maybe that was unfair. What had started as just a bit of fun had somehow morphed into something more, at least on his side. In the short space of time they had been together, she had gone out of her way not to know him, to keep him at arms-length, and yet somehow a small part of him had wriggled its way in and was still there. Death played tricks with the mind. She hadn’t loved him and yet the shock of what had happened, losing him so suddenly, so violently, had awakened all sorts of uncomfortable thoughts. For no reason, she would hear his voice, little snippets of conversation burbling away and odd images kept popping unexpectedly into her head, catching her unawares, making her wish he were still there. The framed photograph of him, which he had presented her with one evening, stared down at her from the top of the small bookcase where he had put it. All the things that had so attracted her to him – his youth, his warmth, his energy and his easy-going smile – were so plain to see. It pained her to look at it.
He had been keen to have one taken of the two of them together, but she repeatedly refused and he had become angry. ‘You’re so bloody secretive, Eve. I want to know everything about you. Everything.’ He had pulled her towards him, almost shaking her. ‘Don’t you want pictures of the people you care about?’ No. She wanted to say, They’re in my head, they’re wrapped tightly around my heart, they’re with me all the time.
He had made very little physical impression on the flat and she was glad of it. She had disposed of the few personal things he had left behind: a couple of work shirts, a pullover, a toothbrush and a razor. She had also deleted every contact with him on her phone. It was easier that way, nothing to snag uncomfortably on the order of her day and give a stab of regret. She crossed the room to the bookcase and picked up the photograph. With one last glance, she put it away face down in the bottom drawer of her desk.
It was too late in the day for coffee, not that she expected to sleep well that night. Instead, she made herself a strong cup of tea with milk and took it over to the large window, which overlooked the street. As she did most nights, she opened the blinds and stared out at the darkening skyline, with its roofs and chimneys and glittering lights, the white glow of Wembley Stadium just visible on the foggy horizon. But the sense of peace she usually felt was absent. Everything had been turned upside down by what had happened in Park Grove. Somehow, she had to find out how Jason had heard that Liam Betts was supposedly staying at the house. Had he made a mistake? Or had somebody given him false information? Before joining the murder investigation team, he had worked for several years in one of the Met’s organized crime squads. It seemed likely that that had been the connection. But so far, her contacts had drawn a blank. She had also tried speaking to Jason’s close friend, Paul Dent, a few days before the funeral. He still worked in the same unit, but he had been particularly defensive when she asked him if he knew where Jason’s information had come from. It wasn’t from anyone there, he had said categorically. It was clear from the way he spoke that he blamed her for the problems in Jason’s marriage, as well as his death. Having seen him at the funeral at Tasha’s side, she realized it was pointless pursuing it any further.
She was about to pull down the blinds when she saw a large, dark-coloured saloon car pull up in the street outside her house. A similar-looking car had been on her tail all day, taking little trouble to conceal itself. She had assumed it was press-related, although it looked far too up-market to be anything to do with Nick Walsh. A moment later, a man got out from the back, glanced up at her window, then climbed the stairs to the front door and rang her bell. She closed the blinds and turned away. She didn’t want to speak to anybody. He rang the bell again, this time leaning on it for several seconds. He must have seen her from the street and wasn’t going to give up. She went into the hall and picked up the intercom receiver.
‘Yes?’
‘Miss West? I’d like to speak to you please.’ His voice was crackly and distant over the intercom, the thick London accent still audible.
‘Who is it?’
‘My name’s Alan Peters. I have a message for you.’
‘Who from?’
‘I can explain. May I come up?’
‘No. I’m busy.’
‘I’d rather not talk to you about this out here in the street.’
‘Then you’ll have to come back another time.’
‘You received some text messages today from my client …’
Texts? She hesitated. ‘Is this someone called John?’
‘That’s right. He wants to get in touch with you. He wants you to know that he can help you.’
‘I don’t need anybody’s help.’
‘I think you do, Miss West. It really would be easier to speak face to face.’
She stood for a moment in silence, wondering what to do. You were set up. The words in the text had hooked her, playing on her own suspicions. Was it possible he knew something?
‘Give me a few minutes,’ she said.
She hurriedly threw on a pair of jeans and a pullover, then went downstairs. She opened the front door a few inches, wedging her bare foot behind it, her hand on the edge ready to slam it shut. A small middle-aged man, with glasses and thinning silver hair stood on the step below. He was smartly dressed in a beige mackintosh, with a dark suit and tie just visible beneath.
‘You may remember me from a couple of years ago, Miss West. As I said, my name’s Alan Peters.’ He enunciated each word clearly, as though trying to make a point. He held out a card, which she took. Alan Peters. Associate. Mercantile Partners LLP. A City of London address. She stared at him, but couldn’t place him.
‘Who’s John?’
‘John Duran.’ He gave a tight, little smile, as though she should have known all along.
The mention of the name almost made her start. She had hoped never to hear it again. She opened the door a little wider to get a better look at Peters. His eyes were sharp and alive behind his steel-rimmed spectacles, his mouth still puckered by some inner joke. Perhaps he was amused by her bewilderment, enjoying the impact that Duran’s name still had on her. She saw a huge number of people on a day-to-day basis and there was nothing particularly memorable about Peters, but she suddenly placed him. He was John Duran’s solicitor, an unpleasant, little terrier of a man, who had been involved from day one of Duran’s arrest for murder right up until his subsequent conviction.
Duran, however, was someone she would never forget. He ran a small off-shore investment bank, with a London office close to Fleet Street. It was the legitimate front for some well-known Eastern European crime families. According to the Met’s Organized Crime Command, he was the real criminal mastermind, the facilitator and fixer, managing their affairs and investments and laundering their money. He had been under long-term surveillance for well over a decade but no charges had ever stuck. Then a couple of years before, the body of one of his known associates, Stanco Rupec, had been found dumped on a stretch of grassland opposite the Old Bull and Bush pub, near Hampstead Heath. Rupec had been bludgeoned to death, his head and face beaten to a pulp. The crime scene photos had been some of the worst she had ever seen. CCTV footage recovered from two days previously, timed at around one in the morning, had captured Rupec’s blue Mercedes driving at speed along Haverstock Hill, pursued by a black Jaguar belonging to another of Duran’s entourage. The Mercedes was later found abandoned a little further along, just after Belsize Park Tube station. Neighbours had also reported hearing shouting around the same time, and some sort of a scuffle going on outside some nearby garages, but it had been a Saturday
