A Bad, Bad Thing Read online

  Contents

  Cover

  A Selection of Recent Titles by Elena Forbes

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Acknowledgments

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  A Selection of Recent Titles by Elena Forbes

  Eve West Mysteries

  A BAD, BAD THING *

  Other novels

  DIE WITH ME

  OUR LADY OF PAIN

  EVIL IN RETURN

  THE JIGSAW MAN

  * available from Severn House

  A BAD, BAD THING

  Elena Forbes

  This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

  First published in Great Britain and the USA 2018 by

  SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD of

  Eardley House, 4 Uxbridge Street, London W8 7SY

  This eBook edition first published in 2018 by Severn House Digital

  an imprint of Severn House Publishers Limited

  Trade paperback edition first published

  in Great Britain and the USA 2018 by

  SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD

  Copyright © 2018 by Elena Forbes.

  The right of Elena Forbes to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988.

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data

  A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

  ISBN-13: 978-0-7278-8832-7 (cased)

  ISBN-13: 978-1-84751-947-4 (trade paper)

  ISBN-13: 978-1-4483-0157-7 (e-book)

  Except where actual historical events and characters are being described for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to living persons is purely coincidental.

  This ebook produced by

  Palimpsest Book Production Limited,

  Falkirk, Stirlingshire, Scotland

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  This is a work of fiction, of course. But a number of people have helped me in the research and writing process and it would have been a much duller experience without them. Particular thanks are due to my wonderful agent Sarah Lutyens and to Francesca Davies and Juliet Mahony at Lutyens & Rubinstein; to Tracy Alexander and David Niccol, both always so incredibly generous with their time, as well as delightful company along the way; to Peter Jensen for all his help, as well as his hospitality at Newmarket and Lincoln – both hugely enjoyable occasions (I can see why people easily become hooked!); also to John Ferguson for martinis and his invaluable insight into the racing world; George and Candida Baker for welcoming me to their yard at Manton; and to my neighbour Chris Goulding. On the editorial front I am grateful to both Lisanne Radice and Susan Opie for their input, as well as to my husband George and mother Jeanne, my chief readers.

  For Jeanne Scott-Forbes

  ONE

  ‘You sure about this?’ Jason asked, shielding his eyes from the sodium glare of the streetlamp as he peered up at the dark façade of the house in Park Grove, Wood Green. It was as quiet as a churchyard, no movement or glimmer of light anywhere in the dark, empty windows above, or behind the tightly drawn curtains on the ground floor and basement. They were late. Maybe Liam Betts had already gone.

  ‘It’ll be all right,’ Eve said softly. ‘Trust me. You said the info was good. He’s probably hiding out around the back.’

  He could just make out the contours of her lovely face in the half-light. Whenever he looked at her, he felt weak. He wished suddenly he had never told her about Liam Betts, or at least not waited until the very last minute. But he’d been dithering, some little voice in his head telling him it wasn’t a good idea. Even now, it didn’t feel right. He’d give anything to be back at her flat, in bed with her, instead of hanging around in a dank, muddy garden in North London on a wild goose chase. But he knew she wouldn’t let go of it that easily. She’d been wanting to find Liam Betts for weeks. It was all she seemed to care about.

  He sighed and gave her a mock salute. ‘Yes, ma’am.’

  She rewarded him with one of her rare smiles and kissed him lightly on the lips. The touch was electric. He reached for her, but she pulled away.

  ‘Later.’

  She was still smiling, but despair filled him. There would be no later, although he hadn’t yet summoned up the courage to tell her. He had to get home to his wife – ‘no excuses this time’ – and he was already nearly two hours late. It was his wedding anniversary, for the little that was worth. Not that Eve would mind if he had to go home. She never did, which was part of the problem. He wondered what she really felt, but knew better than to ask. He was sure he wouldn’t like the answer and pushed the thought away to the darkest recesses of his mind, where so many uncomfortable things lurked. Gazing at her, he felt like a drowning man.

  She was still smiling at him. ‘Come on. Hopefully this won’t take long.’

  She led the way, picking her way through the rubbish and builders’ debris that littered the ground, and up the steps to the front door. She studied the row of bells for a moment.

  ‘10B must be around the back,’ she said, coming down the stairs again.

  ‘Let me go first,’ he said. ‘In case he gives us any trouble.’

  ‘He won’t. Liam’s a pussycat. He won’t mind talking to me.’

  ‘Pussycats can change their spots.’

  ‘Not this one. He’ll do anything for me.’

  Not true, he wanted to remind her. As she well knew, Liam Betts had recently made himself scarce deliberately. Maybe he thought his cover was blown and had decided to leave town.

  Eve crouched down and peered in through the grubby basement window. ‘There’s a crack of light under the door. Someone’s definitely in there. Let’s try around the back.’

  The concre
te path was slick from the recent rain and Jason nearly slipped as he followed it around to the side of the house. A tall wooden gate blocked the path, with barbed wire stretched above it. The gate appeared to be locked and he gave it a shove with his shoulder, but it still didn’t move. She was at his side and he caught the smell of her perfume on the air. He wanted to close his eyes, bury his face in her soft, dark hair and lose himself again with her. It was all he could think about.

  ‘There’s got to be an entrance through there,’ she said quietly.

  It was clear, whatever the difficulty, she was not going to give up. ‘I’ll see if I can open it from the other side.’

  Balancing precariously on a dustbin, he climbed up onto the damp wall that bordered the house, and edged along a few feet, before dropping down onto the path on the far side. Shielded from the light of the street, he couldn’t make out anything. The narrow passageway smelled of damp and mould. As he stepped forwards into the blackness, he tripped over something that made a metallic clang on the concrete.

  ‘Are you OK?’ she whispered, from the other side of the gate.

  ‘Yes. I just can’t see.’

  He pulled out his phone and switched on the torch. The gate looked solid, heavy-duty bolts top and bottom, with a shiny, new-looking mortice lock in the middle. He carefully slid open the bolts but it still wouldn’t shift. It was locked. He also noticed a small peephole cut into the wood, with a makeshift metal flap. Somebody was keen on security. He shone the torch along the paved path that sloped towards the rear garden. A part-glazed door stood halfway along the side of the house, the number 10B crudely painted in white on the brickwork beside it. As he moved towards it, he heard the muffled throb of music and picked up the sticky, sweet smell of cannabis on the air. Again, there was no light showing inside. He decided to have a look around the back. His torch lit up a small, overgrown garden. The patio doors were closed, skimpy curtains pulled across. The fleeting shadow of somebody moved around inside and there were voices and laughter. He went back again to the side passage and rapped hard on the glass door panel. For a moment nothing happened, so he tried again. A light snapped on and through the rippled glass, he saw the flickering shape of somebody coming towards him in the corridor.

  ‘Who’s there?’ A deep, male voice, foreign accent.

  ‘Police. I’m looking for Liam Betts.’

  ‘Nobody of that name here. Go away.’ Eastern European; Russian, maybe.

  ‘Look, we know he’s in there.’

  ‘I say go away.’

  ‘We just want to talk to him …’

  As he pulled out his warrant card, ready for the door to open, he was aware of a scuffling sound and a movement to his right in the garden. He turned, saw a face, heard the crack of gunshot, then another, felt a blow to his chest, followed by a sharp pain. He fell to his knees on the wet ground.

  ‘Eve.’ He tasted blood in his mouth. He tried again. No sound came out.

  TWO

  A curtain of icy rain swept over the graveyard as the funeral cortége pulled up outside the church. It was barely midday, but the sky was iron grey. Eve ducked out of sight, quickly finding shelter under the dripping branches of an ancient yew tree. It was high up on a bank in a far corner, beside some ancient-looking monuments and the thick trunk and canopy provided a good shield from any prying eyes below. On another day, she would have liked nothing better than to wander around the graves, reading the inscriptions, thinking about the people buried beneath, imagining their lives, their loves, their deaths. ‘Sometimes I think you feel more at home with the dead than the living,’ Jason once said, when she was particularly wrapped up in a case. ‘Somebody has to speak for them, and fight for them,’ she replied. What he couldn’t grasp was that for her the dead were ever present.

  A hasty eight days after his headline-grabbing murder, the funeral had been billed as a quiet affair, for close family and friends only. Even so, a group of bedraggled reporters and cameramen were gathered around the main entrance gate and there must have been a good thirty vehicles clogging the parking area outside and overflowing down the narrow lane, testament to the fact that Detective Sergeant Jason Scott had been well-liked. The church was on the outskirts of the village, within commuting distance of London, it felt prosperous and secure. It was a postcard-pretty, roses-around-the door sort of village; everything clipped and tidied to within an inch of its life. The sort of place where people cared what colour you painted your front door, or if you parked your car in the spot outside their house, or put your bins out on the wrong day. It would drive her mad to live somewhere like that. She liked the transience and anonymity of London, where you could be married, or divorced, or dead, for months before your neighbours found out. She had never given much thought to where Jason lived, with Tasha and their young daughter, Isabelle, but she had certainly never imagined him in such a place. It seemed so at odds with his easy-going, unfussy nature. She assumed that Tasha had chosen the location, as with most things, according to Jason. All Eve remembered was his complaining about the long daily commute to the office and how tired it made him. With a pang of sadness, it struck her how little she had known about him, or had wanted to find out.

  The occupants of the cars collected in a subdued huddle in the road, sheltering under umbrellas. Eve spotted several of her work colleagues and pulled in even more tightly against the tree, watching as Jason’s coffin was lifted out of the flower-laden hearse and carried up the steep flight of stone steps into the graveyard. She had been dreading that moment, wondering how she would react. But in the event, she felt nothing more than sadness and a weary acceptance. Tasha led the procession, her face downcast and veiled, leaning heavily on the arm of Jason’s close friend and best man, DS Paul Dent. A middle-aged woman, who looked like her mother, followed closely behind, holding on tightly to the hand of a little blonde-haired girl. Isabelle: the reason why Jason had married Tasha. The only reason, Jason had insisted on more than one occasion, as though it mattered. He had brought Isabelle into the office before Christmas the previous year, while Tasha was off doing some shopping, and had proudly showed her off to everyone. When Tasha came to collect Isabelle a little later, the tension between her and Jason had been palpable. He had been seeing somebody else even then, Eve thought. She certainly hadn’t been his first affair, which had made things easier from her point of view. She had no desire to break up any marriage, although she was intrigued to know why he seemed incapable of being faithful. Not long after they had started seeing one another, she had asked him about it, but he had mistaken her curiosity for something more. ‘Don’t think about it,’ he said, cupping her face in his hands and tilting her chin up to meet his gaze, before kissing her. ‘It’s all in the past. There’s nobody else – nothing matters, but you.’ She hadn’t needed, or wanted, the reassurance, something he couldn’t understand.

  She took a deep breath and exhaled, remembering the look in his eyes. She missed him – missed the touch of him, the smell of him, his sheer physicality more than anything. Because of her, he was no longer there. Again she pictured the scene at the house in Park Grove. What neither of them had known was that it had been under surveillance by a team from SCD9, the Met’s Organized Crime Command. Hearing gunfire, the officers had rushed out of their van parked somewhere along the street, smashed down the wooden gate and found Jason lying unconscious in a pool of blood on the other side. Calling for backup, they had left her with him while they searched the flat and garden. She had cradled him in her arms in the passageway, holding him as close as she could, whispering to him, telling him to hang on, although she knew it was useless. The bullet had passed through him like a shaft of ice. How cold he felt, how heavy. The smell of his blood filled the dark, narrow space. Her hands were slippery with it; it was in her hair, on her clothes, on her lips. She was alone with him for less than ten minutes, but it had seemed an eternity. By the time the paramedics arrived, he was dead. Only that morning they had been lying in bed together in her fl
at, his arms locked around her as he tried to stop her from getting up, laughingly hoping to persuade her to call in sick and spend the day with him. If only she had listened.

  As she squeezed her eyes tight shut for a moment, shaking her head vigorously as she tried to force the image of him from her mind, her phone vibrated in her pocket. She pulled it out and saw the words:

  Are you ready to talk, Eve? I told you I’m here to help. John.

  She didn’t know who John was, but it was the fifth text she had received from the same number in the past twenty-four hours. So far, she hadn’t responded. But he appeared to know exactly what had happened at the shooting in Park Grove, the errors she had made, as well as various details that hadn’t been released to the press or to her general work colleagues. Even so, she assumed it was yet another journalistic ploy, or somebody else, maybe one of her colleagues, trying to wind her up. Why would ‘John’, whoever he was, want to help her? As she stared at the screen, wondering whether or not to text back and tell him to leave her alone, another message came through:

  You know you were set up, don’t you?

  ‘Set up’. She stared at the words for a moment. Who was he? What did he want? The idea of a set-up had occurred to her, but she had dismissed it. The tip-off had been a good one, from a reliable source, Jason had assured her more than once. Like a child bearing a gift, he had been delighted to offer her what he thought she wanted. All that was ever on his mind was to please her. She had trusted him and had taken it at face value, being so keen to get hold of Liam Betts that she hadn’t questioned him too deeply about where the information had come from. But it was clear that Betts was a decoy. He had never been at that address, or anywhere near it. Had somebody deliberately planted the information, knowing how she would react? If so, why? Did they want to wreck the surveillance operation or get at her? Her attempts to find out more had been thwarted. She was suspended, pending an internal enquiry and disciplinary hearing: locked out of the on-going investigation. Nobody would talk to her. In the end, she had tried to convince herself that she and Jason had just been in the wrong place, at the wrong time. But instinct told her it wasn’t that simple.