Willets had spent the rest of the day popping in and out of the office, and since he always took his phone with him, he evidently didn’t want his calls to be overheard. Bang on the dot of five he had put on his jacket and slipped out, without the usual banter-strewn farewells to his acolytes. Whatever was bugging him, Flyte was convinced it had something to do with the Canadian account that Bethany Locke’s hush money had been sent from. It was only just 9 a.m. in Vancouver when the bank offices opened so if he was calling them he wanted that conversation kept private, too.
Half an hour later, she and Seb met up in a trendy bar overlooking a piazza behind King’s Cross station, an area that had been transformed from one of the worst parts of London – awash with down-and-outs, prostitutes – male and female – and junkies – into a buzzy leisure hub. Cassie Raven would no doubt bemoan its loss of ‘character’ but Flyte found the spotlessly clean piazza soothing after the ingrained grime and edginess of Camden Town.
She went straight in for the kill. ‘Look, Seb, why did Dean seem to freak out when he read the note in Luke’s book?’
‘Did he?’ Seb frowned into his craft ale. ‘No idea.’
‘Don’t give me that. Once I told you that the note was to do with a public sex offence you spotted something, I could tell.’ Her gaze scoping his face like a laser scanner.
‘Look, it’s probably nothing.’ He looked uncomfortable.
‘Go on.’
‘Show me the note again.’ He pushed his pint aside, and taking her phone, angled it so they could both view the image.
‘AO=NDW,’ he said, looking at her.
A headshake. ‘I don’t get it.’
‘AO could stand for Arresting Officer.’
‘Really? It’s not an abbreviation anyone in the Job would use.’
‘No, but it could’ve been the reporter’s own shorthand.’
‘And the NDW?’
Seb bit his lip. ‘The N could stand for Nigel.’
‘Meaning?’
He blew out a breath. ‘Dean’s first name is actually Nigel. He prefers to use his middle name, not surprisingly. Nigel Dean Willets. NDW.’
‘For fu—’ She managed to stop the rest of the profanity slipping out. ‘Are you saying it was Willets who arrested Sean Kavanagh in Abney Park?’
‘I don’t know! I shouldn’t have said anything. Who’s to say this reporter was right? He sounds like a bit of a nutter.’
‘Does Hackney nick cover Abney Park, i.e. Stoke Newington?’ she asked.
Seeing Seb nod, she cursed her ignorance. Any London-raised Met officer would have known that.
‘You told me that when Willets was a uniform at Hackney he ran a sweepstake to see who could nick the most gay men!’ She felt excitement warming her cheeks. ‘Luke must have found out it was Willets who collared Sean and contacted him. If it was Willets whom he went to meet on the heath . . .’
‘Whoa, Phyllida. Hold on a sec.’ Seb made a shushing motion with his hand, scanning the nearby tables. ‘You’re not seriously accusing a fellow officer of murder.’
She replayed Willets’ handling of the Sean Kavanagh case: how he’d initially dismissed it as just another drunk who’d fallen in the canal, the way he’d focused on the steroids angle to the exclusion of everything else, and how keen he seemed to pin Luke’s death on the Hugger Mugger.
‘If he has nothing to hide then why wouldn’t he mention knowing Sean? He saw his picture enough times.’
‘If he did arrest him – if – it was nine years ago!’ said Seb. ‘He must’ve nicked hundreds of people since then. I’m sure there’s some other explanation.’ But he was looking uncomfortable. Picking up the menu, he said, ‘Shall we order some food?’
Flyte needed to be alone, to process things. Reaching for her bag she said, ‘I’ve got to go.’
‘Aren’t we having dinner?’
She kissed him on the top of the head. ‘Sorry. Maybe tomorrow?’
As she left she heard him say, ‘Phyllida! Don’t do anything stupid.’