Jane didn’t know north London very well so an afternoon run around Islington, and Tufnel Park in particular, sounded like fun. She needed to think about things – personal things, work things – and always seemed to find some clarity if her body was occupied with something mundane like putting one step in front of the other, measuring its breathing and keeping an eye out for traffic.
She wore a light running jacket and trackies, stripping off both and cramming them into her tiny backpack once she’d left the Underground. She hated doing stretches and warm-ups in public, so instead took off at a modest pace, slowly building up over the first half-mile as her muscles warmed and loosened. The sky was murky grey, there was a threat of rain, and the streets around the station were choked with Saturday traffic. Glancing at her phone, which doubled as a pedometer, she headed east, did a couple of circuits of the playing fields and Foxham Gardens then turned south to Carleton Road.
It was curiosity really. She knew Ron Jonson’s address and could have viewed his house and street on the internet, but there was something about seeing it for herself. She slowed as she ran past, glancing at a detached, three-storey place with a large elm tree in the front garden and two off-street car parks on one side. Mid-Victorian, judging by its steeply stepped roof line and the two tall chimneys on the eastern side. There was a light on in one of the inner rooms downstairs. It showed as a small, square beacon in the front window. Jane took a breath and ran on, undecided.
Her map showed the logical way back to the station was to turn up Dalmeny Road. Jane ignored it, crossed over and circled back.
Pausing in the shade of the elm, she pulled the tracksuit bottoms and jacket from her backpack, and shook them out. Both were a bit rumpled, but they looked more respectable than the T-shirt and shorts she’d been running in. Without giving herself time for second thoughts, she marched up to the front door and pressed the bell.
A middle-aged woman appeared wearing a plum-coloured twinset and grey plaid shirt. Her permed hair matched the colour of her skirt and her hawkish, rather inquisitive look that was enhanced by the small, round, wire-framed spectacles she wore. She was angular and tall, and peered down at Jane from the elevated height of the upper step.
‘Mrs Jonson?’ Jane said. ‘I’m a colleague of your husband’s from Bartley’s Bank.’
‘You’re too late,’ the woman said. ‘There’s nothing left.’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Your ... cohorts took it all.’ She made a fluttering gesture with one hand, as if a small bird had just escaped her grasp. ‘They promised to return it by the end of the week. I’m incommunicado here, you know!’
‘I’m sorry, I—’
‘Who did you say you were again?’
‘My name’s Jane Child. I work with your husband. I was in the area and thought I’d pop by and see how he's doing.’
‘Oh.’ The woman’s face softened. ‘I thought you were with that other lot.’
‘Other lot?’
‘That security man. He was round here before Ron’s seat was even cold. Said he wanted anything Ron might have been working on. Papers, diaries, his tablet, private phone and home computer. Part of the routine in cases like this, he said. Ensuring client confidentiality or some such nonsense. They promised to get the computer back to me by the end of the week. Without it I’m incommunicado!’
‘Who was this?’ Jane asked.
‘That man Chatterton. I’ve never really liked him.’ She sniffed. ‘Still, I suppose he has a job to do.’
Ernest Chatterton was head of security at the bank. He also liked leather boots and riding crops from what Jane had seen.
‘And he hasn't returned anything yet?’
‘I thought you might be him. Better late than never. Huh!’ She grunted.
Jane had little regard for her former boss, thought him rather bungling and incompetent, but she had to acknowledge his cunning. Keeping the material he was using against his colleagues on a bank computer right under their noses was a cheeky stroke of genius. She’d seen him carry the laptop into meetings with him. Start it up right under their noses. And when the shit did finally hit the fan, it would be the very last place they would look.
‘How is Mr Jonson?’ Jane asked.
The woman, still preoccupied with her missing computer, blinked, disconcerted by the question. ‘He’s still in the Chaffinch.’
‘Oh,’ Jane said, recognising the name of an upmarket psychiatric hospital popular with the jet set. ‘I was thinking of paying him a visit, but I expect he's under sedation.’
The woman gave a short laugh. ‘Quite the opposite. Whatever the opposite of that is. They’re trying him on some new drug. His tremors have stabilised, but he chatters away nineteen to the dozen. I couldn’t used to get a peep out him sometimes, now he won’t shut up.’
‘Any idea when he’ll return to work?’ Despite herself, Jane felt a mercenary edge beneath her question.
‘Another week at least. There were side-effects with the sedatives and they won’t know the full effect of this new drug until then. Not that they tell you much at the hospital. I’d look the stuff up, but without a computer ...’ She fluttered her hand again.
‘How annoying,’ Jane said. ‘Well, give him my regards when you see him.’
‘Who did you say you were again?’
‘Jane Child. We’ve worked together for the last year or so.’
‘Of course.’ The woman nodded vaguely, but Jane could tell she’d never heard her name before. ‘Thank you, Ms Child. I’ll pass that on.’
Jane didn’t bother taking off the jacket and trackies again, just headed straight for the station. She’d had Ron Jonson’s laptop for four days now which meant Chatterton had had four days to search Jonson’s home computer, phone and laptop. Finding nothing on any of them, he’d next focus on cloud storage accounts like Dropbox, Google Drive, OneDrive and iCloud. Most people had a selection of accounts, even if they weren’t aware of them, as many apps set them up automatically. Chatterton would have to lean on his bank and security connections to get leverage to any password-protected files, but once he was in, once he discovered they too contained innocuous data, his suspicions would eventually swing back to Jonson’s work machine.
*
Chaffinch Grove Psychiatric Hospital occupied a modern block in a back street in Marylebone, a short walk from the Edgeware Road tube station. Its windows were glazed in reflective film that mirrored the street outside, and a simple plaque reading The Chaffinch was the only indication that Jane had the right address. It might have been the entrance to a block of exclusive flats or a gentlemen’s club. A sign in the window of the security booth just inside the entrance said Saturday visiting hours ran till 4:00 pm. Jane checked her watch. She had half an hour to spare.
There was a sign-in register for her details, a check of her backpack, and a call ahead to see if the patient was allowed visitors. Then an inner door buzzed, a bolt clicked, and she stepped through into a pastel-painted reception area where a large floral arrangement failed to mask the familiar undertones of bleach and antiseptic. Jonson’s room was on the second floor. Jane took the stairs, paused for a moment, wondering what she’d do if he had other visitors, then knocked and turned the handle.
The room was small and modestly furnished. White walls, beige carpet and a narrow desk on one side finished in the same overstated wood veneer that clad the wardrobe and the door to the en suite bathroom beyond. The only other furniture was a chair beside the desk, a single, upright armchair with awkwardly high armrests, and a bed somewhere between single- and double-width made up with crisp white sheets and a subtly patterned spread.
Ron Jonson sat in the armchair, his eyes on the TV screen fixed to the opposite wall where some sort of game show was taking place. He’d been yelling at the contestants and swung around guiltily as Jane entered, but his face showed no sign of recognition.
‘Hello, Ron. How are you?’ she said.
‘What?’ He blinked. His left leg twitched.
‘It’s Jane. From work.’
His eyes widened. Recognition dawned. ‘Oh, hello Jane.’ He gave a little laugh. ‘I thought you were nursey come to take me for a bath. You can, if you like.’ He looked her up and down appreciatively. ‘Hop in with me too, eh? Let me squeeze your rubber duckies.’
Whatever they had him on had certainly loosened his tongue. Still, at least he wasn’t zonked out.
Jane closed the door behind her, uncertain how to begin. ‘Nice room,’ she remarked.
‘Is it?’ Jonson blinked and looked around. ‘Hadn’t paid it much attention. Some of the nurses here are all right though. That Sara, the coloured one. Great hips. Shapely. Always liked a shapely woman. Big tits too. Something to get hold of. Not that yours are too bad. There’s something there. What are you, a 34? Ever thought of implants? With implants you be a Page 3 girl. You could have half the Board in your bed. Ha, ha, sleep your way to the top, eh? Do you want to suck my cock?’
Apart from the wandering hand incident when Jane first started, Jonson had always been prim, formal and somewhat remote with her. As his wife had said, this was the opposite. Perhaps she could use the new drug he was on to her advantage.
Jonson eyes were back on the television. Whatever came out his mouth one moment seemed to be gone the next.
‘I wanted a word with you about your work computer,’ she said.
‘Oh yes?’ He spoke brightly and with casual indifference. ‘Work, now there’s a laugh. Go in, get paid, come home. Hah, hah, hah!’
‘I know about the hidden partition,’ she said casually. ‘And what’s on it.’
‘The what?’ He looked at her blankly.
‘Becky. Remember Becky? And Charleen and Dolly and all the rest?’
‘Becky ... Becky ... Oh yes ... Oh Christ, now you’re going too far!’ He rubbed his eyes. ‘I said to Monty, you know I like a larger woman, but there are limits, old man. He laughed at that. He doesn’t laugh at much, but he laughed at that. Still, she was a hard one to find. Had scouts out all over. But we did it. Kept our promise. Toady was very grateful.’
‘Toady?’ Jane said.
‘They call him The Toad behind his back, you know. I’ve heard them, Toady Hargreaves. Like Mr Toad in his motorcar. Toot-toot, get out of my way. Hah!’
‘Harold Hargreaves from Operations?’
‘A fantasy feeder, Monty reckons. That’s what they call those chaps who keep their women like that; feeders. A form of imprisonment, really. Legal though. Can’t keep them chained up, but it’s OK if they’re too fat to move. Cost a bomb too, that little escapade. Five grand her shit of a feeder wanted. Five grand! Still, as I said to Monty, it would probably only keep her in crisps for a week.’
‘I ... expect it was a good investment though,’ Jane said.
‘What?’ He looked at her blankly.
‘I expect you’ve made more than your five thousand back by now.’
Jonson frowned. ‘No, no, no, it doesn’t work like that. Silly girl. As if!’
‘How does it work then?’
Jonson was distracted by the television where a contestant was being tearfully led from the set. ‘I knew it. Silly cow. You’re lucky to have got as far as you did with tits like that.’
‘The photographs,’ Jane persisted. ‘On your computer. What are they for then?’
‘What? The reminders, you mean? They’re just reminders, that’s all.’ He seemed annoyed at being distracted. A new contestant was coming on. A buxom blonde showing a bit of cleavage. ‘That’s more like it! With knockers like that you’ll knock those other buggers for six!’
‘Reminders of what, Ron?’
An ad break started and he shook himself like someone waking from a daydream. Jane repeated her question.
‘Oh, Monty reminds me about the reminders. Every June. Put the thing in the wotsit, start the old PC up, pick a pic from each file and print it off. I pop them in their gym lockers, you know. Slip them in a desk drawer, even ...’ he snorted, ‘... tuck them in inter-office memo envelopes marked Personal and Confidential.’
‘Do they know where these reminders come from?’
‘Of course, of course. That’s the whole point. They all know what it’s about. The thing is though, they don’t know about each other!’ He laughed uproariously for a moment then switched his attention back to the television where the ad break was coming to a close.
‘Who’s Monty?’ Jane asked, mentally working through all the management staff at the bank but coming up blank.
‘Hmmm?’
The host was welcoming the viewers back.
‘Monty,’ Jane repeated.
Jonson’s head snapped round and his eyebrows shot up. ‘Is he here? Show him in! Show him in!’
‘No, no, I was asking who he was.’
‘Was? Was?’ Jonson’s expression suddenly darkened as his mind seized on the word. He pressed his hands into the arm rests and half-raised himself, his left leg twitching violently. ‘What happened? What’s happened to him? Tell me. Tell me, for Christ’s sake! Monty ... Not Monty ...’
‘No, no, it’s all right. He’s fine. He’s fine.’ Jane held her hands out in a calming gesture. ‘Sorry, I meant is. Who is Monty?’
‘Is he coming? Is he coming to see me again? He said he would.’
‘Yes, yes,’ Jane assured him. ‘Later.’
‘Really?’ Jonson stared at her. Jane gave an exaggerated nod and his breathing slowed. His arms relaxed letting and he sank back into the chair. The twitching in his left leg eased. ‘Promise?’
‘Promise.’ Jane gave him a reassuring smile and Jonson sighed. ‘I just wondered how you knew him. Monty, I mean.’
The man’s anxiety vanished as suddenly as it had appeared and he laughed out loud again. ‘How could I not know my own brother? Besides, everyone knows Monty!’
*
Not quite everyone, Jane thought as she headed back downstairs. Who the devil was Monty Jonson? And why would he have his brother print out a random picture each June to deliver to fellow senior bank staff?
She stopped at the security booth and the guard slid the register across to her so she could sign herself out. His attention was split between her and the bank of monitors on his desk. Jane held the pen at an acute angle so it dented the paper and made a few sputtering marks.
‘This pen’s dead,’ she said.
The guard glanced at the register. ‘Sorry, love. I’ll find you another.’
As he rummaged through a drawer, Jane flicked back a page and ran her finger down the Visitor’s Name column. There he was, Thursday night. But not Monty, Montgomery. And not Jonson, but Johns.
‘Jesus!’ she whispered to herself, flipping the page back a millisecond before the guard presented her with a new pen.
She gave him a fake smile and signed out quickly, hoping he wouldn’t notice the sudden nervous shake her hand had acquired. Out on the pavement, in the still grey air, she took a breath and listened to the eternal undertone of traffic. A bird chirped in a tree nearby. London and life were going on around her.
Tube or run? Run, definitely. She needed to think, and think very carefully because Montgomery Johns was quite possibly the biggest and most notorious unconvicted criminal in the country.