnight when we finally ate something, and even then, in between spoonfuls of lamb madras and pilau rice, she kept talking. It was a long night, I couldn’t keep up. I fell asleep on the sofa, with her lying next to me, huddled up against my chest like a limp, rag doll.

  After that, we met with alarming regularity, every night, in fact. It became ritualistic, a habit. Whether she regarded it as some sort of therapy, I don’t know, but she seemed to benefit from it. Then again, maybe it was all a game to her, maybe she had a motive, maybe it had been her intention to snare me all along. If it was, she succeeded. I was hooked.

  It wasn’t all serious talk, though. I mean, it’s not as if we spent every single moment together raking over the past. We had fun, too. We enjoyed each other’s company, we were comfortable together. Very comfortable. We danced like teenagers around the lounge, we sang along to Mike Scott, we played games, she sat for me while I sketched her, and eventually, I guess it was on the cards, anyway, we became, ‘intimate’. By the time we got to that stage, which didn’t take long, I knew she wasn’t deranged or unbalanced, confused perhaps, a little mixed-up, but ultimately, lonely.

  As an only child, that sense of loneliness, or rather, of being alone, enveloped her within weeks of her father’s death. Surrounded by adults, who preferred not to talk about it, and school friends who were too young to understand, she bottled everything up and embarked on a period of self-harm. I know, a classic case of attention-seeking, wouldn’t you say? But even then, at that young age, she was clever about it. She avoided doing anything obvious, anything that would raise eyebrows or land her with a care order. She contrived every incident to look like an accident. Not one, single, pre-meditated episode involved a knife, or scissors, her hair, pills, tablets or blood. She broke her bones instead.