BACK IN ITS DAY, THE immense Grade II-listed Victorian building that is Covent Garden’s Apple Store was probably the private residence of a duchess, a marquess, perhaps a surgeon or an artist, or so Archer likes to think. Although still grand and impressive it just feels wrong that it is now a large American tech store. Some would call that progress, she supposes.
The interior is so minimalist it seems unfinished with exposed pale-yellow bricks and immense glass walls that bring the outside in. The shop is a hub of activity with a never-ending stream of Londoners and tourists buying, upgrading or toying with the latest in pricey slimline Apple devices.
The sales staff, dressed in matching maroon polo shirts, are a curious mixture of nerdy hipster boys and pretty young women. In a social context, it might seem that these young men, hanging around with these young women, are punching above their weight. Archer is upstairs at what is called the Genius Bar sitting on a bar stool at a tall table with a young bearded hipster who calls himself ‘the phone whisperer’. He handles her phone like it is a dying kitten and does some weird tech juju with his delicate fingers, but fails to breathe life back into it.
‘Is it broken?’ she asks.
He gives her a half smile and under raised eyebrows shoots her a ‘how you doin’?’ look that lingers too long for comfort. He must be eleven years her junior.
He affects a grave expression. ‘Depends what you mean by broken.’
‘Is that a yes or a no?’
His cheeks flush. ‘Yes . . . erm, it’s knackered and it looks like your sim is missing. Perhaps it fell out when you dropped it?’
Archer is no frame of mind to tell him what actually happened. ‘How much for a replacement?’
‘I can do you a deal on a refurbished phone that is as good as a brand-new model but you’ll need to talk to your network provider about a replacement sim.’
‘So the phone won’t work?’
‘Not until you contact your provider.’
Archer sighs. ‘OK.’
‘I can get you the next model up from this one. It’s a better phone.’
‘Thank you.’
He places her phone gently down on the table top and gives her that look again. ‘Cool. Back in a jiffy.’
The whisperer disappears leaving Archer with her broken phone. Her thoughts turn to Grandad and she feels a pang of worry that he or the hospital might have called her and got no response.
‘Hello again,’ comes a voice.
Archer looks through the throng of customers to see a man with a chiselled jaw, dark wavy hair and an expensive overcoat smiling her way.
Jamie Blackwell.
‘It’s so nice to see you again,’ he says, weaving his way through the horde.
‘How are you?’ she asks.
‘I’m well, thank you.’
‘And you?’
‘Getting my broken phone replaced.’
‘Oh. Sorry to hear that.’
The phone whisperer arrives with a refurbished phone that looks brand new and gives Jamie a dismissive glance.
‘Perhaps we can have a coffee sometime?’ Jamie suggests.
‘That would be nice.’
‘Important question – how do you take your coffee?’
‘I’m more a tea with milk girl.’
‘Tea is sexy.’
Archer smiles. ‘I never knew.’
The whisperer mutters something under his breath.
‘See you soon, Grace.’
‘Bye.’
Jamie turns and disappears into the crowd. Archer feels her mood lightening as she watches him go.
She leaves the busy Genius Bar with her new device, satisfied that she is one step closer to having a working phone. At the exit she sees Jamie under the arches outside, holding two large take-out cups with steam billowing from them.
‘One tea, piping hot,’ he says, handing it across.
‘When you said soon, you really meant it,’ smiles Archer.
‘I thought it best not to waste time.’
Archer takes the tea. ‘Thank you.’
She cradles her hot drink as they casually navigate the tourists and shoppers of Covent Garden market, but something feels wrong. The hairs on her neck rise and she catches a breath. Out of the corner of her eye she sees a figure lurking, watching. She turns her head and through the layers of people sees someone pointing a mobile phone in her direction. Archer shudders. Is he photographing her? The constant flow of people makes it impossible to confirm the man’s appearance.
‘By the way, how is Jake?’ asks Jamie.
Jamie’s question distracts her for the briefest of moments and in that time the person holding the phone, whoever it is, vanishes into the crowd. Archer scans the throng but there is no one looking her way.
‘Grace, are you OK?’
Archer looks at Jamie with a tight smile. ‘Sorry, I thought I saw someone.’
Jamie frowns and looks into the crowd.
‘It’s OK,’ says Archer, ‘perhaps I imagined it. I’m sorry, that was rude of me. You were asking about Grandad. He was sleeping this morning when I called. Doing fine, thankfully. I’m going to see him as soon as I can get some time off work.’
‘Glad to hear it. He’s quite a character.’
‘I really appreciate you helping him out the other day.’
‘My pleasure. Do you hear that?’
Archer listens and hears a violin intro to an operatic aria.
‘I love this aria. Come with me,’ he says beckoning her to follow.
‘I really ought to get back to work.’
‘Just a few moments of your time. You’ll love it. I promise!’
Archer relents and allows Jamie to herd her inside the market and a balcony overlooking the basement where a tall, slender woman in a red woollen overcoat holds her elbows delicately and protectively.
She starts to sing.
Archer doesn’t know much about opera but she does know this woman is a soprano. Her voice is hypnotic and for a brief moment Archer loses herself in the music.
‘“Casta Diva” is a beautiful aria,’ Jamie tells her. ‘Norma the Druid High Priestess has fallen in love with a Roman soldier. The druids will not be happy, apparently.’
‘She’s sleeping with the enemy?’
‘It would seem so.’
Archer finishes the last of the tea, savouring the warm sustenance that spreads through her cold body. ‘I should get back to work.’
‘I’ll walk with you, if you like.’
They stroll down Henrietta Street and cross at Bedford Street.
‘Thank you for the tea,’ says Archer.
‘Perhaps we can go for a drink sometime?’
A date is the last thing on her mind right now. Not only is the case filling her head, but the situation with Dom needs to be resolved. As much as she knows it’s over, she also knows that they will have to properly talk at some point. She had stupidly thought things between them were improving before she’d moved into Grandad’s, but she couldn’t have been more wrong and his betrayal hurts, more so because she didn’t see it coming.
Jamie can see her hesitation. ‘Listen, no pressure. Do you still have my card?’
‘I do.’
Jamie smiles. ‘Then call when you are free.’
*
Back in the office Quinn is holding a rolled-up copy of Mike Hamilton’s grubby tabloid. ‘You might not want to read this,’ he warns.
Archer feels nauseous recalling her confrontation with Hamilton that morning. Has he dragged something up from her past already?
Quinn hands across the paper.
Archer unrolls it and scans the article. It’s an opinion piece on the investigation peppered with veiled hate against the homeless and a caustic judgement on the killer’s so-called artistic bent. Hamilton clearly has a low opinion of her and how the investigation has been conducted so far. This is bad publicity for the Met and will not give the public any comfort. That aside, she is just relieved he hasn’t written anything about her past.
She crumples the rag and tosses it into the wastebasket.
‘You know what struck me the most about that piece?’ observes Quinn.
Archer removes her coat and hangs it on the coat stand.
‘What a piss-poor writer he is?’
Quinn smirks and then frowns. ‘You read my mind. How did you do that?’
‘Grace, Harry,’ calls Klara, ‘you might want to take a look at this.’
They enter her small office, a space that has been transformed into a computer hub festooned with green, yellow, red and black cables that provide power and connectivity on a grand scale.
Klara crouches in the doorway bunching loose wiring with cable ties.
‘Is it safe in there?’ asks Archer.
‘If there was a serious water leak, we might be in trouble. I think we’re OK, though. Harry thinks I’ve created my very own Tardis console.’
‘Although it’s smaller on the inside,’ says Quinn.
‘Can’t have everything, Harry,’ replies Klara.
They squeeze behind Klara’s desk with its three elevated monitors displaying shots from the ANPR system.
‘I’ve been trying to build a story behind these images.’
On the screen are a series of photographs showing a black Range Rover Vogue with Lewis Faulkner’s messy blond mop visible behind the driving seat.
‘These shots show Faulkner in his Range Rover just after 11 p.m., driving through Central London.’
‘That was after his bust-up with Melanie Suskind.’
Klara flicks through the images. ‘You can see in this picture Faulkner has put on a baseball hat.’
‘He doesn’t want to be recognised,’ says Archer. ‘Where is he going?’
‘He ends up in Bethnal Green and disappears. He may have parked somewhere away from the ANPR and CCTV. We don’t get a sighting of him at all after that.’
‘So he could be holed up somewhere there?’ asks Quinn.
‘It’s possible. I’ve gone through the CCTV and don’t see him anywhere. However, his car appears back on ANPR.’
Klara shows a series of pictures with Faulkner’s Ranger Rover. Behind the wheel is a young white man and in the passenger seat is a similar youth. Both are smoking and appear to be having fun.
‘They stole his car,’ says Archer. ‘But where is he?’
‘Maybe they can help us. I was able to trace their whereabouts and get an identification. Kevin Furlong of Bow and John Tighe of Bethnal Green. I’ll forward their addresses.’
‘Great work, Klara.’ Archer turns to Quinn. ‘I hate to do this, but I need to bail for a few hours. Do you mind if I leave you to pick them up? I need to see my grandad.’
‘No worries. I’ll get Phillips and Tozer to help out.’
‘I’ll speak to Pierce and get her authorisation for backup. Let’s bring those two in tonight.’
*
Because of unanticipated administrative problems getting the required police backup at short notice, Archer’s hopes of leaving early were dashed and now she is running late. There are only ten minutes of visiting time left as she rushes across the bright, wide corridors of University College Hospital. As she enters the ward, she sees Grandad is sitting up in bed with his head down, snoozing. She nods a hello at the nurse, a woman with mousey hair tied back in a ponytail.
‘I’m here to see Jake Archer.’
The nurse checks her computer system.
‘Are you his granddaughter?’
‘That’s right, Grace Archer. How has he been?’
‘Generally, he’s been fine, but he seemed to lose it with the delivery man today.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘A hamper arrived for him.’
‘From who?’
‘I don’t know. I assumed a friend or a relative.’
‘What happened?’
‘Jake just seemed to change and he pointed his finger at the delivery man and accused him of being the man who knocked him over on Oxford Street.’
‘Who was this man? Did you get his name?’
‘He was just the delivery man. I’m sure his name is on the delivery receipt. He was quite shocked. Listen, it’s not the first time Jake has done this. Yesterday evening he accused one of our male nurses too.’
Archer feels a twist in her stomach.
‘Don’t worry too much. He’s had a stroke and is also bound to be a little stressed and unsure after his fall.’
Archer sits on the chair by Grandad’s bed and takes his hand, which seems unusually cold considering the ward is so warm. His eyes blink open, they are watery and clouded with confusion. He turns to look at Archer, and after a moment, smiles.
‘Hello, my dear.’
‘Hi, Grandad.’ She leans across and kisses him on the cheek. ‘How’re you feeling?’
‘A little tired but right as rain.’
He pushes himself up into a more comfortable sitting position. It’s then she notices the tabloid under his left arm and her heart sinks. His eyes follow her gaze.
‘Don’t take any notice of that hack,’ he says. ‘I wouldn’t normally read that rubbish but someone gave it to me.’
‘I won’t. I’m sorry you had to see it.’
‘Don’t be. You know this kind of horseshit comes with the job. People use to write mean things about your father, especially with him being mixed race.’
‘That was a different time.’
‘Was it? I don’t think much has changed in fifty years.’
‘I’d like to think that’s not true.’
Grandad smiles and squeezes her hand. ‘Let’s hope so. Did you see my hamper?’ His eyes brighten.
‘Not yet.’
He points to the other side of the bed. ‘It’s down there. Could you get it for me?’
Archer lifts the heavy basket onto the bed and Grandad opens the lid. Inside are two bottles of wine, cheese, crackers, jars of all sorts of spreads and pickles. ‘It’s very nice, isn’t it?’
‘Who sent it to you?’
Grandad blinks and stares blankly across the ward. ‘He was here yesterday. That nice chap. He brought me to the hospital.’
‘Jamie?’
‘That’s him. What a kind and generous man.’
The nurse appears. ‘Hello, Jake, that’s a smashing basket of goodies.’
‘Seems to be missing a bottle opener.’
The nurse laughs. ‘I think that had better wait until you get home. Time to turn in.’
Archer lifts the hamper onto the floor. ‘I’d better go, Grandad.’
She bends over and kisses him on the forehead.
‘By the way, my phone is out of action so you won’t be able to contact me for a day or two. I’ll give you the number of my colleague, Harry Quinn. We’re working together on the case.’
‘Thanks, darlin’. Sounds like you’ve got your work cut out with this killer.’
‘It would seem so.’
He holds her gaze. ‘You can outsmart this guy. You’ve done it before.’
Archer says nothing for a moment. ‘I hope so. Goodnight, Grandad.’