Strange Tide (27 page)

‘Nope,' said May, ‘it's gone.'

‘What?'

‘The signal.' He rotated an index finger at his forehead. ‘The decoding apparatus that translates your transmissions from gobbledegook into something my dullard brain can process. Who are these people you're on about, and of what possible use are they to us?'

‘It's simple,' said Bryant, warming to his subject. ‘Toshers were sewer-hunters. They worked the outlets at the edge of the Thames, trudging through the glutinous mud with eight-foot poles that they used to extricate themselves. They were after copper mostly, but iron, rope, bones, anything they could use or sell. They had names like One-Eyed George and Short-Arse Jack, and sometimes they found gold sovereigns, silver cutlery, jewels and necklaces that had belonged to the brothel-ladies of Southwark.'

‘OK,' said May slowly. ‘And mudlarks?'

‘They were lower down the scale. They lived in tunnels or on the foreshore itself. Wretched old women clad in rags, fighting off rats to hunt for dropped copper nails and tools. Scuffle-hunters pretended to look for work in the overcrowded docks, causing fights so that they could steal imported items and hide them in their long aprons. And lumpers—'

‘All right, I get it, but listen to me, Arthur, you do understand that it was all a long time ago, don't you?'

‘Yes, of course,' his partner replied irritably. ‘I'm not an idiot.'

‘There's no Pool of London any more. These people don't exist now. The Thames merely provided Dalladay with the manner of her death, so all of these potty facts you trot out are of no use. They're just local colour. If you put them in your memoirs an editor would write “irrelevant” beside them in red ink and make you cut them out.'

‘Exactly, which is why they're so important,' said Bryant. ‘It's the irrelevancies that lend us an understanding of the world.' He raised his forefinger. ‘Here's an interesting fact.'

May groaned.

‘When the BBC needed to re-use videotape in the 1960s they had to decide which programmes to wipe. They kept the Shakespeare productions and taped over the “irrelevant” modern dramas. Guess which would have been more useful to us today? Here.' From beneath his desk he dragged a length of chain and dumped it on to his blotter.

‘Is that what I think it is?' asked May. ‘The reason why we have evidence bags is to stop you sticking your fat fingers all over things.'

‘The connection between Dalladay's wrist and an iron ring set in a slab of concrete,' said Bryant. ‘Dan couldn't find out anything else, but then he was looking for relevant facts, where and when it was purchased and so on.'

‘What's your point?'

He held the chain high and twirled it. ‘What do you think of it?'

‘What do you mean? It's a spivvy silver chain with a silver moon on one end.'

‘But it's not hers. It's an Arabic man's neck-chain, John. You just don't see it as one because it's not an English style of male jewellery. The links are old but the one that opens is modern. Maybe the original was broken so someone repurposed it. If the killer didn't want her to escape, why not use a proper chain and padlock with a key, then throw the key away?'

May found himself growing exasperated. ‘I don't know, Arthur. Maybe he was improvising.'

‘Try again. Who would wear something like this now?'

‘I don't know – someone who likes old jewellery—'

‘But not a collector. Look at the scratches and dents on it. So it has sentimental meaning rather than monetary value. Someone changed the lock – why? So he could give it to a girl? Or did it belong to a
she
? Dalladay was pregnant but by whom was she loved?'

‘I don't see where you're going with this,' said May, waving away smoke.

‘What did I tell you about the river? The Tamesas, the Dark Water. It attracts suicides. I think she killed herself.'

‘That's ridiculous,' May exploded. ‘No one in their right mind—'

‘She wasn't in her right mind, was she? That's why there was only one set of footprints going towards the tideline, and why no one saw her – because if they did, all they saw was a girl walking along the shore. What if she acted on the spur of the moment and used the chain from around her own neck? It bothered me right from the start that only her left wrist was tied. Try locking this with your hands held together; it's almost impossible.' He hefted it in his palm. ‘What do we know about Dalladay, really? That she was an easily influenced young woman who failed to find her place in the world. She was frightened she was going to change her mind about committing suicide, so she chose a method of death that took away the option of escape.'

‘Wait – if it really was a suicide that means there was no murderer, and
that
means this other thing, the drowning of Dimitri Gilyov, isn't related.'

‘Oh, I didn't say there wasn't a murderer,' said Bryant with a mysterious smile.

It seemed like a lifetime ago since the crazy witch-woman in the Rainbow Theatre had foiled Ali's communication system with the aid of a pair of scissors. Much had happened since then. Cassie had always known that the faith-healing racket would turn out to be a waste of time and resources. The problem, she knew, was that they'd had no way of tapping into the ministry's congregations. Most of those who'd attended Ali's events came because they were lonely and credulous, and they were usually so short of cash that the Ministry of Compassion had struggled to sell so much as a T-shirt after each show. Finsbury Park wasn't America, where the tradition of evangelism had deep roots within communities and the congregations had deeper pockets.

Cassie was worried. She rarely turned to her mother for advice, and doing so made her feel uncomfortable. She checked her watch and knew that Marion would be entering the restaurant right now. Her mother was always on time. Today she was dressed entirely in purple, which was unfortunate because she clashed horribly with the orange leather banquettes.

‘I don't know why you had to pick this place, darling,' Marion said with distaste, settling herself gingerly. ‘No one would be seen dead in here.' She had missed the point; Cassie had chosen it precisely because it was unfashionable. The only diners were a group of dough-faced Russian men hammering vodkas beneath a vast golden chandelier.

‘I'm not here to network, Mother,' replied Cassie. ‘I couldn't talk to you at the centre.'

‘Why, do you have a problem? I thought you were both doing very well. I haven't been able to open a magazine this month without seeing the pair of you smiling out.'

‘As usual you're exaggerating.' Cassie poured herself water and gave her mother wine. ‘We've had three mentions, not exactly in-depth pieces.'

‘Lifestyle magazines are terribly important to your potential clients,' said Marion, accepting the glass. ‘Have you looked around the Thames Valley lately? All those grand riverside mansions full of social-climbing foreigners? Being English is a commodity that they want to buy into. They'll always be outsiders, of course, but they can at least enjoy the illusion. And setting up a place like Life Options is a part of that.'

‘Ali isn't English,' Cassie reminded her.

Having erased her own background details many years ago, Marion waved the thought aside. ‘No, but he gives a very good impression of being so. They always do, the intelligent migrants, and Ali plays the game well. Remember Mohammed Al-Fayed? The poor little shopkeeper thought if he spent enough he'd become respectable one day. He genuinely didn't understand why the establishment considered him vulgar.'

‘Ali doesn't have some outdated dream of being English. He just wants to make money.' Cassie called over a confused-looking waiter. She did not want to spend the lunch justifying her partner's motives.

‘English property is so desirable these days,' said Marion wistfully. ‘The wives are stuck at home with the children and their nannies, bored out of their minds. They don't care what they spend their money on so long as it fills up their afternoons. I should know. You should see how much my premium phone lines bring in these days.' She briefly engaged the waiter's attention. ‘Just a green salad.'

Cassie had always known that her mother did not really believe in the pseudo-spiritual books she sold. Perhaps she had at first, but these days her website and cable show shifted tons of junk jewellery, lifestyle-enhancing potions and lucky gemstones, even exclusive ‘magical' artworks that were supposed to bring their owners wealth and good fortune. They were painted by gangs of children in India because HM Revenue and Customs weren't interested in glittery daubs from ten-year-olds, bundled in cheap brown paper and posted to a school where Marion collected them, repackaged and resold them for increasingly absurd amounts.

‘What's your financial situation like?' Marion asked after the waiter had departed. ‘Is your cash flow OK?'

‘The expansion plans are on schedule and we've revised our projections upwards. Freddie is fully on board, although I don't think he understands the extent of his liability. He just reads the bottom line on his loans.' Cassie pulled a copy of
Hard Press
from her bag and slipped it across the table to her mother. ‘I need to know if you've seen this.'

Marion examined the article. ‘I read something similar in the
Evening Standard
last night. Who is she?'

‘Her name is Lynsey Dalladay. She's enrolled as a client at the institute. Freddie introduced her.'

‘So what? You must have hundreds of clients by now.'

‘After the news got out about her death I checked which courses she was taking. She only signed for the ones which were led by Ali.'

Marion's Botoxed brow furrowed as far as her nerve endings would allow. ‘I'm sorry, darling, I don't see what you're driving at.'

‘Read the rest of the piece,' she suggested. ‘Lynsey was pregnant.'

‘Oh God.' She put her nails to her cheek.

‘Last night Ali told me he'd slept with her. He said she kept hanging around and suggesting they go for a drink—'

‘And what, the poor provoked man didn't have the willpower to turn her down? What did you say?'

‘We had a fight about it. I told him I'd continue to handle the schedules and the accounts and that we would still be partners on the condition that he stayed away from the clients in future.'

‘So you're not – together?' It pained Marion to ask anything personal. ‘You know I never pry.'

Cassie turned over a fork, refusing to catch her mother's eye. ‘I suppose I was infatuated at first. He was unlike anyone I'd ever met. But things change when you work together.'

‘What did he have to say for himself about this girl?'

‘He said he could see into her soul.'

‘I thought he only believed in making money.'

‘So did I. He promised to keep more distance between himself and his pupils.'

‘And it only took a death to wake him up to that? You're on to a very good thing here, Cassandra – we all are. He can't make it work without you, and you can't do it without him.'

Cassie leaned forward, lowering her voice. ‘You're missing the point. The girl is
dead
. She'd been staying with him.'

‘Ali? Why?'

‘She left Freddie. Ali agreed to put her up for a few days. She has other places to stay, but she asked to be with Ali.'

‘When was this?'

‘A couple of weeks ago. He said she didn't come home on Sunday, so he assumed she was at her own flat. She has a history of not sticking around. One of the courses she was taking involved going down to the river's edge, specifically near the stretch of water where she was found.'

Marion's eyes widened. ‘My God, you don't think Ali did it?'

‘I don't know. How can I know something like that? Hell, I can't afford to believe he did. What does such a person even look like? I don't understand her state of mind. What if she threatened him? She could have wrecked everything.'

‘You're talking about—' The word
murder
stained the air between them. ‘How long is it going to be before the police uncover the connection between her and the centre?'

‘I don't suppose it's the most obvious lead to follow up, but it won't take them long. They'll want to talk to Ali.'

‘And what if they ask him to take a paternity test?'

‘I've done some checking online.' Cassie took out the small leather notebook she always carried and opened it. ‘They'll need what's called a court-admissible test, where the collection of samples is carried out through a controlled chain-of-custody procedure – it requires a third party to act as a witness and to verify the authenticity of the samples. It's almost impossible to cheat because the swabs will be taken by a qualified medic. The only thing that can go wrong is if the swabs are contaminated.'