Val McDermid - The Vanishing Point

These days, I knew Scarlett well enough to knock out a Daily Mail feature on her grief without actually having to speak to her. I could tug at the heart-strings without tipping over into saccharine sweetness, I could convey the tragedy of a love that had died and the sorrow that there could be no attempt at reconciliation now. I was almost moved myself by the words I put in Scarlett’s mouth.

I’d finished the first draft and given it to Leanne to look over when my mobile rang. I didn’t recognise the number but I answered it anyway. ‘Hello?’

‘Is that Stephanie Harker?’

I didn’t recognise the voice but I liked the sound of it. Northern, deep, warm. ‘Yes. Who is this?’

‘Detective Sergeant Nick Nicolaides of the Met Police. I’d like to talk to you about the death of Jishnu Patel.’

I hadn’t heard Joshu’s real name since the wedding and it gave me a jolt. ‘Joshu? Me? Why me? I don’t know anything about it.’

‘George Lyall gave me your name,’ he said. Bloody Gorgeous George. What was he playing at? ‘I’m outside Ms Higgins’ house now,’ he continued. ‘Your intercom doesn’t appear to be working.’

‘It’s working fine. They turn it off when the media won’t leave them alone,’ I said sharply. ‘On days like this.’

‘Can you let me in? Since I’m here? And I want to talk to you?’

I didn’t want to talk to him but I didn’t think I had a lot of choice. I ended the call and opened the gate.

‘Who’s that?’ Leanne looked up from the screen.

‘A copper. He wants to talk to me about Joshu.’

She pulled a surprised face. ‘Why you?’

‘We’ll soon find out. Is that piece OK?’

‘It’s great. You’ll have them sobbing in the streets of Beeston,’ she said cynically. ‘I’ll make myself scarce, then.’ She grabbed her cigarettes and practically ran out of the room. Leanne had never learned to be comfortable around authority. I think she was always waiting for the other shoe to drop.

I opened the back door as a lanky man in black jeans and a thigh-length leather jacket was unfolding himself from the driver’s seat of a weary-looking Vauxhall. His dark hair was shaggy, framing a lean and bony face with deep-set eyes and a nose like a narrow blade. I met his eyes and I felt a spark of danger. I know it’s a cliché, but I’ve always thought of Nick Nicolaides as a handsome pirate. The Johnny Depp kind of pirate, not the ones who kidnap innocent holiday sailors in the Indian Ocean. To be honest, at that moment, I’d have answered pretty much anything he asked me.

I brought him into the kitchen and sat him down at the breakfast bar. I offered him coffee; he asked for espresso then sat in silence while I prepared it. I sometimes think espresso has become the twenty-first century equivalent of the vindaloo. You’re not a real man unless you can take it full strength.

I put the cup in front of him and noticed the nails of his right hand were long and well-shaped with the gloss of acrylic varnish, while the left-hand nails were trimmed short and neat. He saw me notice and moved his right hand out of sight.

‘You’re a guitarist,’ I said.

He looked uncomfortable. ‘I play a bit,’ he said. ‘It’s a good way to unwind.’

‘What kind of stuff do you play?’

‘Acoustic. Finger-picking. A little bit of jazz.’ He shifted in his seat. ‘Does it come with the territory, asking the questions?’

‘You mean, because I’m a ghost writer?’

He nodded. ‘Is it something you can’t help?’

There’s so much in our lives that we never question. I had to think for a moment before I could formulate an answer that wasn’t a glib throwaway. Somehow, I didn’t want to palm him off with that. ‘It’s a bit of a chicken and an egg question,’ I said. ‘I’m not sure whether I’ve developed the habit of asking questions because I’m determined to do my job as well as I can, or if I ended up going down this route because I like drawing answers out of people.’ I smiled. ‘I suppose I like being the one in the know. The one with the inside track.’

Nick nodded, looking pleased with himself. ‘That’s what George Lyall said. “Stephanie notices things. And she knows how to ask questions that get answers.”’

‘I still don’t understand why you want to talk to me. I don’t know anything about what happened to Joshu.’

‘According to Mr Lyall you know all the people at the heart of this tragedy. You knew Joshu. You’re probably Scarlett’s best friend. You know Dr Graham and you’ve been to the clinic with Scarlett while she’s been undergoing treatment. I’m trying to form a picture of what happened here. And I often find it helpful to talk to someone like you. Someone not directly concerned with what happened but who has a good understanding of the individuals and the relationships involved.’ His smile was dead sexy. I know it was wildly inappropriate to be thinking like that with Joshu barely cold, but I couldn’t help it. Since the debacle with Pete, I hadn’t met a man who’d provoked the slightest reaction in me.

‘You don’t sound very like a cop,’ I said.

‘Maybe it’s your idea of cops that’s out of date?’

I think I blushed. ‘Well, ask your questions and we’ll see, shall we?’

‘Were you surprised to hear Joshu had died from an overdose?’

Straight to the point. No small talk to warm me up. I understood the gambit. I’d used the ambush technique myself more than once. ‘He’s been into drugs for as long as I’ve known him. Which is just over three years. So in that sense, no, it wasn’t a surprise. But I was quite shocked because he always struck me as someone who knew what he was doing.’ I sighed. ‘It’s hard to explain, but I never quite believed Joshu was as out of control as he wanted people to think. I always thought there was something quite calculated about his behaviour. I never saw him as a candidate for an overdose. But that’s the thing about drugs. People think they’re in charge of their abuse when actually they’re not. Joshu might have believed he was managing his drug use when the truth was he didn’t know what the hell he was doing.’

Nick gave me a shrewd look. ‘I can’t argue with that analysis.’ It was a lot later when I discovered why he spoke with such feeling. ‘Did he always seem to have plenty of money?’

‘He was always flash. He earned a lot, I know that. But from what Scarlett said when they were divorcing, he spent it as fast as he made it.’ My smile this time was wry. ‘Scarlett said he’d found out the hard way how expensive cheap women were. I think he kept his head above water, but I don’t know whether he had much in the way of assets. He didn’t have a house, for example. He had a lock-up for all his work gear, but he used to crash with friends or shack up with whoever he was dating.’

‘He didn’t have any money worries that you knew of?’

I shook my head. ‘He could always earn good money. When he came round to pick Jimmy up, he always seemed flush.’

‘In that case, why would he steal drugs? It’s not like he was some junkie on his uppers, from what you’re saying.’

‘I think you’re asking the wrong question.’ I realised I was talking to Nick the way I would to someone I knew. Someone I trusted. But it felt natural, so I didn’t rein myself in. ‘It’s not why he would steal drugs but who he was taking the drugs from. Joshu was jealous of anyone who had Scarlett’s attention. He was jealous of his own son, for heaven’s sake. In his eyes, Simon Graham was no more than another competitor for Scarlett’s attention. Stealing from him would be like a dog peeing on a lamppost. I think Joshu was staking out his territory. Showing Simon who was boss. It’s heartbreaking, really. A bit of macho posturing, and this is how it ends up.’ My stomach suddenly rumbled like car tyres on a cattle grid. That’s what you get when you go all day without eating. I pushed my hair back and stood up. ‘Do you want something to eat? I just realised I’m starving. I’m going to make a sandwich – do you want one?’