Compromised Read online

  COMPROMISED

  GILL MATHER

  All rights reserved

  © Gill Mather 2016 The right of Gill Mather to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with Section 77 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988

  This book is a work of fiction and except in the case of historical fact and actual place names, any resemblance to actual persons living or dead or to locations or places mentioned in the book is purely coincidental

  CONTENTS

  About the book, About the author

  Part 1 Hubris

  Part 2 Anything For You

  Part 3 The Goths Are Coming

  Part 4 When Constabulary Duty’s To Be Done

  Part 5 Hell Hath No Fury

  COMPROMISED

  A NOIR CRIME serial or novella in five parts, Compromised follows Guy Attwood a solicitor who formerly practised as a criminal lawyer in a Hertfordshire town. He gave it up when his marriage broke down and his wife Liz left him for a very rich man, Desmond, taking their daughter and son with her. Guy moved to Lincoln and became a university lecturer. His daughter Andrea and son Boris are now aged respectively 26 and 24.

  On a visit to his old home town to see Andrea and Boris, Guy meets a woman Roz Benedict on whom he had a major crush years ago when he was a criminal solicitor and she was a uniformed PC. They become involved, but Roz finds that Guy, on the whole an easy-going person, is cagey and unforthcoming about his past in certain areas.

  Over Guy’s and Roz’s growing intimacy, the recent murder of a Romanian girl hovers uncomfortably. Guy and Roz struggle to maintain their relationship as the difficulties accumulate and facts emerge, overwhelming one of them in particular.

  THE AUTHOR Gill (Gillian) Mather has published five novels on Kindle under the pen name of Julie Langham, the first four being a series of novels set in Colchester around the same fictional law firm and featuring the same main characters over a number of years. A sixth novel is currently being touted to agents and publishers.

  Gill has been a solicitor for several decades and runs a small practice from her home in Langham, near Colchester. She is a member of writers' group Write Now! which meets fortnightly near Bury St Edmunds, and also a member of the Dedham Players.

  A sequel to Compromised is under consideration. Any feedback may be emailed to [email protected]

  Gillian Mather - March 2016

  Part 1 Hubris

  IDRIS WALKED NERVOUSLY up the stairs, peering around. There was no sound in the building and nothing was audible from outside either. The motion-activated lights on each landing kept going out too soon and he was plunged into darkness. The ground and first floor flats were probably empty at this time, both lots of occupiers having evening jobs.

  He’d found the back door of the converted house open and he’d seen from the street that the lights were on in the second floor skylight windows of the cramped studio flat in the roof space, which was unusual. Now at the second floor landing, he saw that the door of the studio flat was open too. He jumped when the landing light went off but his way was now lit from within the flat and he felt it was his duty to investigate.

  He pushed the door further open and went in. He looked around the sitting room and in the alcove where the bed was. The girl wasn't in the bed and the bed was still made. She wasn't in the minuscule kitchen either which was open to the main living area. He went to the bathroom at the back. The shower curtain was drawn across the bath. In films and dramas, there was always a dead body when you pulled back the shower curtain. Idris drew the curtain and looked down at the dead body of Ileana Bratianu.

  IDRIS WAS WAITING in the small room as he had been for some time. There was a lot of muffled unclear conversation and noise going on down the corridor. He wished now that he’d gone straight home after a mid-week evening on the lash at a bar with his mates down near the canal, and hadn't gone up to the girl’s flat. It was the first warm night this year and they’d been able to exit the crush inside the pub and collar one of the few free tables overlooking the canal. Boris, his best mate, was typically late and Idris had to text him repeatedly before he turned up.

  Suddenly the door opened wider.

  “Right. You’re off the investigation,” said the DI coming in and sitting down..

  “What? You’re kidding,” said Idris.

  “Of course you are. You found the body. And you were off duty. No way are you going anywhere near it from now on.”

  “Yes but….”

  “Who were you with earlier on before going home and stopping off at Ileana’s place on the way?”

  Idris listed the names of his friends.

  “Look. Tell me again. Why, if you thought something was odd, you didn't call it in so that another officer, one actually on duty, might have gone round there?”

  “Well, you know, I felt sorry for her. No friends or family apparently, a foreigner in this country, stuck up in that little bedsit. I was always walking past on the way to and from the bars along the canal. I just thought if she needed help….you know.”

  “She was a pretty girl. Did you fancy her?”

  Idris looked surprised. Surprised apparently that a woman in her fifties would raise such a matter with him, a young male officer. He smiled in an embarrassed fashion.

  “Dunno,” he said looking down at his lap.

  “Idris. You’re a police officer. Don't play the ignorant clod with me. You know the score. This is a murder investigation. Nothing is out of bounds. Nothing OK. So. Did you fancy her?”

  “I suppose so. But she was….you know.”

  “No I don't know. You tell me.”

  “She was….I suppose….a bit odd. There was something up with her anyway. Yeah she was pretty, and if I’d met her in a club or something, then yeah, I’d’ve fancied her. But these people that report threats and then there’s no evidence, well you have to wonder about them. And she was so cagey about everything. I still don't see why I can't work on the case though.”

  “Out of the question.”

  “But….”

  “You bloody know why. The place’ll be crawling with your DNA for a start.”

  “Well if it wasn't, that’d be even more odd, wouldn't it?” Idris asked. “I mean I didn't go up there actually expecting to find anything. I just thought I’d better, just in case.”

  “Quite possibly. But anyway she’s dead. The poor girl is dead. Just twenty four, she’d only recently come to this country to work and this happens to her. There’s obviously going to be pressure from her country of origin to solve this. We’ve got to do our best to find the killer and not cloud the whole thing by letting you back on the case; not provide any opportunity for some clever dick defence counsel to claim any tampering with the scene or the evidence by an off-duty officer who made no attempt not to contaminate it with his own fingerprints, etc.”

  Idris looked glum. “If I’d been there a bit earlier, I might have saved her. Then I’d have been a hero not a hindrance.”

  “Quite possibly,” the DI said again. “But the fact is you didn't save her. Look, it’s late. You must be tired. I know I am. And you’d been drinking. Go home and in the morning you’ll see it’s the only way.”

  “OK.” Idris yawned and got up. It was nearly two am. His little terraced house a few streets away from the canal that he’d recently bought beckoned and he was due back in at nine. He’d better take that advice at least.

  EMOTIONS. SO DIFFICULT to pin down, to define, to put into words. Even to find some reasonable explanation for. The physical manifestations were simpler to understand. They were there whether you liked it or not. The thumping heart, the pounding of the blood pulsing and hammering at the ear-drums, the slight shake to the hands, the sei
zing up of the facial muscles rendering even a weak smile impossible.

  The cause of all this turmoil was standing some yards away with another younger woman peering down at some tawdry objects on one of the stalls. For heaven’s sake after two failed marriages and at his age, such things shouldn't affect him. Guy Attwood took a clumsy swig of his warm beer and narrowly missed spilling a quantity of it over his shirt front. He carried on regarding the woman. Were people really able to sense that they were being stared at? It sometimes seemed so. Suddenly, as if being controlled by an unseen puppet master, she turned her head and was looking directly at Guy and he was powerless to break the eye contact.

  He was saved by his daughter, a young teacher at the mid-Hertfordshire primary school where the fête was being held this early summer weekend. She was suddenly next to him, asking him if he wanted to go and sit down with her for five minutes in the beer tent while she took a breather. Guy wondered if it would be rude just to march off and not go and at least say hello to the woman. Should he? But he couldn't actually even remember her name and….

  “Come on dad,” said Andrea already walking off therefore he had no choice but to follow.

  Guy bought his daughter an orange juice and a filled roll for both of them. He looked around.

  “Your mother’s not here is she?”

  “Don't worry dad,” Andrea laughed, “she’s had to go to some event or other with Desmond.”

  Demon Desmond thought Guy. The man who had nicked his first wife and split up his family. Desmond, so successful in his various business enterprises, so much more able to provide for Guy’s wife and children. Affluenza seemed to have spread through his life like a ruddy virus.

  His daughter continued: “They were driven off this morning by Paul of course.”

  “Oh, Paul. Does he still dote on her? You know, moon at her like a love-sick labrador?”

  “Well. Love-sick pit bull more like.”

  “I can't think why they need a driver at all. Can't they drive themselves? They’re not disabled are they.”

  “Dad. You don't realise. Mum is a woman of substance these days, with her charitable foundation, her public appearances and so on. She needs the driving time to….get her paperwork in order, powder her nose. That sort of thing.”

  Guy shook his head.

  “She’s even got a Wikipedia entry,” said Andrea.

  “Wow. I wonder who put that up!”

  “Well he might have.” They were both talking about Desmond.

  “For hubris, that takes some beating.”

  “You’re in it.”

  “What? What did I do to deserve that? I’ll have to alter it immediately.”

  “Well you were married to her once. And you’re a senior lecturer at a good university. You’re obviously worthy of some mention. You might even have your own entry.”

  “I very much doubt it.”

  “You’ve written a few books.”

  “Yes. With a readership in the hundreds. On a very obscure subject most people haven't even heard of.”

  “All the same. One of your, dare I say it, doting students may have created an entry. You should google yourself.”

  “That seems a bit sick to me. A bit sad.”

  “But anyway, mum’s foundation raises millions. It’s a very good cause.”

  “Remind me what it is again.”

  “Deprived inner-city children. Befriending them, providing sports coaching, other recreational facilities, housing where necessary, education, counselling them towards coming out of these awful gangs they feel are their only option. Ultimately enabling them to have proper lives.”

  “Yes. Of course it’s very….valuable. Very creditable.” And I wonder how far she’d get without Desmond’s billions, Guy thought. “So what else are you up to today?”

  “Boris might come along later.”

  “Oh good. It’s months since I’ve heard from him. He’s OK presumably.”

  “More than.” And they chatted on about family things, her recent engagement, Boris’s various girlfriends and escapades that Guy knew nothing about.

  “You should come and visit more often,” said Andrea.

  “You’re right. But you know. There’s nowhere to stay usually except some grotty chain hotel and….I don't know.”

  Andrea still lived with her mother and Desmond in some style, and Boris shared haphazard living accommodation with a number of other young men. Though it had been offered, Guy drew the line at a “guest suite” in Desmond’s wretched mansion.

  From the relative cool of the tent, Guy cast about among the crowd outside in the sunshine.

  “Andrea. Who’s that woman over there? Eating an ice-cream.”

  Andrea looked. “Dunno,” she said. “Looks like she’s here with a parent.”

  “Do you know the parent?”

  “Of course. I know all the parents. Why? Do you know the woman?”

  “Well, yes a bit….but no not really. Erm….”

  Andrea regarded her father with a half smile. His second marriage had ended in divorce a year ago and as far as she knew, he wasn't dating. She had noticed him gazing at the woman when she went to purloin him for a quick chat. And the woman staring back. She shook her head. It would do no harm.

  “Come on, I’ll take you over there. The parent is Janice Weeks and her son’s in the choir. They’re due to sing soon. You like choral music don't you?”

  AS GUY WAS being reintroduced to the woman at the school fête while trying to still the hammering of his heart and convey an appropriate level of interest in her without appearing to be creepily infatuated with her, his son Boris was once again at a canal-side bar with his friend Idris. They were both nursing massive hangovers, the process being helped along by a few hairs of the dog, and they were disjointedly discussing what to do tonight.

  “You should throw a party,” said Idris.

  “What at our place? No chance. Have you seen the state of it lately?”

  “No-one cares about that. Anyway, it’d just get messed up and have to be cleared up again.”

  “Why don't you throw one then?”

  “Get stuffed! I own my house. You should buy something. It’s nuts paying rent. Your dad’s loaded. Why don't you get him to buy you a nice little pad.”

  “He’s not my father, thanks.”

  “We could go to that new club that’s just opened.”

  “I s’pose. Yeah might be good. Isn't it a girls’ free-entry night tonight?”

  “What? On a Saturday?”

  “Is it Women’s Something-Or-Other Day today?” said Boris.

  “Could be some sort of empowerment thing. Feminism. You know.”

  “Oh. Give that a miss then perhaps.”

  “It’s Potato Face’s birthday party tonight isn't it? We could crash that.”

  “You know his parents always hover about. Still not surprising I s’pose after what happened at the last one. Anyway, how’s that case going? You know. The Romanian girl you found?”

  “You know I’m off it.” Idris sipped his lager.

  “Yeah but you must hear stuff.”

  “Just bits and pieces.”

  “Such as?”

  “Not much. Bloke’s DNA was found at her flat. We didn't know she had any boyfriend or anything when she was alive. That’s it really. It seems likely that whoever bumped her off got disturbed.”

  “Why do you think that then?”

  “I don't think anything. I’m not allowed to think anything. It’s just what’s going around. Why d’you want to know anyway?”

  “I’m interested. It’s been in the newspapers.”

  “What about your real dad?”

  “What about him?”

  “Helping you out to buy a house.”

  “Haven't seen much of him lately. You didn't say why they think the person was disturbed.”

  “I told you before. The lights were on. That’s why I went up there. And the doors were open. Like someone had to
get away quickly without the time to shut the place up properly. What about your real dad? Couldn't he give you some cash to get a place of your own?”

  “He’s not that flush I don't think. Certainly not enough to buy a house around here. Outer Mongolia maybe. He’s staying here this weekend.”

  “You’ve heard of a mortgage presumably. Why not ask him for a deposit?”

  “Couldn't. He’s only just got divorced.”

  “You seeing him?”

  “Might. Tomorrow maybe. Duty meeting. And I’ll get bought lunch.”

  “So what shall we do tonight then?”

  GUY AWOKE SUDDENLY. His room was on the ground floor and some sort of noise from the hotel car park had disturbed him. A car door slamming maybe? He wasn't sure. He gently pulled his iPhone from the bedside table conscious of, in fact in truth in complete awe of, the sleeping form beside him. Checking the time, it was only four thirty in the morning. Though by this hour the sun would be up, very little light permeated the thick hotel curtains.

  In the darkness, the figure beside him stirred and grumbled. Guy’s stomach rumbled but he smiled to himself, still marvelling at the turn of events. He pulled the woman to him and in her sleep she wound her legs around him. Seldom did one feel so contented and relaxed and Guy drifted off to sleep again.

  BREAKFAST WAS a different matter however. Somehow or other, in between making love once they’d both woken up three hours later and sitting down in the restaurant looking at the menu (eggs this, eggs that), a certain stiffness had overtaken them. His companion hadn't really wanted to have breakfast. She was all for leaving and going home once she’d got dressed but she’d obviously noted his hurt expression and relented. It hadn't helped that he’d had to explain carefully to the young waitress that only he was booked in at the hotel with breakfast included, and that he wanted the lady’s breakfast charged to his account. The waitress had raised a knowing eyebrow quite unnecessarily, unprofessionally even, Guy had thought. She sashayed off with their order.