Good Bait

‘Anyway …’ A sip of espresso. ‘We sorted it all out and thank heaven we did because by that time I was pregnant with Ion. We knew enough, both of us — and I feel guilty just saying this — but we felt that, if we were able, we could offer our child a better life here in the UK. So, I got a job at the UN’s office in London, my husband had business co

‘But not together?’

‘No.’

‘And you’re still with the UN?’

‘Unfortunately not. In ’03 they relocated their European offices to Brussels. But Ion was already in school, had made friends, so we decided to stay. Besides, my husband’s business was doing well. As you can see. For a while I was content to sit around, have long lunches with friends. Play te

Both heads turned at the sound of a key turning in the front door.

Ion Milescu was slender, almost willowy, his slenderness making him seem taller than he actually was; he had dark hair that fell forward across his forehead, his mother’s blue eyes. He was wearing trainers, blue jeans ripped over one knee, a check shirt beneath a jeans jacket which he shucked off as he entered the room and tossed over the back of a chair.

Bending, he kissed his mother’s raised cheek and glanced across towards where Karen was sitting.

When his mother made the introductions, he nodded briefly and flopped down on one of the settees. Karen waited to see if he would look again in her direction, instead of staring at the floor, the lace that was working its way loose from his shoe.

‘Petru Andronic,’ she said eventually. ‘I believe you knew him?’

‘Who?’

She repeated the name.

‘No. Sorry.’

‘He’s the young man whose body was found on Hampstead Heath just before Christmas. He’d been murdered.’

‘Oh, him.’ A shuffling of feet. ‘Yes, I remember now. But he wasn’t anyone I knew.’

‘You’re sure of that?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Because it seems he knew you.’

‘No, I don’t think so.’

‘On the night of December 20th, 21st, there were three calls made to your mobile by someone we believe to have been him.’

‘Then it must have been a wrong number.’

‘Three times?’

‘Sure. You put the number into your phone, you put it in wrong, each time you try it comes up the same.’

Until then, he’d scarcely looked her in the eye. Perhaps it was a teenage boy thing, Karen thought, perhaps not.

‘The first call was at a quarter to eleven,’ she said, ‘the second roughly forty minutes later, the last at ten minutes past midnight.’

‘If you say so.’

‘On the first occasion you accepted the call. Why would you do that if you didn’t recognise the number?’

‘I don’t know. I suppose I didn’t pay too much attention. You don’t, do you? Not always. You hear the ring tone, you answer.’

‘And have a conversation?’

‘I’ve told you, there wasn’t any conversation. I can’t even remember any of this happening. But if it did, I suppose I just said something about wrong number and that was that. Finish. The end. What does it matter, anyway?’

The merest hint of an accent aside, his English was perfect.

‘Three minutes,’ Karen said.

‘What?’

‘The first call, three minutes and seven seconds. A long time to say sorry, wrong number.’

‘Look, I’ve told you …’ He was on his feet quickly, all signs of his previous lassitude disappeared. ‘All I know about Petru Andronic is what I read in the paper and whatever bits of gossip I’ve heard from friends. Okay? If he called my number like you say, I’ve no idea how or why, and I’ve no recollection of talking to him at all. So …’

Stepping past his mother’s outstretched hand, he stormed out of the room. In the kitchen, the fridge door opened and bottles rattled before it was slammed shut.

Clare Milescu closed her eyes, sighed, looked towards Karen with a rueful smile.

‘Karen, I’m sorry. I’m not sure why he’s like this. Let me talk to him.’

‘Of course.’

The kitchen door opened and closed and after a moment Karen could hear the rise and fall of voices without being able to decipher the words. Then the voices stopped and mother and son returned, Ion with his hands in his jeans pockets, head bowed.

‘Ion,’ his mother said, measuring her words, ‘would like the opportunity to reconsider some of the remarks he’s previously made.’

Clare Milescu made more coffee; her son fetched a bottle of Lucozade Sport from the fridge and, at his mother’s insistence, grudgingly poured it into a glass. One of the windows out on to the balcony had been opened slightly, allowing a residue of breeze and traffic noise into the room.

The truth was, Ion said, he did know Petru Andronic, but by sight, little more. He’d bumped into him a few times at a cafe down in Chiswick where some of the Moldovan lads hung out, along with others from Romania and the Ukraine; they’d been involved, all of them, in a handful of scratch soccer games over in Brondesbury Park. He couldn’t remember ever having given Andronic his mobile number, but he supposed it was possible. A lot of that went on, mobiles out all the time, the cafe especially, numbers being exchanged.

‘So,’ Karen asked, ‘when Andronic called just before Christmas, what was all that about?’

He’d been in a bit of a state, excited about something, Ion told her, he’d never really been able to establish what. Something about someone who was supposed to meet him.

‘A girlfriend?’

Ion didn’t know. Maybe. Yes, probably. But if it was a girl he didn’t know her name. Calm down, he’d told him. Give me a call tomorrow. Tomorrow morning.

By tomorrow morning, he was dead.

‘Why didn’t you come forward with any of this before?’ Karen asked. ‘When it was all over the news and we were appealing for help? Information?’

A quick glance towards his mother. ‘I didn’t want to get involved.’

‘He was your friend.’

‘He was not my fucking friend.’

‘Ion!’ His mother’s reaction was automatic, instantaneous.

‘I’m sorry, but how many times do I have to say it? He was not my friend.’

The burr of traffic from outside was more audible than before.

‘I really think,’ Clare Milescu said, rising, ‘Ion has helped you all he can.’

Karen set her cup down evenly in its saucer. ‘Thank you. Thank you both.’

Clare Milescu walked her to the door.

‘You realise,’ Karen said, ‘it’s possible we may want to speak to your son again.’

‘I don’t think that should be really necessary, do you?’ The smile was there, then gone, the door closing with a firm click. Karen paused, then turned away. Stairs rather than lift.

10

Sasha Martin. Sixteen years and seven months. Sixth form student at the same school as her friend, Lesley Tabor. Only not today.

The house was a stone’s throw from Mountsfield Park. More Hither Green than Catford, truth be told. Suburbia, Karen thought, but not quite as we know it. A Range Rover and a customised Mini were parked outside. The hedge had been trimmed to within an inch of its life.

No hawkers, no circulars, no unsolicited mail.

Costello reached past Karen, rang the bell and stepped back.

The woman who came to the door was in her forties, slim, well-toned, fingernails that would have done justice to a bird of prey. Three mornings a week down the gym, Karen reckoned. That, at least. No obvious resort yet to plastic surgery, but it would come.

‘Mrs Martin?’

‘Yes?’

‘Fay Martin?’

‘Yes.’

Karen showed her warrant card, Tim Costello likewise.

‘We’d like to speak to your daughter, Sasha. They told us at the school she was here at home.’

‘You’ve not come about that, surely?’