Caitlin shrugged, unmoved by his anger and the accusation he spat across the table. ‘Holly wanted to die. What’s the problem?’
Now that the nursery’s final coat of paint was on Zigic had to admit the pink
was
rather strong. More Pepto-Bismol than sugared almond, but he blamed it on the afternoon sun streaming in, a blazing autumn sunset which lit the walls and burnished the coppery tops of the beech trees he could see through the window as he sat on the newly laid carpet, inhaling the faint fumes coming off it. Or maybe it was what the fitters used to stick it down.
This whole DIY, building, fitting, handyman thing was beyond him.
There were services you could call, men in white vans and tool belts who came around and whistled between their teeth as they looked at your botched efforts and discreetly assayed the contents of the house, deciding how much they could charge. He would have happily turned over a week’s pay to escape the boxes of flat pack and the challenge they presented, outdated concepts of machismo and threats to his manual prowess be damned.
Anna would never let him hear the end of it, though. She’d joke about how her clever detective husband who spent his days taking apart murders and putting them back together had been defeated by the instructions for a cot.
She’d been subtly pushing him towards the job for weeks, accepting his excuses with an ever-decreasing amount of grace. He couldn’t tell her why he didn’t want to do it – the real reason, not this boring frustration with nuts and bolts. The truth was that he didn’t want to be here, among things for the baby, while the thought of Julia Campbell’s daughter still guilted him.
It felt wrong even considering the preparations for the arrival of his little girl while hers was in an incubator at City Hospital, twelve weeks premature and fighting against the injuries her impossibly small and vulnerable body had sustained when Julia’s belly struck the kitchen table. She went into labour in the ambulance as it whisked her away from her house, delivered the baby shortly after arriving at the hospital, and nobody expected her to survive.
Zigic had called at regular intervals for updates, ostensibly in an official capacity; the officer in charge of her assault was CID but nobody on the special-care ward questioned his interest and they informed him of each incremental improvement as the days and weeks passed, the setbacks and recoveries, told him Julia was there every day, waiting and praying from a chair next to the incubator, suggested he stop by and see her.
He couldn’t bring himself to go and intrude on her vigil, but the longer it went on the more the nurses pushed and when he mentioned it to Anna she told him to go, his feelings weren’t the important ones, he should go and show support.
Yesterday he went. Took flowers a nurse relieved him of as he entered the ward, explaining that it was unwise to have them in the room, a teddy bear with a pink bow around its neck and a tin of apple cinnamon muffins Anna had baked.
Julia was dozing in the chair when he walked in and for a second he considered backing away, sure she wouldn’t want to be reminded of the violence which had placed her baby in that plastic box, but she heard him put the tin down and opened her eyes. He didn’t expect a warm reception, didn’t think he deserved one. But she was too tired for rage or recriminations, stood up and stretched, then asked what he’d brought her.
She’d lost weight in her face, looked gaunt and unkempt, and he wondered how often she was going home, if she was managing to eat anything more substantial than whatever she was buying from the hospital cafeteria. In her situation he wouldn’t want to leave, not for more than a few minutes at a time.
Their conversation was stilted; he asked how the baby was and heaved a silent sigh of relief when she told him Esme – one of the names Anna was considering too – would hopefully be going home in a couple of weeks. When he enquired after Matthew she told Zigic he would be there be later, had just gone home for a few hours’ sleep. He couldn’t help but wonder if Matthew’s resentment towards the baby, his annoyance at how it would change his life, had been forgotten in the stress and upset, hoped the man saw what a gift he’d been given in this little girl.
He had no intention of mentioning Caitlin but Julia wanted to know what had happened.
Zigic explained it all in a quiet voice, kept it as simple and bland as he could. He told her why she’d killed Dawn and how she’d been in court this week, pleaded guilty with the minimum of fuss. She would go to prison, likely be given a life sentence, and that seemed to satisfy Julia.
Nathan was where her real interest lay, though.
Those questions he couldn’t answer and he was surprised that Rachel Baxter hadn’t done Julia the courtesy of calling. Like her, he’d tried to make contact, and got an automated message telling him Rachel’s mobile number was no longer in service. He could have tried to track her down at whatever station she was serving out of, took a big breath and approached her boss, ACC Fallon, but he wanted done with the whole sorry business and decided to let it lie.
Julia wasn’t quite so resigned. She’d lost one foster child to prison, she didn’t want to lose Nathan too.
As he left Zigic promised her he’d try to find out how the boy was doing now.
In the car park he made some calls, got a number for Fallon and tapped it in before he could think better of it. Saturday morning, he didn’t expect an answer and was predictably put straight through to voicemail. He left an apologetic message, hated the wheedling sound of his voice and quickly deleted it. Tried again. Asked for an update on Nathan, explained that his foster mother was unwell and it would be beneficial to her recovery to know how he was faring.
It would be Monday at the earliest he’d hear back. If Fallon bothered at all. Big man like that, political beast, Zigic could see him ignoring it.
People like Rachel and Fallon made him question if he was cut out for policing. Could he have made the decisions they had? he wondered, as he tried to sort the parts of the cot into some sensible order, leaned the bars against the wall, put the screws and dowels into piles; the pieces of the main frame all in front of him now and he could see how they should fit together at least.
Not bad, it had only taken him half an hour.
He looked over the instructions, an exploded diagram that was somehow sinister; he didn’t want to think of a cot exploding. He took a mouthful of beer from the bottle of Peroni Anna had brought up, still cold but almost empty; he knew he shouldn’t have another when there was machinery to operate, a wasp-coloured electric drill his father-in-law had bought him last Christmas for some reason known only to himself.
How tough could this be? People put cots together every day.
He’d put together the first one they bought, the one Milan and then Stefan slept in, but he’d blotted out the memory of constructing it. Too many beers that time, perhaps, or maybe it was such a total nightmare his brain had insulated him against it.
The music coming out of the dock on the windowsill paused as his phone rang and he climbed to his feet to answer it, an unfamiliar mobile number on the screen.
‘Zigic.’
‘It’s Rachel. You shouldn’t be hassling Fallon.’
A Sunday afternoon and still she managed to sound as if the entire world was lined up against her. Was she calling from home, her kids in another room, partner crashed out on the sofa watching the football?
‘I’m just trying to find out what’s happened to Nathan,’ he said. ‘Julia’s got enough problems right now without having to worry about him too.’
‘Caitlin, yeah? I saw that.’ A sliding door opened at her end, then there was lawnmower noise. ‘You never did thank me for her file.’
‘Thank you.’
‘Least I could do,’ she said. ‘Hit Julia pretty hard, I take it?’
Her turn of phrase made him wince. He explained what had happened and Rachel swore vehemently. Hastily she covered the microphone and he half-heard her apologising to someone at the other end, using an altogether sweeter voice.
‘So it would be nice to give her some good news about Nathan,’ he said, when he had her full attention again.
‘He was very brave,’ Rachel said. ‘Make sure you tell her that.’
Zigic groaned. ‘They got to him?’
‘No, no, he’s fine. He’s back with his nan now – he’s doing good, all things considered.’
‘Did he give evidence?’
‘Yeah, last week. Stellar performance, even from behind a screen. I could see the jury turning one by one, it was perfect. Ninety-minute deliberation and bang, guilty verdict.’
Zigic snatched up his beer from the floor. ‘Big pat on the back for you then.’
‘Don’t come the sanctimony with me,’ she snapped. ‘His mother deserved justice and she got it.’
‘And you got your conviction and your informer-in-waiting right where you want him.’
‘It’s what I do,’ she said.
‘Meanwhile Nathan’s back at his nan’s house, waiting for the reprisals to start. Totally unprotected.’
‘There won’t be any reprisals.’
‘You wouldn’t care if there were.’
‘You don’t fucking know me.’ Lowered voice now, harder tone. ‘Someone has to make the tough decisions.’
‘Leaving people like Nathan to live with the consequences.’
‘What do you suggest?’ she asked.
‘Witness protection.’
‘Wow, I hadn’t thought of that.’ She swore again. ‘We offered, okay? In fact we strongly advised it, but his nan won’t move. She’s lived on the estate all her life and she won’t be forced out of her home. Frankly I think she’s being stupid and selfish but she’s his legal guardian.’
Rachel sounded genuinely frustrated but he wasn’t sure he believed her.
‘What about Nathan, what does he want?’
She sighed. ‘He’s not going to leave her and go to some strange family, Dushan. She’s all he’s got now.’
There was nothing more to say, so he thanked her and ended the call, slotted the phone back onto the dock and let the music wash over him for a few seconds, draining the rest of his beer. He thought of Nathan growing up on some dangerous and dismal housing estate, all unlit alleyways and busted CCTV cameras, the kind of place it was easy to kill someone and get away with it, where witnesses knew better than to come forward. Especially if you’d given evidence against a high-ranking member of a local crime family.
Nathan didn’t stand a chance.
He took his phone up again.
Get it over and done with. Waiting wouldn’t make it any easier.
Julia answered on the third ring.
‘Have you got news? Is he okay?’
‘Yes, he’s fine. I’ve just spoken to Rachel. She said to tell you he’s been really brave. In court, he gave evidence. It’s over now.’
‘Oh, thank God,’ she said, and he could hear the smile in her voice as it brightened with relief. ‘Where is he? Will I be able to visit him? Or maybe he’d like to come down here for a few days. I’d love for him to meet Esme, he was so excited about her.’
Zigic closed his eyes. ‘I don’t think that’ll be possible. Sorry. Rachel’s arranged for him and his grandmother to go into witness protection, she’s sorting out new identities for them, a new home. After he gave evidence it was really the only way to keep them both safe.’
‘Oh.’
‘You understand, don’t you? It had to be done.’
‘Yes, I see. I knew it was a possibility,’ she said. ‘At least he’s safe. That’s all that matters.’
They said their goodbyes and he hoped that she believed him enough to put the fear and stress aside and concentrate on her own child now.
Through the nursery window he could see Milan and Stefan running around in the garden, chasing through the bedding Anna had hung out to dry in the last of the afternoon sun, shouting and laughing as they slipped in and out of the sheets, trying to make each other jump. Stefan crept along to the end of the line, stealthy as a cat, and came up inside a white duvet cover, believing he was hidden with just his legs sticking out. Milan shook his head at the childish naivety and Zigic couldn’t help but smile.
Anna appeared at the door.
‘I’m going to have to call Dad to do this, aren’t I?’
Zigic gave her a wounded look. ‘That is low. Really.’
‘Aw, he’d love to come and help you.’ She grinned, an evil twinkle in her eye. ‘Share some male-bonding time.’
‘I’ll do it. Even if I have to stay up all night and call in sick tomorrow. This cot is getting built.’
‘Do you want me to assist?’
‘Definitely.’
Huge thanks, as always, to my marvellous editor Alison Hennessey for her patience, guidance and unwavering positivity. Thanks also to the whole team at Harvill Secker and Vintage who have tirelessly worked to bring my books onto the shelves and into the hands of readers. Áine, Bethan, Vicki, Maria – you ladies are the best! Special mention as well to Fiona Murphy for her expert shepherding into the author-life.
Thanks to my agent, Stan, for doing all that stuff that agents do and writers try not to think about.
The crime-writing scene contains some of the warmest, loveliest people you could ever hope to meet and has been a huge source of support and advice throughout the writing of this, and earlier, books, as well as being fabulous company anywhere you’ll find a bar. Particular thanks this time around to Col Bury, K.A. Richardson and Emma Kavanagh, who saved me from some potentially embarrassing procedural slip ups. Any mistakes made are, of course, my own. And to Luca Veste and Nick Quantrill for always talking sense.
Thanks also to all the reviewers and bloggers who have supported the series as it’s grown and to the festival organisers who have let me loose on their stages. Far too many to mention by name but gushing appreciation especially to Crime Fiction Lover, Crime Squad and the team at Dead Good Books, as well as the lovely folks at Bloody Scotland and Newcastle Noir. Writing can be a hard graft and you provide much needed spots of brightness.
Finally, eternal gratitude to my family for going above and beyond the call of duty. Boozy lunches, NSFW inspirational posters, emergency cake, non-emergency cake, some genius suggestions and more than a few outlandish ones; they do it all. I love you guys.