Chapter 28

“He could have killed me.”

“But he didn’t.”

I was out on the stairwell with Mr Stephen, the skinny man ready to get out his mobile, give the police a call.

Can’t say I blamed him.

But I needed Wickes. His insight into Deborah for one thing.

The big man was holding back. He’d known this was a dead end, I was sure. But he’d wanted me to see the flat. The paintings. The home movie.

Why?

To convince me even further that Deborah was deranged?

Seemed like a lot of effort to go to.

What was his game? What did he want?

Stephen said, “You’re working with the police, aye? On this missing schoolgirl case, the both of you?”

I nodded.

“What’s this flat got to do with anything? My tenant?”

I said, “The girl in the pictures.”

“That’s her? The lass that’s missing?”

I nodded again.

Stephen moved to sit down at the top of the steps. He took a few deep breaths.

I sat down beside him.

Earlier, I’d hoped Wickes was playing the good cop/bad cop routine. Well, here I was with the follow through.

Aye, I was there for Mr Stephen. To understand him. To empathise.

I was his friend.

My associate…he was just a headcase.

But I wanted Stephen to believe Wickes was harmless.

“He’s emotionally involved,” I said. “Knows the girl’s mother.”

“Emotionally involved? Is that a joke?”

I tried for a buddy-buddy smile. Did he relax? Looked that way. His shoulders quit hunching at any rate. “Not really,” I said. “He needed inside the flat. To see for himself.” Was I really making excuses for the man? “We’re close to something, Mr Stephen. And I don’t want to play down the fear you’re feeling, but in the grand scheme of things –”

He turned and looked at me with eyes asking a hard question. “You’re going to help the girl?”

I said, “Yes,” and hoped that as he was looking into my eyes he couldn’t see the doubt in them.

The Association of British Investigators has a code of ethics for all members. I sometimes wonder if that’s why more people don’t join.

One of the principle codes runs:

 

To verify the credentials of clients and that they have lawful and moral reasons to instruct an investigation.

 

In my rush to get on board, I’d taken Wickes on his word. Blinded by the thought that perhaps I would be doing some genuine good.

The nature of the job means that sometimes every investigator skirts the edges of ethical behaviour. The Data Protection Act means that grey areas crop up more frequently than they ever used to, stifling some operators who used to enjoy a more free reign in their practices.

But in my mind, I knew I had stretched one of the tenets of the Association to breaking point. Would it matter that my motivations were justified?

I met Wickes outside the building again. He was leaning against the car, casual and almost cheerful. “Why so glum?”

I could have lamped him.

Scared?

Aye, maybe a little.

I said, “This is a waste of time. We’re out here chasing up dead ends and you know that every hour that passes –”

“I know the rule.” He walked round the car, leaned on the hood. I had to spin to keep an eye on him.

“And what the fuck was all that about in there?”

He shrugged; what was I getting so mad about? “We needed to get inside.”

“Why?”

“There had to be something. A clue or –”

“If we had time to waste,” I said, “Maybe I’d say that was helpful. But you threatened a citizen, broke into a private dwelling and –”

Wickes waved a piece of paper in the air.

“Got us a fucking lead.” He grinned, waggled his eyebrows. Would have been comical, maybe even endearing, if I couldn’t still remember that look in his eyes when he’d pressed Stephen against the wall, threatened to squeeze the life out of the little man. “Found it in the kitchen. Pinned to the board. An address.”

He laughed and started to cross the road to his own car. “The sister,” he said. When he opened the car door, he paused, turned back and reached into his pockets. “Something else as well. You might be more interested in this one.” He threw something in the air. It arced across to me, and I reached out and caught it in the palm of my hand. My fingers closed around the object, and when I opened them, I saw the cross that had been around Mary’s neck on the video.

A vital lead, right enough.

Crucial evidence.

Which now had my fingerprints all over it.

People never tell you the whole truth.

No matter how much they trust you. No matter how much you trust them. When someone tells you a story, there’s always something they miss out. Some little fact. Some detail.

They don’t always mean to do it. It simply happens. Human nature.

We need the advantage. The upper hand. Something kept back. Our ace in the hole.

Wickes had found the slip of paper in the kitchen, pocketed it fast before me or Stephen could notice. Pink paper, crumpled. Spidery handwriting.

An address.

A phone number.

A lead.

Maybe I was underestimating him. Had him all wrong.

One of the things I prided myself on as an investigator was my ability to read people.

Wickes had me all turned around. I couldn’t even guess which way he’d jump next. So I had to wonder if that was really a bad thing, or if I was simply angry at myself for being unable to get into this guy’s head.

For not living up to my own expectations.