The Heights Read online

  At Earls Court, Drake followed at a distance as the man descended the stairs and then the escalators to the Piccadilly Line. The eastbound platform was crowded with people. Backpackers, tourists, battalions of teenagers jostling one another. Through the mayhem Drake managed not to lose sight of his target. Moving ahead of him, he boarded the next carriage and waited in the doorway to make sure that the man stayed onboard. The doors closed and they shuddered away.

  The train took them across London to Finsbury Park, where the man changed again, this time to a southbound Victoria Line train that took him one stop to Highbury and Islington. As they changed again to board an overground train, Drake was intrigued. Although he was going to a lot of trouble to cover his tracks the man appeared to be going through the motions like a sleepwalker, paying no particular attention to his surroundings or whether or not he was being followed.

  By the time they got off at Dalston Junction it was dark and the rain was coming down. People were rushing towards the station entrance with newspapers held over their heads. The man turned left and walked for about ten minutes before producing a set of keys. He unlocked the door of a darkened, glass-fronted shop entrance and disappeared inside.

  Drake crossed the street to put a bit of distance between them. With his phone he took a picture of the shop front. The sign read Nathanson’s Solicitors. A list of services were stencilled down the left-hand side of the window: Immigration/Nationality law, Civil litigation, Family law, Wills, Crime, Welfare benefits, Landlords and Tenants, Housing/Homelessness, Employment law.

  Through the window he watched the man settle himself within an inner office cubicle separated from the front by a glass wall and a door that remained open. The other two desks in the place were empty. There appeared to be nobody else in there.

  Nathanson, if that was the man’s name, stayed in the office for just over an hour. An unmarked car pulled up outside and a moment later the man hurried out and got into the car. Looking up and down the street, Drake could see there was no chance he was going to be able to follow. Instead he made a note of the number plate.

  When he got back to his car in Fulham an hour later, it had acquired a parking ticket. He plugged his phone in to charge and a message popped up from Kelly Marsh.

  ‘Watch the news this evening. Then give me a call.’

  Forty minutes later he was home, clicking through the channels until he found it: a woman’s head had been found on a train. Drake had no idea what connection there could be to him, but he knew Kelly wouldn’t have called to tell him for nothing. And that was an unsettling thought.

  7

  Something about the place had changed. It wasn’t all that long ago that Drake could recall his first conversation with Crane in here. Just around the corner from Raven Hill police station. It used to have another name. Now it was the Coffee Cartel. Some kind of a wry joke on the drug trade. It was that kind of a place. Alternative in a palatable, hipsterish fashion. Men with wild mountain-man beards and chains hanging off their belts who wouldn’t say boo to a cat.

  ‘The latté is excellent,’ declared Milo, who seemed to be coming out of his shell. Both Marsh and Drake looked at him. ‘It’s made with soy milk.’

  ‘Good to hear,’ said Drake, ‘but I’ll stick with a black coffee.’

  ‘Americano?’

  ‘Whatever.’

  ‘So, how’s life on the streets treating you?’ Marsh tilted her head back.

  ‘Yeah, well, you know. Civilian life. It takes a little getting used to.’

  ‘Of course.’ Milo snapped his fingers as if to a tune nobody else could hear. ‘You were long time undercover, right?’

  ‘Right,’ nodded Drake. ‘What am I missing here? The thing on the news, the head?’

  The others exchanged looks. Marsh explained what they had found on the Tube.

  ‘In an IKEA bag?’

  ‘The criminal type is getting more inventive,’ nodded Milo.

  ‘Forensics are still going over it of course, but something seemed to stand out.’

  Marsh fell silent as the waiter returned with their coffee. Drake’s came with a note telling him the coffee beans had come from an independent farming collective somewhere in Kenya. Why go to the trouble of printing out a label like that? Marsh was unfolding a photocopy, which she then placed on the table.

  Drake didn’t need to reach for it. He recognised it almost immediately. He had seen it before, countless times. For a while he had carried it tucked into his wallet. It took him back in an instant, to a much darker period in his life when everything had seemed to come crashing down and the Met had fulfilled every assertion of prejudice levelled at it.

  But it was more than that.

  On a personal level it was an affirmation of his failure to beat the system. For a time he had believed that hard work and dedication would allow him to punch through the ceiling. All he needed was to break one good case and that was to be Goran Malevich. Only Operation Hemlock, as it was known, turned sour. Drake’s prime witness disappeared and Goran was gunned down in a car park in Brighton, leaving Drake with a problem, and a lot of explaining to do.

  The papers went further than that. The headline of the article in front of him summed it all up: ‘Finger of Suspicion Pointed at Rising Star of Met Police. Links to Organised Crime’. Drake didn’t need to read further. He knew the article virtually by heart. Written by a certain Charlie Inwood, it had been the last nail in his coffin. For a time he had contemplated the idea that Inwood was in somebody’s pocket, but he’d drawn a blank on that too.

  ‘Where did you get this?’

  ‘The head was wrapped in it,’ said Marsh. ‘Along with some rags.’

  Drake glanced up. ‘I assume you think this is more than just coincidence.’

  ‘Don’t you?’

  ‘Maybe. Maybe not.’

  ‘Come on, Cal.’ Marsh leaned her elbows on the table. ‘We’re both thinking the same thing, right? A head turns up with a link to your name attached? What I’m asking myself is why. We have very little to go on. No scene of crime. Without a body, not even a cause of death. They’re doing DNA tests now to see if there is a match, but you know how that goes.’

  Drake tapped the article. ‘If you’re right, and this is supposed to mean something, then we already have the body.’

  Milo and Kelly exchanged glances.

  ‘Come again,’ said Marsh.

  ‘Headless torso washed up on the beach in Brighton. Four years ago now.’

  ‘And you know this from looking at the picture?’ Milo was incredulous. ‘How can you be sure?’

  ‘I’m not sure, not a hundred per cent,’ said Drake. ‘But if we assume this is more than coincidence, then it’s got to be her. Zelda.’

  ‘All due respect, chief,’ Milo began. ‘We can’t go back to Superintendent Wheeler and say you recognise her. Her own mother wouldn’t recognise her. She’s been somewhere all this time.’

  ‘Which raises other questions, namely where was she stored and why?’

  ‘Deep freeze probably, is the answer to the first,’ said Marsh. ‘The second question is more to the point. Why would anyone do something like that?’

  ‘Also’ – Milo raised a finger – ‘where were they taking her? I mean, why leave her on the train?’

  ‘Two possibilities occur,’ said Drake. ‘Either someone panicked, or they wanted us to find her.’

  Marsh nodded her agreement. ‘Which brings us back to motive. Why store the head?’ She paused to take a sip of coffee. ‘So, why is someone trying to draw our attention back to your involvement in that case. Zelda was the name of your informant, the one who went missing.’

  ‘Right.’

  Marsh thought for a moment. ‘Archie might already have confirmed that it’s her. She was Eastern European, right?’

  ‘Serbian Roma.’

  ‘One of Archie’s preliminary observations was that the victim had pink teeth.’

  ‘Pink?’ asked Drake.

&
nbsp; ‘Apparently it’s a side effect of a kind of dentistry, a type of filling found in Eastern Europe.’

  ‘Just because she’s Eastern European doesn’t mean it’s her,’ Milo pointed out.

  ‘But it’s beginning to stack up that way,’ said Drake.

  ‘But why?’ asked Milo. ‘Why go to all that trouble? Someone’s idea of a joke?’

  ‘If this is a joke,’ said Marsh, ‘it’s in pretty poor taste.’

  ‘What else does Archie say?’ Drake asked.

  Marsh shrugged. ‘The usual. Too early to say. Wait for the tests.’

  ‘Maybe he has a point. We shouldn’t be jumping to conclusions.’

  Marsh and Milo exchanged looks.

  ‘This is your case,’ said Milo, who was having trouble not adding the word ‘chief’ whenever he addressed Drake. ‘This is what brought you down.’

  ‘Look, I want to put this thing to rest as much as anyone, but I have to be sure.’

  ‘What can you tell us about this body?’ Marsh asked. ‘Was it identified as your informant?’

  Drake’s mind went back to that time.

  ‘The headless body of a woman washed up on the shore in Brunswick Town, just west of Brighton. A DNA match was made later with items found in the room we discovered Zelda had been staying in.’

  ‘Why did they remove her head?’ Milo asked.

  ‘They were sending a message,’ Drake explained. ‘This is what happens to people who talk.’

  ‘Goran Malevich was your target so that would have made him the prime suspect,’ said Kelly. ‘Why wasn’t he charged?’

  Drake shook his head. ‘Not enough evidence. Malevich was careful never to get his hands dirty.’

  ‘But she was your witness.’

  ‘Correct.’ Drake looked at Marsh. ‘Pryce used that to make a case against me. He argued that it was more than incompetence that had got our major witness killed.’

  ‘Implying you were in Goran’s pocket.’

  Drake shrugged. ‘I had been too secretive. I kept her to myself. Nobody else knew where she was.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because I knew there was a leak inside our team. Too many operations had gone wrong.’

  ‘So Pryce turned this into a way of taking you down? Does the man have no scruples?’ Marsh’s voice betrayed her anger. ‘You think he was on the take?’

  ‘If he was I could never prove it. Maybe he was just doing what he thought was right.’

  ‘You don’t believe that, do you?’

  ‘No,’ said Drake. ‘I think there’s more to it than that.’

  Milo cleared his throat, eager to get back into the conversation. ‘If they identified the body, why was the case shut down?’

  ‘You’d have to ask Pryce about that. By then I was suspended from duty and facing an inquiry. Maybe we’ll get the answers now, with the head showing up.’

  ‘Don’t hold your breath,’ said Marsh. ‘Pryce has made it clear that we don’t have the resources to start digging up cold cases.’

  ‘The cuts,’ explained Milo, as if Drake didn’t already know. ‘We’re struggling to cope as it is.’

  Marsh was drawing circles on the table with her index finger.

  ‘What is it, Kelly?’

  ‘Just the fact of this head turning up now, and the newspaper clipping. It almost seems like someone is trying to set you up.’

  ‘Yes,’ sighed Drake. ‘It does look that way, doesn’t it?’

  ‘Any ideas?’

  ‘Take your pick. Malevich is gone, but there are plenty of others still out there from that time.’

  ‘But storing the head like that, for so long. That’s pretty sick.’

  ‘I didn’t make this world, I only live in it.’

  ‘Well, that’s basically the reason I wanted to give you a heads-up.’

  ‘Appreciated. I mean that, both of you.’ Drake nodded at Milo. ‘You could get into trouble for this.’

  ‘It’s the right thing to do, chief,’ said Milo.

  On the way out, Drake handed him a slip of paper. ‘Can I ask you a favour? Could you run that registration through the system?’

  ‘Who is it?’ asked Milo.

  ‘A solicitor by the name of Nathanson. Barnaby Nathanson. His offices are in Kingsland Road. I think it’s an Uber. Can you do that?’

  ‘Sure, I can get into their system and check it. Kingsland Road, you said?’

  ‘Around eight in the evening. I need to know where it took him.’

  ‘Shouldn’t be a problem.’

  ‘Thanks, Milo. I appreciate it.’

  Marsh held the door for him and then blocked his path. ‘You’re not using us for your private sector enterprise, are you?’

  ‘You scratch my back …’

  ‘So you’re going to look into the Zelda case?’

  ‘I’ll do what I can, but, Kelly, not a word of this to anyone, not even Wheeler.’

  ‘You’re not going to turn this into some kind of personal vendetta against Pryce, are you?’

  ‘Wouldn’t dream of it,’ grinned Drake. Then he was past her and out of the door before she had time to reply.

  8

  The flat Howeida Almanara shared with Savannah Reeves was actually just off Drury Lane. Whichever way you cut it, this was a very nice neighbourhood. The building was a neatly faced red-brick structure on a corner. Not old, but not new either. Crane was buzzed in and climbed a wide staircase that appeared to have been recently refurbished. When she reached the second floor the slim woman was waiting in the doorway, her red hair tied back now with a black ribbon.

  ‘There is an elevator, you know,’ she said, as if the idea might never have occurred to Crane.

  ‘I have a tendency towards claustrophobia.’

  ‘Wow, that must really suck.’

  ‘I had a bad experience once.’ Crane turned the conversation back. ‘Nice place.’

  ‘Thank you,’ cooed Savannah.

  The flat was untidy in the way that you might expect from two students with means. Crane surmised that they had a cleaning service which probably came in a couple of times a week to prevent things tipping over the edge into real chaos. Just two rich kids trying their best to look normal.

  Crane allowed herself to be led around. Each of the girls had their own room. Savannah’s bed was covered with fluffy toy animals; bunnies with big ears and so forth.

  ‘The little girl in me that refuses to grow up,’ she laughed.

  Howeida’s room was more austere and tidy. There were clothes in the wardrobe and dresser. A large, hard-shell suitcase big enough to pack a Shetland pony inside stood behind the door. Crane looked around quickly but saw nothing out of place.

  ‘What a great flat.’

  ‘Oh, we love it. We looked at a few others. But once we saw this we had to have it.’

  Crane made appreciative sounds as the young woman led her through to the kitchen, where she made a valiant attempt at producing coffee from the stainless steel machine on the marble counter. Either she was nervous or she had no practical experience of kitchen appliances. Crane guessed she didn’t spend a lot of time making her own coffee.

  ‘Why don’t I?’ she suggested. Savannah’s eyes widened in amazement.

  ‘Oh, would you? I’m terrible with these things. I usually run downstairs to the café.’

  ‘Nothing to it. Why don’t you sit down and tell me about Howeida. How did you meet?’

  ‘Oh, wow!’ Savannah tugged the ribbon off her hair, releasing her long red locks. She settled onto a high stool like a model waiting for a photoshoot to get started. ‘I mean, like I said the other day when your partner was with you, we just hit it off. He’s not working with you today?’

  Crane ran an eye over the coffee machine and went to work. ‘He’s working on another angle.’

  ‘Oh, right. Well, anyway, Howie and I, we just clicked right from the get-go. First day on campus, we just got to talking and we haven’t stopped since.’ She giggled in
a self-conscious way. Crane asked what had brought her to London.

  ‘I’ve just always had a romantic thing for London. Don’t ask me why. I guess I read too many of those old novels as a child.’

  Specifically, Savannah had come to London to do a masters in international development.

  ‘So, what did you and she get up to?’

  ‘Well, I mean, I’m from Virginia, I didn’t know anything about London,’ she gushed. ‘I’d never met anyone like her before. She just knew everything.’

  ‘She had a lot of contacts here? Family? Friends?’

  ‘Her family is just, like, so international? So there are aunts and cousins everywhere. Paris, Copenhagen, all over the States. So there were people coming through all the time.’

  As she went back over their time together, how they had decided to move out of collegiate rooms and find a place to share, the kind of places they went, a picture began to form in Crane’s mind. Two young women, quite different in principle but connected by some kind of common transnational culture of mobility and wealth. They had grown up on opposite sides of the world, but shared the same references. They watched the same television shows and listened to the same music. They probably had more in common with one another than with people living round the corner from them, in Richmond, Virginia, or Kuwait City. London had brought them together.

  ‘Tell me about Marco Foulkes,’ said Crane, setting another frothy cappuccino on the counter.

  ‘Wow, that looks amazing!’ Savannah gushed. ‘How do you do that?’

  ‘I used to work for a living.’

  That produced a blank look. Crane repeated her question about Foulkes.

  ‘Marco. Yeah, I mean, like I said, Howie knows everybody. So she had heard about this guy. I mean, she’d read one of his books or something. So when she found out he was doing a reading she insisted we go. Afterwards she just went up to him and started talking.’ She frowned and tossed her hair back again. ‘I remember he invited us to this party? Really fancy, lots of earls and dukes? Really cool. And that’s it. We were all friends after that. It was clear that she was the one Marco was interested in. But that’s cool. I mean, he’s like a lord or something.’