‘Detective Inspector…’, the male voice said, Bridges not quite catching the name, ‘… of the Metropolitan Police. If I might have a quick word. I do apologise for the hour sir, I hope it’s not too inconvenient―’
‘Well it is, actually.’
‘It is rather important I’m afraid. I will only take up a minute of your time, I guarantee it.’
Access to Bridges’ penthouse apartment was via a small three person lift and as the doors opened directly into his living room he wasn’t about to let a stranger in, alleged policeman or not. And most certainly not in the current situation.
‘I’ll come down.’
After checking the officer’s I.D. through the letter slot, he opened the door and stepped outside. Which is when he recognised him. He recognised the creased charcoal grey suit first. With the brown suede shoes. And the rimless glasses. It was the large man from the club, the one who’d stared at him on the Piccadilly line that afternoon. He’d seen him since then too, he was sure of it. It was strange, though, he didn’t look quite as fat as what Bridges had remembered, but it was him all right.
‘I remember you. From the Garrick.’
The officer stared back blankly. He was possibly about to reply, but Bridges didn’t have all night.
‘And the train,’ he added. ‘Have you been following me?’
He hadn’t intended to sound quite so whiny and peevish, but the detective remained unruffled.
‘Not at all sir. If it was me, it would have been a coincidence. I assure you.’
‘Right. What was your name again?’
‘Stephens. Nigel Stephens, sir. I’m a plain clothes detective, with―’
‘Plain, yes, I can see that.’ Whoops, Bridges thought. A bit insulting, but “plain” certainly nailed it.
‘Yes, thank you. I’m a detective attached to the Art and Antiquities Unit of the Specialist, Organised and Economic Crime Command. I’m currently heading up an investigation into various possible crimes connected to, and including, the death and possible homicide of an Armenian gentleman by the name of Nishan, otherwise known as Norton, Rattatroop. You’ve heard of Mr Rattatroop I presume?’
‘Vaguely. Not really. You should speak to…’ But Bridges trailed off. Had second thoughts about mentioning Runion. A kind of last minute instinctive ‘veto’, as it were.
But it made no difference.
‘Richard Runion?’ the detective said. ‘You knew… you know him, I understand. You see, unfortunately, we haven’t been able to locate him, and that’s why I’m here, that’s why I’ve had to come to you at this most ungodly of all ungodly hours.’
‘Has something happened to him?’
‘I sincerely hope not. But I have reason to believe you should… watch your step, at the moment. If you know what I mean.’
‘Really? Yes, I think I do.’
‘Would you mind if I came up? I could… fill you in a little further.’
‘No, no. Certainly. Come in, come in.’
82. 51° 30' 46" N 0° 8' 2" W
(Peter Street Flat, Soho)
1.10am Greenwich Mean Time (01:10 UTC)
Sunday, 27 October
She never should have returned to the flat. Isla knew it when she walked in, almost two hours ago, and she knew it now.
* * *
It had all started going wrong straight away – just after she’d walked over to the window, in fact. She stood there for no particular reason other than to avoid having to look at him. At Irwin. Or answer his questions: about where she’d been, or whatever else. When she looked out at a night that reflected how she felt – there was a stifling, cold greyness as relentless legions of feather-light rain showers descended slowly across the city, like thousands of tiny, silent paratroopers – she saw the barrister standing across the road, his BOAC bag over his shoulder, looking up at her. Get out of here you fool. And when Irwin had come to the window, she’d watched her streetbound peeping tom slink off into the night.
Which was when the questions started – you could never escape them. Ever since their recent discussion about the detective, Stephens – and now she knew who the weirdo was in her life drawing classes – Irwin had been probing and probing. Convinced she knew things that she didn’t. And now he was about to get physical. You could see it coming a mile off.
She never should have returned to the flat.
She was sitting opposite him, in a chair with leather upholstery so soft it felt like it was trying to swallow her up – grope her first, and swallow her whole.
He’d gone quiet, and was just staring at her. Get on with it.
‘I feel bad about what happened,’ he said finally.
Was he apologising? Surely not.
‘What do you mean.’
‘I feel bad, and we need to talk about it,’ he said.
Isla just stared straight back at him. He’d played this game before. And if there was one thing she was proud of, it was the way she just sat there, looking at him, not saying anything. Making him do all the talking. Well handled. Stupid for not leaving earlier and jumping on the next train to Paris, but well handled.
‘And I’m pretty fucking certain you know why we need to talk.’
He waited for a response, but she held her nerve, kept her cool.
‘Maybe things haven’t been so easy for you, since we moved here. Maybe we never should have left Paris. Or Zurich, even, but…’ There was a pause. ‘Are you just going to sit there? Hey. You’ll help yourself, you know, if you talk to me.’
‘A bit hard to talk, Irwin, when you’re gagging on someone else’s bullshit.’
This time it was Irwin’s turn to stare. He turned a couple of shades redder. It was almost funny – and it would have been, if it hadn’t led to such a catastrophe.
She watched him thinking, and wondered if he was counting to a hundred or reviewing his strategy in his head. After what seemed like a full sixty seconds, he slowly stood up, brushed some crumbs or lint off his lap (it was funny how you remember these things, the small things, the best), walked around the coffee table, past Isla and switched off the main light, leaving only the light from the lamp in the corner. Interesting, maybe he wants to kill me, she thought.
He then drew the curtains. So no-one could see in? And see him… stabbing her and cutting her up and putting the pieces into freezer bags―
Everything suddenly went black and silent for a moment.
Irwin had just slapped her. Hard, across her face.
‘That’s cutting the bullshit, you stupid cow. That… is for messing with my fucking livelihood.’
Her face burned, she could still see stars in front of her eyes – they looked more like swarming flies – and her hearing seemed muffled in her left ear (he’d managed to hit that too).
Next thing she knew he was shaking a piece of paper in front of her face.
‘Is this it?’
After he stopped shaking it around and she was eventually able to focus, she could see it was the design which she’d turned into her tattoo. OK. So he’d found out. (A normal person in a normal relationship would wonder how he found out. But she was dealing with Irwin and nothing ever surprised her.) Here we go.
‘You thought it was OK to make a copy did you? Without asking me? And you know what else you did you dumb cunt. You left it with your tattooist friend. Luckily we managed to retrieve and destroy it, although… not so lucky for your friend.’
She’d completely forgotten about the photocopy. The one she left at the tattooist’s. And now… It was all her fault.
‘So where is it?’ Irwin asked.
‘Where’s what.’ It was hard to get the words out, after what Irwin had just told her. And after he’d almost broken her jaw.
‘The tattoo.’
‘Nowhere you’re ever going to see it.’
‘Oh I think I’m going to see it all right.’
Oh no you’re not.
‘I’m going to see it,’ Irwin added, ‘because we’re g
etting that tattoo, wherever it is, removed in the morning.’
‘Like fuck we are.’
And he slapped her again. It was even harder this time. More swarming flies. Longer lingering flies they were too. Friendly or annoying, she couldn’t tell…
‘You stupid bitch,’ he was saying when her hearing kicked in again. ‘You still don’t get it do you. One copy in the world and this is it. This… is it.’ He was shaking the piece of paper again. ‘So yeah. The tattoo goes.’
Well that was fun, she thought. What next.
Rape, that’s what was next. The next thing she knew he was raping her. It always followed a pattern (although tonight would be slightly different). The slapping, the tearing off of her clothes (jeans were the hardest), the act of penetration… And tonight she was gifted a soundtrack too.
‘And now you’re fucked,’ he rasped between thrusts. ‘You’re fucked… you’re so… complete… ly fucked…’
And then, after he gave up trying to come – not violent enough for him, perhaps – he said to her softly, almost in a whisper, and accompanied with the surprising, tender caresses of the lover he had never been, nor would ever be:
‘Isn’t it funny how in English, there are two totally different meanings of that word, “fucked”, why is that do you think? It’s so strange. And look at you now, lying there, your clothes scattered, your legs spread… You are fucked and you are fucked. Fucked in every sense of the word, my dear, sweet Isla.’
And that would have been the end of it, but when she began to gather her clothes, he spoke again.
‘Suck my cock,’ he said, apparently speaking literally. No double-meaning.
She ignored him.
‘Suck my cock you Swiss piece of shit, you slut queen of Europe and you get to retain the use of your legs. Pretty useful in your line of work I would have thought.’ He laughed after the last remark.
Which is precisely when Irwin crossed some invisible, arbitrary line which even Isla herself wasn’t aware of.
She really had nothing at all to say to that and decided to leave. She was halfway out of her chair when he shoved her back down again, back into that perverted accomplice of an armchair.
‘Suck my cock and let’s get this over with. You might even enjoy it for once.’
From that point on, all she could clearly recall was Irwin trying to push his stupid little prick into her mouth.
* * *
She was enjoying the armchair now, funnily enough, which had somehow turned into her friend – it was as cosy as a warm bath.
Right in front of her, in her direct line of vision, her ex-lover had his most prized possession, a nineteenth century Melanesian carved-bone fishing knife sticking out of his chest just about where you’d have expected his heart to have been if he’d had one. Judging by the small amount of handle showing, it had been pushed so far through, it must have come out the other side, torn through the back of his Boss business shirt and possibly even scratched the varnish on the floorboards beneath the now blood-soaked Persian carpet.
Had she really done that?
She had. In fact for some strange reason she’d checked the time afterwards – possibly out of some sort of defensive reflex, to help with getting her story straight later – and her mobile, which she’d found next to her jeans, had said 1.55am.
It had been her, she’d really done it. So she’d fought back, she’d stopped enduring. She’d taken that Jon Marriner’s advice after all.
She got up, and walked over and picked up the piece of paper that Irwin had been waving in her face. Took the lighter on the coffee table and lit the piece of paper. Watched it burn in the ashtray. Stubbed out the ashes.
‘See?’ she said to Irwin’s body. ‘Still one copy.’
She quickly got dressed, realizing that she was in more danger now, rather than less. And a murder charge was the least of her problems.
Clearly, she should never have returned to the flat.
She checked her phone again before she did a quick last minute inspection of the place (there was no chance of her doing anything about the body). She was confused at first: the time was 1.10am. And then she remembered daylight saving ended that night – the clocks had just gone back, at 2am. Back to 1am.
So the whole hour had disappeared. Did that mean the killing had never happened?
83. 17° 46' 21" S 168° 18' 39" E
(Erakor Island Resort, Port Vila)
At the same moment…
12.10pm Vanuatu Time (01:10 UTC)
Sunday, 27 October
He was getting lazy. Ruart had planted himself on a seat in the covered bar area with a view that took in the bar/restaurant itself, the sunbathers on the beach, and the lagoon, across which an outboard-powered boat provided the sole means of access to the resort. The Erakor Island Resort to be precise, where Bob Walman was staying. He imagined he could almost get away with remaining exactly where he was, and do all his work from the chair he was sitting in, and never have to do anything more than turn around and order another Bikini Martini.
Well his genie must have been working overtime, because no sooner had the thought crossed his mind than one of the hotel’s employees informed him that Mr Walman was arriving, and that was him walking up from the jetty right now. Which one? The big man, white shirt.
Walman looked pretty fit for a CEO, if still a little on the predictably heavy side. Wearing a white Lacoste polo shirt, black logo-less cap, blue patterned boardshorts, deck shoes, and a well-seasoned tan, he was definitely the picture of a hard-working exec on holiday.
‘Er, Mr Walman?’
‘Yes?’
‘Robert Vincent. I’m sorry to bother you but I am a yachting broker, and I am―’
‘I’m sorry Mr, ah, Vincent, but I’m a little busy.’
‘Yes I can see that.’ Ruart left just enough of a pause for Walman to get a whiff of sarcasm without being suffocated by it. ‘I just wanted to quickly ask you about your boat, the Diamond Moon.’
‘What about it.’ Any hint of potential goodwill had well and truly wafted away on the balmy tropical breeze.
‘Well, first, who you bought it from? You see I am looking at possibly―’
‘Listen. All I can tell you is I acquired it in Réunion two months ago, but through a maritime agent there, and I doubt I could even recollect his name. OK?’
‘And the previous owner? Perhaps you have―
‘No idea.’
‘Dominique Drayle? You must have spoken with him.’
‘Never heard of him.’
‘Seriously?’
‘Always. Now Mr, ah…’
‘Vincent.’
‘Mr Vincent, my holiday time is as valuable as my work time, and I doubt very much that someone like you could afford the bill, so if you’ll excuse me.’
* * *
So why were they all here, in Vanuatu?
By being as unfriendly and unhelpful as he was, Walman had, Ruart felt, inadvertently nailed his guilty flag to his mast. His lack of cooperation, plus the presence of Lena and Roy in town at the same time, equalled Drayle. That was Ruart’s current whiteboard equation anyway and it was staying up there on the board until he had a better one.
And his patience paid off. Because one more Bikini Martini later, Walman was back, meeting friends at the other end of the bar. And guess who was amongst them? Lena. Where had she sprung from? He hadn’t seen her arrive. Must have been distracted by the bronzing semi-naked bodies on the beach – one of the obstacles you encounter when attempting any serious detective work in the tropics.
Lena was with a bizarre-looking, black-haired… Westerner or Eurasian, he wasn’t quite sure. Could that have been the Englishman seen with Lena last night? Edward Lang? He didn’t look very English.
Lena spotted Ruart and stared. Walman caught her look and when he saw who Lena was staring at, he visibly scowled. Lena excused herself from her male companions and came over. Ruart’s chair was working wonders. Or was it the Bikini
Martinis?
‘Monsieur Vincent.’ Her French accent was commendable.
‘Good memory,’ Ruart said, getting up and offering his hand. ‘Robert. Have a seat. Please.’
‘Robert Vincent,’ she said, nodding. ‘You needn’t get up.’
She neither shook his hand, nor sat down.
‘So how are you Lena?’
‘You wouldn’t be following me, would you?’
‘I was, er… pursuing Mr Walman.’
‘You’ve certainly come a long way for such a short conversation.’
‘It’s OK, I have other business here, in Vanuatu.’
Clearly unconvinced, she simply nodded curtly and smiled. ‘Well I hope you enjoy your stay.’
‘So do I.’ There was a certain impishness in his delivery, but Lena was having none of it and avoided his eyes. She was about to leave when he added: ‘Is Roy here?’
‘I’m afraid not,’ she said after a moment’s hesitation. ‘He… had business to attend to, in Broome. Last minute drama. Now I have to get back to my friends. I hope we don’t keep bumping into each other like this, or I really will start to worry.’
‘What about?’
No reaction to that one either let alone a smile, which seemed to be, by now, way too much to ask for. But when she turned and strutted off, she kicked out her saronged hips, and he had the feeling she knew exactly where his eyes were…
So why was she lying about Roy? Was she having an affair? Or was it some kind of cover for something else?
Ruart watched as she returned to her two companions. He could tell she was talking about him – Walman refused to look in his direction but the black-haired man seemed to take a great interest.
* * *
Half an hour later, after he had finished enjoying a light lunch consisting of a BLT and a local beer (Tusker) and was weighing up the pros and cons of ordering a follow-up beer, one for the ‘road’ so to speak, Lena took a detour via Ruart on her way back to her table.
Dark Oceans Page 38