Blind Spot Page 9

  Jamie suspected that this was the reason for their conversation about morality. If Thorndike wanted to do business through an unlicensed broker, chances were good that the transaction wouldn’t be entirely legal. But, Jamie wondered, how illegal would it be? Or, more to the point, how immoral? He knew what Sara would say – she would tell him to drop the whole business. But the truth was, Jamie wanted the work. He wanted to pay his own way. He did not want to rely on Sara.

  Jamie decided to find out more about this Rootenberg character before they met. If the man seemed completely disreputable, Jamie would swallow his pride, reconcile himself to living with Sara’s support for a while longer, and tell Gerrit Vos and Andy Turner no thanks. However, if Rootenberg seemed potentially sound, he would attend a meeting with the man.

  If Jamie had still been a cop and Rootenberg the suspect of an investigation, the research would have been simple. Jamie would have started by looking for criminal records in the Police National Computer – the withdrawal of Rootenberg’s licence might well be linked to some charge that had been filed against him. If he had found any charges, Jamie would have checked the Met’s own Intelligence System. There, officers would have noted any interactions they had had with him. Jamie’s status as a detective inspector would also have opened doors at the Department of Social Services, the Department for Work and Pensions and the Passport Office. Without a badge, however, Jamie knew he would need help from someone who had one.

  He reached for his phone.

  Retired DCI Stephen Ash lived with his wife in a village near Tunbridge Wells. Their house was Edwardian, but at some point had been renovated, its original features lost to deep-pile carpeting and moulded coving. These alterations were not recent; the place had the ragged air of a nest from which the children had flown, leaving only school photos on scuffed wallpaper. Jamie had arrived at mid-day to find his father’s old friend pottering about the house alone. Ash’s wife, the man explained, was at the leisure centre.

  ‘Aerobics,’ he said. ‘Donna can still stretch like a 20-year-old – and I can’t even pick up a dropped sandwich.’

  He considered, and added, ‘Want a sandwich?’

  Jamie did not know Stephen Ash well, but his conversation with Gerrit Vos had placed Ash within easy mental reach – the former chief inspector had been a close friend of George Harding. Also, like Jamie’s father, Ash had an old-school attitude about things like using police databases for personal reasons. Had Jamie asked one of his own contemporaries, they’d have been horrified by the suggestion of such illegality. So would Jamie have been, until recently. After setting the world to rights with Vos, a small breach like this didn’t seem all that bad. It certainly hadn’t phased Ash, who had agreed to get on the phone, call in some old favours, and dig up what he could in the couple hours it would take Jamie to round the M25 from Surrey to Kent.

  Jamie declined lunch but accepted a bottle of beer. They sat in the living room, chairs angled towards a blank television screen, Classic FM drifting through the hatch from the kitchen. ‘I was surprised to hear you’d quit the Met,’ Ash said between bites of roast beef on Polish rye. ‘I suppose nobody came out of that mess in Wales looking good. Killer had to be taken out by the Hampshire Constabulary. You get any blowback from that?’

  Jamie shook his head. ‘Nobody filed a complaint. Dyfed-Powys Police held a Serious Case Review, and they commended everyone involved.’

  ‘Really?’ Ash chewed and swallowed. ‘Then why’d you go?’

  Jamie understood why Ash might not be able to fathom his decision. The man had been investigated by the Met in the same corruption sweep that had caught up Jamie’s own father. George Harding had suffered the first of his strokes before the investigation’s conclusion, but Ash had seen it through to the end. Although he was never charged, the odour of the investigation had clung to his career, and he had never made it to superintendent. On some level that must have irked him, and probably contributed to his confusion as to why Jamie, subjected to scrutiny but offered honest-to-God praise, had walked away.

  ‘There’s more than one way to suffer blowback,’ Jamie said. ‘When I got back to London, everything seemed different. I felt I was in the wrong place.’

  ‘And this aerospace company is the right place?’

  ‘I didn’t say that.’ Jamie took a pull on his beer. ‘But for now … well, it’s interesting.’

  ‘I’ve looked into your guy,’ Ash said. He balanced his sandwich plate on the arm of the chair and reached, wheezing, for a spiral notebook that sat on a nest of tables. ‘You’re lucky I’ve still got friends who’ll do me a favour in a hurry.’ He flipped some pages. ‘This Rootenberg bloke was born in 1969 in Salisbury, Rhodesia – now known as Harare, Zimbabwe. He still holds a Zimbabwean passport. As his name suggests, Mr Rootenberg is white. On a not-unrelated matter, his family was forced to sell their farm to the government in the late 1990s. He became a UK resident in 2001.’

  Jamie produced his own notebook from his jacket pocket, and scribbled notes as Ash spoke.

  ‘He is registered with Companies House as director and sole shareholder of Rootenberg Global, which lists its main activity as security consultancy. The business may have an impressive name, but Rootenberg’s not a big player: his company holds less than ten grand in cash, and is owed another five by debtors. It has net assets of fourteen k and liabilities of about the same.’

  ‘I appreciate your researching that,’ Jamie said. ‘I did plan to check Companies House myself. What I can’t get access to is the Police National Computer and the Met’s Intelligence System.’

  Ash finished chewing another bite of sandwich. He dabbed some mustard from the corner of his lip. ‘My friends checked both of them for me,’ he said. ‘Even though they shouldn’t have.’

  Jamie inclined his head – a show of appreciation.

  ‘Still, you’re going to be underwhelmed by what they found. On a couple of occasions, the Met took an interest in your man for meeting with certain individuals on their radar. They put him under surveillance, but it never led anywhere. On a later occasion, he was arrested over a shipment of handguns from south-eastern Europe. He lost his export licence, but the criminal case against him was dropped.’

  Ash tried to set the notepad on the arm of the chair, but it teetered and dropped to the floor. His waved hand informed the notepad that it could stay there. ‘In short,’ Ash said, ‘this guy seems to have skirted the fringes of what’s legal, but he was never Public Enemy Number One. And now, without a licence, it looks like he’s out of the picture.’

  Jamie tucked his notebook back into his pocket and took another swallow of beer. ‘I’m sorry I asked you to put yourself on the line for such little return.’

  Ash waved away Jamie’s apology. ‘You working a private case, or is this something for Thorndike?’

  Jamie hesitated. ‘I don’t want to sound ungrateful -’

  ‘But you can’t say,’ Ask concluded. ‘Don’t worry, it doesn’t matter. I’m just happy to see you again. It’s been too long.’

  Ash finished one half of his sandwich and chewed contemplatively. He bobbled his head, as though weighing a new thought. ‘But if you really do want to thank me,’ he said off-handedly, ‘there is one thing you might do.’

  Jamie spread his hands in a gesture that said, Of course, ask me anything.

  ‘Go visit your father.’

  Jamie started. ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘I spoke to your mother,’ Ash said. ‘She told me you haven’t seen George in over a year.’

  Jamie realised he was breathing through his mouth. That’s why Ash wanted me to drive over here in person, he thought. Jamie pursed his lips and swallowed. ‘I’ve seen Mum,’ he said. ‘A few times, in fact.’

  ‘She told me. George’s nursing home is two miles from Grace’s cottage. Were you too busy for the extra drive?’

  Jamie twitched, as if Ash had surprised him with a sucker punch. He didn’t like being bushwhacked by someone
he trusted. And Ash wouldn’t understand his explanation anyway, Jamie thought. He’d had little to say to his father even before George Harding’s decline. Now what could they possibly discuss? George still remembered people and could manage a conversation, but his second stroke had damaged the frontal lobe of the brain. That was the part that regulated inhibitions – the part that had once kept George, like everyone, in check. Without the supervision of an inner censor, his conversation was now uninhibited, and his judgements even more severe than they had been when Jamie was growing up. George Harding had always found his son a mild disappointment. Jamie had not gone to Oxford University, and had not become a lawyer. Instead, he joined the Metropolitan Police just like George, and that had been the ultimate let-down. The truth was, Jamie did not relish giving his father the opportunity to point this out – especially since George had been sheared of the traditional inhibition of tact.

  Jamie noticed Ash’s hazel eyes peering at him sharply. ‘You’ll see your dad, won’t you, son?’ he said.

  ‘Of course,’ Jamie replied, and at the same time wondered how clogged the M25 would be. He’d take it as far as the M23, and might make it to Brixton before –

  ‘Now?’ Ash persisted. ‘You’ll go to see him now, right?’

  Jamie smiled winningly. ‘Sure.’

  Ash nodded curtly. ‘How long will it take you to drive there?’

  Bloody hell, what’s he up to? Jamie thought. ‘Maybe forty-five minutes,’ he said.

  Stephen Ash lowered the plate to the deep-pile carpet, and struggled out of his chair. He shuffled to the landline on the other side of the room. ‘I’m sure your mother will want to join you at the nursing home,’ he said, lifting the receiver. ‘I’ll let her know when to arrive.’

  Until 2000, Grace Harding had been an administrator for a sixth form college in Ashford. After her husband’s first stroke, she took voluntary severance to become his full-time carer. At first, this involved tasks as intimate as helping her husband eat and being on hand when he was in the lavatory. Later, it meant driving him to physio and speech therapy, and keeping him from getting so bored that his frustration with his new condition boiled over into desperate rage. By that time, Jamie had left home for university. Although he felt sorry for his mother – much more, he had to admit, than for his father – he was also relieved to be out of the house and living the autonomous life of a student. As George improved, Grace spoke about finding another job, but for whatever reason, that had not happened. After George’s second stroke, he had moved into the Holly Lodge Residential Care Centre, and the place became Grace’s second home.

  Now, Jamie waited for her under the building’s awning. He peered past the circular driveway towards the road, playing a mental game with the cars that swept past on their way to Ashford. He had been standing there for twenty minutes, and could have gone inside at any time … but he hadn’t wanted to be alone with his father. Finally, Jamie saw his mother’s green Ford Focus roll around the drive and into the car park. An unexpected tingle of gratitude rose inside – her presence, he thought, would diffuse the tension of the visit. Then he remembered that he would not have come at all had Stephen Ash not rung his mother in the first place.

  Grace Harding climbed from the car. She was a tall woman whose copper hair had been lightened over the years by a dusting of white. She had Jamie’s green eyes – or rather, he had hers – and they shared the same quick grin. She offered him one now as she approached.

  ‘Well, look at you,’ Jamie drawled, appraising her quilted Barbour jacket, jeans and wellingtons. ‘You look like you’ve been hiking the grounds of your stately home.’

  ‘All ten square metres of them,’ she said. ‘And it’s more of a stately cottage.’ She nodded at the door to the care centre. ‘You’ve not been in?’

  ‘I got caught up in a game,’ he said.

  Grace raised her eyebrows. Jamie answered her unspoken question by pointing to the Maidstone Road. ‘A passing white car is worth one point,’ he explained. ‘So is a blue car. Green ones get two and reds are worth three.’

  ‘So, I’m only a two?’ Grace asked.

  ‘Your car’s a two,’ Jamie replied. ‘I’m sure you’re worth more. Yellow cars score ten, but silver or black ones cost five points each. Vans count the same as cars, and I ignore lorries. The goal is to reach fifty points without sliding into negative numbers.’

  ‘What’s your score?’

  ‘Six,’ he admitted. ‘There are a lot of silver cars out there.’

  Grace smiled and brushed Jamie’s fringe from his forehead. ‘Your dad will be so glad you’ve come,’ she said.

  ‘He won’t,’ Jamie replied matter-of-factly.

  She let her hand fall to Jamie’s shoulder and turned him towards the door. ‘Well, whatever he thinks,’ she said, ‘I’m glad you came.’

  Inside, they walked along the carpeted corridor to the heavy door of the secure unit. Designed for residents who required significant care or couldn’t be trusted to stay put, the unit was accessible only by swipe card or admittance by one of the overburdened staffers. Grace pressed the bell and peered through the narrow glass window. She waived to the nurse stationed behind a counter, who buzzed them in.

  ‘Morning, Grace,’ called the nurse in a thick Jamaican accent. ‘Here to take him off my hands?’

  ‘Has he been trouble today?’

  ‘He’s trouble every day,’ she said good-naturedly. ‘There’s one in every ward, and in this one, your husband is it.’

  Grace offered an apologetic shrug.

  ‘You’ll find him in the sunroom.’

  Grace motioned for Jamie to follow her down the broad corridor. Jamie imagined that the hallways had to be this wide to accommodate wheelchairs, as well as the occasional emergency gurney. The disproportionate width of the corridors made the unit look like a hospital – which was, after all, the most honest description of the place.

  Its true purpose was something that could not be disguised by the well-upholstered chairs, the flower vases or the prints on the wall. Not when Jamie could hear confused shouts and distressed cries emanating from several rooms. He could also smell the tang of disinfectant mingling with the odour of human shit – it made for a pungent memento mori, reminding visitors that death stalked these wide hallways of Holly Lodge.

  Jamie hated this place.

  George Harding’s last stroke had near-paralysed the left side of his body. Although time and physio had helped to restore some of his cruder motor skills, it was unlikely that he would ever speak without a slur, or use his left arm with finesse. George had got to the point where he could walk with a stick, but today he had been wheeled into the sun room, and sat near the window in a wheelchair.

  Jamie’s mother strode towards her husband with her habitual vigour, almost unobtrusively producing a handkerchief and wiping a fleck of spittle from his lower lip. As she did, she said, ‘You’ve dressed nicely today. Did Doris help you?’

  ‘New girl,’ George said. ‘Think she’s Indian. Nicer than Doris.’

  ‘Doris is lovely,’ Grace said.

  ‘Doesn’t like me. Says I shout.’

  ‘Sometimes you do shout,’ Grace reminded him. ‘You can be very rude.’

  George grunted and gazed at the trees in the garden. Grace nudged him. ‘George? You have a visitor.’

  Jamie had been standing in the double doorway. Now he stepped tentatively towards his father. ‘Hi, Dad,’ he said. ‘Sorry I haven’t seen you for a while. I’ve been busy.’

  Slowly, George turned his head and stared at his son.

  ‘George?’ Grace said. ‘It’s Jamie.’

  George didn’t blink. ‘I know,’ he replied.

  ‘How are you feeling?’ Jamie asked.

  George looked up at Grace. ‘Take me to my room,’ he said.

  ‘George!’ Grace admonished.

  ‘Dad –’ Jamie began.

  ‘Take me to my room!’ George shouted. ‘You!’ he said to Jamie. ‘Y
ou wait here.’

  Grace looked at Jamie and widened her eyes helplessly. Jamie inclined his head: best to humour him. Grace frowned with resignation, grasped the handles of the chair and wheeled George around. Soon Jamie stood alone in the sun room. He sat on a plush floral sofa, its cushions trimmed with viscose frills. On a table before him lay an array of periodicals: Saga, Country Life, Tatler, and several supplements from the Sunday papers. They all looked unread. Jamie wondered who they were intended for in a ward populated by stroke victims and dementia sufferers. Guests like him? If so, they’d made the wrong choices. He sighed and picked up a month-old Telegraph Magazine.

  Before he could settle on an article to read, there was a thump against the doorframe. ‘Clumsy!’ his father barked.

  Grace shushed him quietly and pushed him into the room. Jamie was surprised to see that George had a hardcover book in his lap. Something about Fascist Italy. Much too loudly, George said, ‘You’ve got a girlfriend.’

  ‘Err –’ Jamie replaced the magazine. ‘I have,’ he acknowledged. ‘Her name is Sara.’

  Grace parked George at the edge of the coffee table. ‘She’s too skinny,’ George went on.

  ‘You’ve never met her,’ Jamie reminded him.

  With his good hand, George opened the book on his lap and pulled out a folded sheet of A4 paper. He shook it and it unfolded. ‘Skinny,’ he repeated, and tossed the paper towards Jamie. It missed the tabletop and fluttered to the floor.

  Jamie sighed and picked it up. On it was an inkjet-printed photo that Jamie had emailed to his mother shortly after he and Sara had started seeing each other. In it, Sara was curled up in a cane armchair in her Pimlico flat, an African tribal mask glowering behind her. Jamie could date the photo almost exactly: he had taken it on his phone about a week after the tragic conclusion of a case of teenage murder-suicide – the investigation that had brought them together. Neither of them had known it at the time, but Sara had been pregnant then.

  ‘You gonna marry her?’

  ‘I hope to. We already live together.’