A man’s voice spoke over the intercom, ‘Who’s calling?’
‘It’s me, Lawrence,’ Rachel answered.
‘What on Earth are you doing here? At this hour?’
‘I need to talk to you, Lawrence. It’s important. Let me in.’
I heard a buzzer sound and the door click. We went through into the small lobby and rode up in the brightly lit lift to the fourth floor. Rachel knocked on the door and it was opened by a tall, middle-aged man in red silk, monogrammed pyjamas and black velvet slippers. Lawrence had clean shaven face with even features, neatly combed, thick brown hair and wore glasses that framed his blue eyes. I could not help noticing the similarity to Grahame.
‘Couldn’t this of have waited until tomorrow?’ Lawrence started, clearly annoyed.
‘Nice to see you too, Lawrence,’ Rachel replied sarcastically. ‘Can we come in?’
‘Who’s the guy?’
‘He’s a friend of mine.’
Lawrence looked me over appraisingly and raised a speculative eyebrow but said nothing, instead he retreated into the hall and said bluntly, ‘We’re upstairs.’ He led the way up the spiral staircase to the second floor of the apartment.
The second floor consisted of one large room with two walls of floor-to-ceiling windows, which folded away to open out onto a wraparound veranda, and provided spectacular views of the city and Thames. There was a leopard skin rug on the floor, positioned in the middle of the room, and a modern, glass table, solely supporting a bronze statuette of what I assume was, given the pose, supposed to be Narcissus. An extensive, black leather corner sofa took up most of the space, and upon one flank laid a Japanese woman, lying on her side, her steady, confident gaze set on Rachel.
The woman wore a red, silk kimono robe, cut off at the thigh. She had delicate features, beautiful, long legs and possessed a feline presence.
‘You remember Aki,’ Lawrence said, sitting down beside her.
‘How could I forget?’ Rachel sat on the opposite flank from Aki. ‘How cosy, red wine and smooth jazz. Such a civilised evening to spend with your mistress.’
He replied, ‘One which we were enjoying until you showed up.’
‘Don’t worry, Lawrence, I won’t keep you long.’
I sat down next to Rachel, keeping my mouth shut, for now, whilst enduring the occasional glare from her estranged husband.
‘What are you after, Rachel?’ Lawrence enquired impatiently.
‘I suppose you heard about Grahame?’
He rolled his eyes at the mentioning of the name. ‘What about him? Believe it or not, Rachel, I don’t keep tabs on your ex-boyfriends or whatever the Hell he is. As far as I’m concerned, you have your life…’ Lawrence made a point of putting his hand on Aki’s arm and smiling at his estranged wife, finished, ‘…And I have mine.’
‘He was found dead, murdered,’ I interjected. I studied Lawrence and he appeared outwardly astonished by my news but there was also something else going on behind his eyes that I could not figure out. ‘Where were you last weekend?’
‘Last weekend...um...I-I was here, in the flat.’ Lawrence felt impelled to add, ‘With Aki.’
‘All weekend?’ I looked at Aki and asked, ‘And you can verify that?’
She nodded, with a subtle smile, the kind you’d miss if you weren’t looking for it.
‘Who are you?’ Lawrence asked me.
‘Fred Sorensen. I’m a private investigator.’
Lawrence, from the look on his face, still remained suspicious of me.
‘I’ve hired him to find out who killed Grahame.’
‘I’m so sorry, Rachel.’ There was now a warmth in Lawrence’s voice that had not been there before, maybe the news of Grahame’s demise was finally registering with him. ‘I know how much you cared about…’
‘I don’t want your sympathy, Lawrence.’ Rachel abruptly cut him off. ‘I didn’t come here for that.’
He sat bolt upright. ‘What did you come here for? To question me?’
‘I came here to ask for your help, but there’s no point.’ She stood up and began walking towards the stairs.
Lawrence grabbed her arm and stopped her. She looked at him and then at the hand on her arm. He released it and said, ‘What can I do?’
Rachel shot a glance at me and said to him, ‘We believe we know who the culprit is. Its someone who we both know.’
‘Who?’
‘Dominic McIntyre.’
‘Dom?’ Lawrence laughed. ‘You’re out of your minds. It’s impossible. I mean, why on Earth would Dom kill Grahame? What possible motive could he have?’
Rachel said quietly, ‘Grahame was dating Emily.’
Lawrence’s eyes enlarged. ‘You mean, Dom’s wife, Emily? She’s alive?’
‘Turns out that she was never kidnapped or murdered. She simply ran away and changed her identity and has been in hiding, until now,’ Rachel explained. ‘Grahame and Emily were in a serious relationship. Somehow Dominic tracked her down, tracked them down…’
‘What are the chances,’ Lawrence commented. ‘But what can I do to help you?’
She said, ‘The ballet, tomorrow night, I take it Dominic will be attending.’
‘You want the tickets.’
‘Yes.’ Rachel replied with an offer, ‘Do this one thing for me, and I’ll grant you a divorce that won’t cost you a penny, I’ll even file the papers myself. I know that it is only because of money that you haven’t filed for one already.’
Lawrence was momentarily stunned, just stood there with his mouth hanging open, struggling to find words till he sputtered out, ‘Are you serious?’
‘If you give us the tickets, I’ll guarantee you penniless divorce.’ She promised, ‘You have my word.’
‘I never thought…’ He trailed off, thinking. ‘The tickets are yours.’
I noticed Aki smiling, this time obviously, at Rachel, as if she had won a personal victory.
The businessman picked up his mobile. ‘I’ve forwarded you the tickets now.’
‘Thank you.’ Rachel said after checking her emails on her mobile. ‘We’ll let you get back to your evening.’ With those parting words, she walked out of the penthouse apartment and I followed her.
Lawrence said, ‘I’ll see you out.’
As we went down the spiral staircase, Aki remained were she was, observing us all.
At the door, Lawrence told his wife, ‘I won’t leave you destitute, Rachel. We’ll agree upon a reasonable settlement.’
She gave a small nod and passed through the open door, saying, ‘Goodbye, Lawrence.’
Rachel dropped me back at my office, where I found the couch vacated - the drunk bastard had gone. He had been sober enough to scrawl a barely legible note saying “Thanks Freddy, I.O.U”.
I would make sure he would make good on this promise.
Chapter 18
I was beginning to drift off when I heard the doorbell ring.
I reluctantly got up and answered the door. It was a man, late 40s, stocky build, average height with a sallow complexion and large nose flecked with red and purplish veins. He wore a gold band and looked like a family man, two kids I’m guessing, probably teenagers - if the bags under his eyes were anything to go by. His wide stance, formal manner and confident stare gave him away. He didn’t even have to speak, I could tell from just looking at him that he was cop, even in his plain clothes.
‘Frederik Sorensen?’ He started in his gravelly voice. I nodded. He flashed his badge. ‘DCI Mark Cosgrove. Can I come in?’
Cosgrove followed me inside the office.
‘Can I get you a drink?’ I offered congenially.
‘No thanks, I’m on duty.’
‘Suit yourself.’ I poured myself a whisky and looked at him over the rim of the glass.
His mobile rang. He took it out, looked at the screen, and then cancelled the call.
‘The old ball and chain,’ Cosgrove said dismissively. He placed his mobile, face down, on
my desk, which we were now standing on either side of. I wondered if he intending on starting some kind of rapport, establishing some familiarity to get me on side, get me talking.
‘Right.’ I purposely tried to keep to one word answers.
‘You’re not married are you, Sorensen?’
‘No.’
Cosgrove looked around. ‘Nice digs you got here.’
‘Thanks.’ I doubted he meant it.
‘Business must be doing well.’ The cop smiled.
I shrugged. ‘It has its moments.’
‘Must feel pretty good, to be calling the shots, huh?’
‘It does.’
‘To not have to report to anyone.’
I was tiring quickly of this back and forth. ‘I take it this isn’t a social call?’
‘I’m investigating a homicide,’ Cosgrove stated.
‘Whose been murdered?’
He took out a small notepad, flipped the pages, but I bet that that was just for show - he probably had every little detail memorised. ‘A writer, called Grahame Kingsley, he had his head bashed in.’ Cosgrove looked back up at me and said, ‘We’ve contacted his next of kin. She’s flying in from Australia tomorrow to help with our enquiries.’
‘Fascinating,’ I put drily. ‘What’s all this got to do with me?’
He paused, taking a moment to observe me. ‘Transpires our vic was engaged...but you already knew that already, right?’
I decided to feign ignorance, saying, as convincingly as I could, ‘I have no idea who you are talking about.’
‘Ah, c’mon, skip it. I know you’re mixed up in this, Sorensen. Don’t bother continuing to deny it.’ Cosgrove’s apparent glee felt malicious. ‘I’ve got you by the short and curlies.’
‘You don’t like PIs, do you, Cosgrove?’
‘You Private Dicks have your place, I suppose.’ I believed he used the old-fashioned term to convey his feelings perfectly.
I wondered aloud, ‘How do you know that I am working on the case?’
‘Gimme some credit. I’m a detective for Christ’s sake.’
Cosgrove continued his questioning, ‘What I wanna know is, who is your client?’
‘You’re the detective. You work it out.’
‘If you want we can do this the hard way, Sorensen. I can take you to the station and we can finish up our discussion there.’
‘Oh yeah, on what charge, Cosgrove?’
‘I’m certain I can drum up something, how about impeding an investigation for starters?’
‘You’d have a tough time proving it.’ I called his bluff.
He gave a heavy sigh. ‘Y’know the world’s got far too PC for my liking, you can’t do this, can’t do that. I miss the days when you could get away with beating the truth out of scumbags like you.’ His poorly veiled threat didn’t touch me in the slightest.
I retorted, ‘It must have been simpler time, back in the 50s.’
He grizzled with clenched fists. ‘What can you tell me?’
‘Look, I’ll level with you, Cosgrove, at least half-way. Yes, I was hired by my client to find Grahame Kingsley. And I did that. There’s nothing more I can tell you. I’m off the case.’
‘That’s it?’
‘What more do you want? I called it in. I thought I’d let the good ole boys in blue take care of the rest.’ I saluted and then added, ‘I’ve washed my hands of the whole business.’
Cosgrove wasn’t remotely convinced, I could tell. ‘You know I’ve asked around about you.’
‘Oh, yeah.’ I really didn’t give a toss what other people said about me, good or bad. Most of it was bad anyway and only half of it was true.
‘A reformed juvie with a rap sheet as long as my arm.’
‘That was a long time ago.’
‘Fired from the Force. A DS with an attitude problem. Internal Affairs has quite the file on you. Made for very interesting reading.’
I shrugged, stating, ‘I did my job, and I got results. So what if I upset a few pompous pricks in the process.’
‘Hard to believe that you are related to DCI Sam Whitaker.’
I didn’t like him bringing my Uncle into this. ‘Don’t let the door hit you on the way out, Cosgrove.’
‘Before I go, tell me one more thing.’ I waited. ‘What was it like punching Hooper?’
I couldn’t help cracking a smile, remembering that wonderful moment, which led to my dismissal. ‘Therapeutic.’
‘Good on you.’ He appeared to be impressed.
‘Hooper’s still there, I take it?’ I asked.
‘Yeah, he’s recently been promoted to Chief Inspector, beggar’s belief.’ I was not entirely surprised by the fact knowing Hooper as I did. ‘The higher ups are grooming him to be the face of the Met. I’ll admit the twat does looks good on camera - all he’s good for if you ask me.’
‘That must’ve gone down well.’ I could imagine all the worthy disgruntled candidates who could actually do the job were not pleased to be overlooked in favour of a fast-tracked, golden boy.
Cosgrove shrugged one shoulder. ‘Most just toe the line.’
‘But not you.’
He gave me a shrewd glance but said nothing more on the topic. His mobile began to vibrate on the table. Cosgrove picked it up and cancelled the call.
‘The old ball and chain again?’ I asked.
The detective bent over the table and growled, ‘Consider this a warning, Sorensen. If I find out that you are withholding evidence, I will personally see to it that your licence gets pulled, you got that?’
Undaunted, I downed my drink and then said with a smile, ‘Let me show you out.’ I held the door open for him and watched as he slowly went up the stairs to the street.
Chapter 19
On Friday evening, I found myself strolling around the Covent Garden piazza, which despite the hour, was bathed in golden sunlight. With time to spare before the ballet began, I joined the crowd of tourists forming a circle around a street performer, who was wearing a straitjacket and wrapped up in chains, promising to unshackle himself unassisted, which after making several long speeches, some awkward audience participation, cracking a few crude jokes and a lot of jumping up and down and wriggling about, he did just that. I dropped what loose change I had on me into his hat, and then headed to The Print Room, where Rachel had arranged to meet me.
I went up the stone stairs, walked the length of the bar and scoured the balcony but she was not amongst the cosmopolitan set. I checked my wristwatch. Due to the entertaining distraction of the street performer, I was five minutes late for our rendezvous. I felt a bit crestfallen not to find her waiting there for me. I stood at the bar and caught the eye of the slick, Latino bartender with a groomed goatee, tight trousers and plenty of showmanship.
The bartender requested, with a dazzlingly white, artificial smile, ‘Name your poison.’
As I opened my mouth to speak, I felt a hand fall softly on my shoulder, and a woman’s voice ordered confidently, ‘Two of your dirtiest martinis.’
‘Coming right up.’ The bartender gave a nod, span on the spot and glided away.
I turned my head to see Rachel smiling back at me. ‘Hello darling,’ She said, kissing my cheek. ‘I’m sorry I’m late. Forgive me.’ I would’ve been encouraged, if I hadn’t smelt alcohol on her breath.
Rachel looked effortless chic in a halter-neck, black dress and black, satin shawl loosely draped around her arms. Her black hair was whisked back into a messy bun with two strands cascading down on one side of her face. I noticed she had removed her wedding ring.
‘Are you feeling alright, Rachel?’ I asked.
‘I feel absolutely fine,’ Rachel almost shouted. ‘Honestly, Fred, I’ve never felt better.’
The bartender came back brandishing a cocktail shaker, which he shook with vigour every which way possible, and then proceeded to pour the liquid from a great height into the glasses he’d set on the bar top before us. He then stabbed two olives with cocktail
sticks and tossed one in each glass without making a splash. ‘Enjoy!’
As it was a hot evening, we decided to take our cocktails outside on the balcony.
We had no choice but to stand, as every seat was taken, and I observed that Rachel was swaying ever so slightly between taking sips.
I steadied her with my free hand, touching the cold, smooth skin of her bare arm. ‘How much have you had to drink?’
‘I may have had one or two drinks already,’ Rachel quietly confessed turning her face away from me.
‘You don’t have to go through with this,’ I stated.
‘I’m fine. I-I just needed some Dutch courage to be able to face him.’
I wasn’t reassured so I offered, ‘I can take you home. I can think of another way to get to Dominic.’
She exaggeratedly shook her head from side-to-side like a stubborn child. ‘No, I have to do this,’ Rachel spoke precisely with a sobering determination. ‘I owe it to Grahame. I-I just need to compose myself and clear my head that’s all. And this really isn’t helping...’ She put her cocktail down and took two or three deep breaths.
I checked my wristwatch and said, ‘Curtain up in fifteen. We should make a move soon.’
She put a hand on her stomach, closed and then opened her eyes, and then said, ‘Ok, let’s get this over with.’
We walked arm-in-arm to the Royal Opera House.
We took our seats in the Donald Gordon Grand Tier box behind a well-dressed, elderly couple, who chose only to acknowledge each other.
The theatre lights dimmed and the vibrant red, velvet curtain rose on a brilliantly lit stage, of what appeared to be a quaint German village on an autumnal day.
A series of male dancers pranced about in tights and gestured dramatically at one another, until the principal ballerina emerged, on her own, dressed in white and blue, pirouetted beautifully about and then began dancing with one of the males.
I admired the athleticism and artistry of the dancers but I confess I had absolutely no idea what was happening, the characters and storyline was lost on me.
I was about to ask Rachel for a few pointers but she was preoccupied, looking through opera glasses, searching the occupants of the boxes on the opposite side of the opulent theatre.
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