“Not bad. Paying my bills.”
She looked into the bag. “What’d you get her?”
“A book, and a chess set.”
She looked up. “Chess?”
“Yeah, there’s this place in the park that has tables you can play on. I figured I could teach her. She’s probably too old for Jenga now, anyways.”
The smile landed then, cleanly and fully.
“She likes Jenga with you, Thad.”
“Yeah, but no harm in something new. Horizons must be broadened, and all that. No use sticking around with the same old, same old.”
Both of us fell a little quiet then.
She went first. “I’m sorry about the other day, at your office. I could’ve been a bit nicer about it all, shown a bit more tact.”
“Sure. But I could’ve returned your three or four calls.”
“It was four. But that’s OK.”
Détente was established. The tension dropped.
“You sure everything is OK?” she asked.
I bluffed my own smile. “Yes. Why wouldn’t it be?”
“Your energy is off,” she said, a little earnestly, and then laughed. “Oh God, that sounds stupid. You know what I mean.”
“Must be the neighbourhood. It knows I don’t fit in.”
“Working class hero. How could I forget?”
“I don’t know about the hero part. But ‘Unposh PI’ could look all right on the business cards. Go with something understated, simple black and white.”
We exchanged smiles, old ones. Small talk rope-a-dope had always come easily to us.
“I gotta go,” I said.
She nodded. “Thanks for this.” She held the bag up.
“No problem.” I raised my hand in farewell and turned.
“Thad.”
I turned back to face her.
“I’m sorry. I know this is tough. But it’s not forever. A couple years, tops. We need this, but I know it’s going to be hard for you.”
“Someone told me that Zurich isn’t exactly on the moon. We’ll be OK.”
“She loves you, you know that, right?”
I nodded. “Hey, did Brock drop off those papers?”
“Yes.”
“Have them ready for Boxing Day. I’ll sign before I go. Make it all official.”
“You always had a weird sense of humour about the holidays,” she said.
“I’m not going to do it in front of her or anything. But still, no need to dawdle.”
“OK. Well, thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
Not knowing what else to do, I stuck out my hand. She took it in hers, and shook it.
“Gotta go,” I said, jerking my thumb towards the Saab. I turned again, but she still had my hand. She wrapped her fingers around mine and squeezed. I looked back at her.
“Stay safe out there.”
I snapped off a mock salute. “Yes, ma’am.”
She held my eyes for another second. “Just… Don’t miss the 26th, OK? She’d really be disappointed.”
I returned her gaze and nodded. “Yeah, I know. It’s in the diary, Rox.”
Her turn to nod. I squeezed her hand back and walked away.
In the car, the radio was still rubbish. I flipped through a stack of scratched CDs holed up in the glove box, finally settling on something suitably raucous. The Fall’s ‘Touch Sensitive’ shook the interior of the car, as I waited for the windows to defog. As they did, I saw Roxanne in an upstairs window, the kitchen, drying some glasses. She looked a little sad there. She was looking down, still looking at the car, still looking at me.
34
Christmas Eve. After about two hours on the road I eased my car into a long and narrow gravel drive heading towards a stunning house. I double-checked the GPS and the invitation Ruddick had given me: I was, by all accounts, at a lovely country estate in Conkwell. That and the pic of the place I had printed from Google street view seemed to confirm this was definitely the house.
There were about two dozen cars I could quickly count leading to the end of the drive, and as mine was going to stand out a bit as something a bit more rustic than expected, I pulled to the side a way back. I took a final swig of by-now cold coffee, re-tucked a shirt pulled loose by a long drive and seat-squirming, and headed in.
Walking towards the house, I could hear Christmas carols playing and the low chirping of a soiree in full festive swing. I stepped to the front door where I was greeted by a large suited man with an earpiece and an easy smile.
“Invitation, please?’ he asked cheerily, with a mild Eastern European accent.
I handed him the invite—ivory card, adorned with dark green inlaid print. Elegant and simple. Behind the doorman I could see people milling about. Tuxedoed waiters glided by, trays in hand. A loud woman tilted her head back and laughed, and I saw the splash of her teeth against very red lipstick.
“Happy Christmas,” the doorman said.
I nodded in thanks, and walked into the Bravta’s holiday party.
“Drink?” one of the waiters asked as soon as my coat had been taken and hung.
“Bit early for champers,” I said, affecting a smile. “Any coffee or even a ginger ale knocking around?”
“I’m sure we can get you something, sir. And there should be some fresh juice at the buffet.”
He gestured through the reception hall into the next room, where I could see even more people milling around a long table, helping themselves to various cold cuts and hot food. I drifted in, picked up a plate and took my place in line.
My phone buzzed with a text inside my jacket. I pulled it loose.
YOU IN?
I responded in the affirmative.
CHECK IN REGULARLY. STAY SAFE.
I thumbed a quick OK and loaded my plate with ham and cheese. As I popped some in my mouth, the man in front of me turned, and did a quick double take. It took me a moment to remember him.
“Iqbal Mackenzie,” I finally said, a half-second before my hesitation would have been rude. “Well, how lovely to see you. Happy Christmas.”
“Mr. Grayle,” he said. “My, this is unexpected. And Happy Christmas to you, of course. What brings you all the way out here?”
“I was just going to ask you the same thing,” I said, moving a few inches closer and lowering my voice slightly. “These business associates of yours?”
He smiled. “I’m networking, Mr. Grayle. It would appear Felicia Tate has left London and as such there is a gap in the market, one I am happy to fill. This little bash is a wealth of prospective clients.”
“Be it for rare liquors or, perhaps, the more exotic, right?”
He shrugged.
“Lot of demand for Napalm Hearts stuff? I would think there’s going to be a bit of a push if there’s some new stuff coming out with that label.”
Mackenzie cocked his head slightly. “What are you doing here, Mr. Grayle?”
“I’m looking to talk to a guy. Big fella, with some interesting shoulder ink.”
Mackenzie stared at me as if he had stumbled into a nursery to find a toddler juggling dynamite.
“You’re working a case here,” he said, his voice flat but for a hint of amazement. “And you want to talk to the host about whatever it is you’re digging into.”
It was my turn to shrug. “I think you know a lot about what I’m digging into.”
“You should go. This is… not your scene.”
“I don’t know. It was a bit of a long-ass drive, and besides, this salmon terrine looks fantastic.” I piled more food onto my plate.
“Grayle. Listen to me. You need to leave. This is dangerous ground. Do you understand?”
I grabbed a bottle of water with my free hand. “I understand that whatever happens next, a lot of people have seen you talking to me. So if I were you, I’d get lost and get some distance between us, in case anyone thinks you’re my pal in here.”
“Your concern is misplaced. I’m a simple businessm
an looking out for someone.”
“Then just go away,” I said. I could feel the weight of the gun, snug in my inner jacket pocket, and wondered if Mackenzie could see its faint outline or perhaps smell its oil.
It was a Ruger. Five shot capacity for .357 ammunition, with a three-inch barrel. Small but heavy, with apparently outstanding stopping power. I had looked it up.
Mackenzie gave me a final once-over and then, a slight look of disappointment.
“Suit yourself,” he said, and walked away. “Have a lovely Christmas, detective.”
“And a Happy New Year to you, too,” I said to his back, a little too loudly.
I could feel my paper plate bending slightly as my hands were getting clammier. A quick look around showed all the tables were full. Laying the plate on a mantle, I strode back into the hall, stepping quickly into the first washroom I could find and locking the door behind me.
I looked at my face in the mirror.
My forehead was glossed with sweat, and I could feel my shirt rapidly dampening inside my suit jacket. There was a slight buzz behind my forehead, a tension ache. The dark circles under my eyes contrasted sharply with my quickly paling skin. I gripped the edge of the sink, stared into the mirror, and waited a few seconds, not breaking eye contact.
“You can leave right now,” I said to the man facing me. “You can walk away and no one will stop you.”
He didn’t move.
Resigned, I stood up straight, pulled out the pistol and gave it a once-over for about the hundredth time that morning. I spun the cylinder and snapped it shut, thumbing the safety back into place. It was heavier than I remembered, but it still fit inside my jacket. I ran the taps and splashed some cold water onto my face and pushed wet fingers through my hair, slicking it back as best as I could.
I opened the bathroom door. Music and chatter again filled the air.
In front of me was the pleasant man from the door, still smiling. And still huge. “I hope you’re enjoying the party, sir,” he said.
“It’s OK. I left my food over there, so—”
He stepped in front of me to block my path. “Your host would like to have a word.”
My fingers were still a little wet, so I patted them on my lapels, wondering if I could get my hand inside my jacket and get the gun loose before this polite ape would react.
From my left eye I saw another large man; same suit, same genial manner walking towards us. Back up.
The music had shifted. Jazzier now. A crooner version of ‘Baby It’s Cold Outside’ was on. The ape was nodding his head along with it a bit as he took me by the elbow and led me towards the kitchen.
“I always hated this song,” I said, letting my hands fall to my sides.
“Ah, it’s not too bad,” he said as we turned the corner. I felt the thump, quick and heavy, behind my ear. The floor rushed towards me. Two very strong arms gently lay me down, as I fell into darkness.
35
“Detective.”
My eyes began to twitch. I could sense very bright light beyond the lids. I ran my tongue over my lips and to my surprise could taste no blood. My teeth were intact. I tried to shift slightly but could only feel the creak of wood beneath me, the curl of steel on my wrists.
I opened my eyes.
“Detective,” I heard again. All I could see were silhouettes, two bodies turned into black cut-out dolls by the brilliance of the lamp behind them. “He’s awake,” I heard, recognizing the doorman’s voice. The light, cast from a single lamp, was now turned away slightly. I saw a man walk from behind a rickety table where the lamp sat. He too was thick through the arms and chest. He wore pressed trousers and a crisp white shirt.
He knelt in front of me. The light was directed away now, but still bright enough that I could see the faint outline of epaulets on his shoulders through the shirt’s cotton.
“Hello, detective,” he said. “We need to talk.”
“Hello, Karl,” I said.
He seemed more amused than surprised that I knew his name.
“You’re persistent,” he said, standing. He was taller than he had seemed in the video, I realised. He was at least six-four, maybe even six-five. “But I am surprised to see you. I hope you can forgive being removed from my party.”
“To be fair, I did crash it.”
He considered this, and pulled a chair from behind the table towards me. My eyes were beginning to adjust and the buzzing in my ears from the blow was slowly dwindling. The room, I could now tell, was a cellar. I could still hear the sounds of the party faintly above us. Pipes lined the ceiling. Water pooled on the concrete floor. There was a small grate at my feet.
My host sat across from me. I pulled my gaze up from the grate and met his eyes.
“Why are you here?” he asked.
“I’m looking for somebody. A missing girl. You know her.”
Karl and the doorman looked at each other and then back to me with a Well, go on look. I said nothing further—trying to feel them out a bit, see if they knew more than they were saying. Karl nodded to the doorman, who swung his fist in a clean, swift arc towards my jaw. My head snapped back and blood flooded my mouth.
“Jesus,” I hissed.
“Please co-operate,” Karl said. “It’s very important you answer my questions quickly and truthfully. Do you understand?”
I spat on the floor, aiming for the grate. I looked at the doorman, trying to steady myself for another one if it were coming.
“Just answer the questions,” he said.
I felt blood crawl down my chin and watched it splash Rorschach blots on my own white shirt. I kept my head lowered and tried to take slow deep breaths. I could feel my heart ramping up and my eyes stinging with tears of pain and—as I realised this I felt my saliva thicken in my throat and my teeth start to shake—fear. Fear at its cleanest, its whitest, its purest feral.
Karl twisted, so as to reach behind himself and took my pistol from my suit jacket, which was carefully folded on the table. “We’re concerned why a man who has been asking about my business—very personal, very deep questions, really—shows up to my home on Christmas Eve, to my party, with my family upstairs, bringing this.”
I heard a buzz. It was from the table. My phone, still inside my jacket. Karl fished his hand inside and pulled it loose.
“This has been going off quite a bit. We’d happily text whoever is looking for you back and let them know you’ll be all right, but we don’t know your PIN.”
“Maybe you could just let me give them a quick call,” I offered.
Karl smiled. “We had heard you were of, how you say, good humour. So I ask again, Mr. Grayle: What are you doing here?”
“Like I said—I’m looking for a girl. I was hired to find her, and I think you may know where she is.”
“Who is this girl?”
“Lisa Claymore. Her husband hired me to find her. She was missing. All we had to go on was a video of her in one of your movies.”
Karl and the doorman exchanged glances.
“She’s about five-six, brown hair. Slender. Big eyes. The cops think she’s dead, that she committed suicide. But I think she’s pulled a runner. It’s either that, or you found out she was still alive and maybe you wanted her in more videos.”
“Why would I want this girl back?”
“You didn’t seem too bothered being with her in the video I saw.”
Karl’s eyes hardened then, and I could see it slipping away, this whole gentleman gangster bit. “This girl, this is the young wife of the rich guy, eh? Mr. Claymore? I saw something of this on the news.”
I nodded.
“She was trouble, that one,” he said and smiled almost wistfully. “Liked the nightlife a bit too much. Liked a good time.” A dark, brief chuckle. ”Didn’t take a lot to get her on camera, I can tell you that.”
I tilted my head forward a bit and opened my mouth to let a thin line of blood and spit hit the grate. I watched it fall, stretching itself even t
hinner, before finally pulling loose from my lip and disappearing.
“Tell your employer that I do not know where Lisa is,” Karl said.
“I don’t think he’s actually that interested. I think we’d all settle knowing she was still alive.”
Karl looked perplexed. He said something in Russian to the doorman who stepped out, and then returned his attention to me. “Detective, can you hear me?”
I looked at him and nodded.
“No. You need to say it.”
“I can hear you,” I said, my voice thick.
“Good. This girl was nothing to me. This girl, if she lives, is nothing to me. I barely remember what it is you speak of. There are always more girls. Those people upstairs, they are just the tip of your aysberg. They will always want more. Do you know why?”
I shook my head.
He stared me down.
I waited a second but ultimately gave in. “I don’t know why,” I said.
“Because they will eat each other alive. They are rich, they are bored, they tell themselves that they do all of this—these parties, these drugs, these videos, all of it—just to feel something. They think none of this can ever be stopped, that it can never come back to haunt them. They think they can’t be touched. And they think this petty vice is as far as they can push it all.”
The doorman returned, and I could feel his bulk behind me.
“They’re wrong, detective,” Karl said. “They are very wrong. And I will show them this.”
He leaned in close. I jerked my head back. I could feel the heat from his breath, smell the faint sweet whiff of orange juice that mixed with crisp cologne.
“And before this all falls apart, they will pay me for the privilege.”
The doorman grabbed me under the armpits and jerked me upright. I stood, a little shakily. He kept a hand on my shoulder to keep me from tipping over.
“There was nothing of interest in your files or your computer,” Karl said. “I assume you moved all of it. If you are smart—and I think you might be, actually—you will likely have told very few people about this.”
He held a satchel up, my battered laptop inside, plus a stack of papers and a stack of envelopes. The most recent mail, I assumed.
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