I don’t think I’m going to be able to meet up with Mrs Vasconselos at Fortnum’s, which is a shame. Nevertheless, I know she’s staying at the Hotel Café Royal, so all is not quite lost. I wonder if I should call her? I pop into Eat on The Strand and pick up a shitload of sandwiches, sushi and cookies, plus some fruit juice and mineral water in case Sara gets sick of coffee.
By the time I get back, she’s got a bit more colour, but is starting to look tired. As we eat, she stretches her hand across the table and places it over mine.
‘I’m afraid now, Daniel,’ says Sara. She giggles, but it’s fake and brittle. ‘I feel as if someone’s trying to do me serious harm. What would have happened if you hadn’t caught up with those men?’
‘I don’t know. I don’t know what they wanted. But know one thing: you’re safe here, and I think you’re going to have to stay here until I can get this mess sorted out. Unless you’d prefer me to hand the whole thing over to the police. Someone tried to kidnap you in broad daylight in front of witnesses. They have to take that seriously.’
She frowns and purses her lips. ‘I told you. I want you to handle this. Do you mind if go and have a lie down on your bed? I feel a bit tired now. I think it’s all catching up with me.’
‘Sure. Lie on your side.’
She smiles at me as she heads for the bedroom. ‘Don’t think I’ve forgotten about what happened on Baker Street.’
‘I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about, miss.’
‘Oh yeah?’ she says, without turning around.
I pour another coffee for myself and get my cartridge pad and pen in front of me on the table. I can see now why Blond Hair was so keen to buy me off. He obviously knew this kidnap attempt was happening – of course he did – and didn’t want any interference from someone like me.
On the other hand, he obviously felt he had nothing to fear from my presence and he was almost right. I was just a minor problem that he wanted out of the way for his own peace of mind and so things ran smoothly.
He must have surmised that I wasn’t guarding Sara day and night and that the chances of me being there when the snatch happened were remote, but he wanted to be on the safe side. As it turned out, I was there, but what the hell was I going to do against him and Blue Suit and their fuck-off SUV?
Also, they were prepared for someone trying to stop them or making a fuss; I suspect that’s what Blue Suit was for and why Rachelle was dealt with so brutally. Blond Hair could easily have done the job on his own, so it must have been very important to him that nothing went wrong.
And now the next problem: what happened that changed all of this from harassment to kidnapping? Was it always going to be this way? Were the street hassles and breaking and entering just for starters, leading up to The Big One? And once they’d got Sara sequestered away somewhere, what were they going to do to her? A major premise of kidnapping is that at some point there’s going to be a ransom demand. Who were they going to squeeze for the money?
But even the kidnapping idea doesn’t really hold water. If I was going to grab Sara like that, I’d do it out of the blue, without any warning harassments or break-ins. So my first theory seems to be the most obvious solution: it was only meant to be harassment and hassle, but then something changed.
So what changed?
Kidnapping doesn’t make sense on another level: if she was the daughter or wife of a well-known millionaire you could just about imagine it, but a single woman in her twenties making a success of herself in the fashion industry? I for one had never heard of her. If she hadn’t contacted me, I wouldn’t even have known of her existence.
So what other reason could they have for taking her away like that? Were they going to kill her? Rape her? Was it, as Isolda suggested, some disturbed guy who’d seen her photograph in a magazine and got a little too obsessed? Moreover, a disturbed guy with a mini-army of professional, motivated, moneyed, well-equipped criminals at his beck and call? I really can’t get this straight in my head at all. I think of the words of wisdom of the late unlamented Footballer Dad:
She’s just a fucking slut who needed to be brought down a peg or two.
And then:
He’ll fucking get you for this, whoever you are.
No. The disturbed guy scenario doesn’t really work, either. This is menacing, well-planned and professional, not crazy, random and unhinged. Was the fucking slut comment just a general insult he used all the time, or did he or whoever he worked for, actually know her personally, or at least know of her enough to hate her?
I’m going to write down the names of the players I know about so far on my cartridge pad. I’ll add the first comments and thoughts that come to mind. If there’s any justice in the world, which I know there isn’t, something will gel and the answer will leap out and I’ll know what to do. I’ll start with:
1. Footballer Dad. Definitely a thug and definitely a foot soldier. Maybe brought out of retirement for this. Maybe still active. Responsible for at least two definite insulting, menacing harassments. Attempted to pull Sara’s dress off in public. Despite his hard-man image, definitely fearful and/or respectful of Scary Boss. Which brings me to:
2. Scary Boss. Whoever the hell he is. The mastermind behind this whole thing? Reason unknown. The sort of criminal heavy that a hard man like Footballer Dad would fear or at least respect. Why is he bothering with this? So high-risk, it must be worth it in some way. What’s his motive and what’s his reward? I’d like to meet him and ask WTF’s going on. Then break his neck and dump his body in a skip.
3. Blond Hair. Ex-police. Possibly Special Branch. Bent former police working for criminals is not unknown, but the money has to be good. This would maybe make Scary Boss rich and influential. Blond Hair was a skilled pro; good tailing ability, fearless, risk-taking driving technique. Menacing, threatening, but too cocky and over-confident as it turned out. A senior player to Footballer Dad, that’s for sure. His description didn’t fit any of the men who Sara told me about, so he obviously didn’t trouble himself with the minor stuff. Hits women. Is he Scary Boss? Unlikely.
4. Blue Suit. Another foot soldier, but younger and possibly more effective than Footballer Dad. One of those tossers with combat skills who use them to bully, overpower and feel good about themselves. Smartly dressed and well-groomed. That smirking expression expressed no doubt about the outcome of his altercation with me, but in the end he wasn’t smart, skilled or fast enough. Second-class muscle. Hits women. Probably enjoys it.
5. Burglar Bill. Whoever broke into Sara’s building was strong, not heavy or overweight, and skilled. We’re most likely looking at a career burglar or a ninja. Most likely the former. So Scary Boss knows/employs people like this. Of the four gentlemen above, I would nominate Blue Suit as the most likely candidate, but I don’t think he’d have the brains or chops for such a job.
Sara said that the two men who blocked her way one night were in their forties and that both had short dark hair. I have to assume that these two were one-offs. She never saw them again and they don’t figure in my list of players. It could be that they were random wankers and nothing to do with all of this, but I somehow feel they were connected because of the technique and time frame. If Scary Boss is rotating the help, maybe the time hasn’t come for these two to reappear quite yet.
Then there was the solitary guy in South Molton Street, the one who kept stepping in front of her. She said that his face was hard and serious and that she felt he would hit her if she tried to push past him. I didn’t get a specific description of this guy, but he was using similar tactics to the other two. Once again, the ‘hitting women’ motif rears its ugly head and once again it may not yet be time for him to reappear. Maybe he never will.
Before the abduction attempt, I was wondering how long all of this would be kept up and when it would naturally end. When Sara announced she was no longer doing the two shows? When she had a nervous breakdown and was sent somewhere to ‘rest’? Perhaps things weren’
t happening as fast as they planned, so the schedule had to be escalated, hence the SUV and its charming occupants. Maybe all of it was all just a game for them; a bit of fun.
Then we have Footballer Dad in Heddon Street, jostling her in the shoulder and calling her bitch. By the time he approached her in Piccadilly, he’d upped his game to ‘fuckin’ stinkin’ whore’ and tried to undo her dress. I must focus on the job of getting rid of his body when I have the time. It’s pretty cold in the lock-up, so I reckon I’ve got three to five days before he starts to smell.
It’s never been the same people twice, or if it has, I wasn’t aware of it.
I take a look at the sheet of cartridge paper. I notice that my writing deteriorates as I get to the bottom of the page. So what do we have? At least eight of them, it would seem, unless Burglar Bill is doubling on harassment duties. A bunch of violent, misogynistic, ill-educated, macho bullies, all picking on the same girl.
I’m almost sorry that Footballer Dad died when he did. If I’d been able to get a solid hour with him, I’d have been able to make him tell me things he didn’t even know he knew and then write me a polite thank-you note for listening, accompanied by a big bunch of in-season flowers. The frustration of not having any leads is beginning to annoy me intensely.
I rip a clean sheet of cartridge paper off the pad, grab the pen and absentmindedly wander into the bedroom, forgetting Sara is there. She’s lying on her side and seems to be asleep. I realise that I’ve forgotten to do anything with Blond Hair’s jacket, place the paper and pen on the bed and pick it up.
Without thinking, I start to rifle through the pockets. I find a number of pieces of pocket junk; some disposable tissues, chewing gum, lip balm, a silver fountain pen, a packet of Sudafed, a Leatherman Juice XE6 and a nine-inch Châtellerault stiletto flick knife. No wallet or keys. Was he being careful? Probably not. Keys still in the SUV and wallet probably in his trouser pocket. I take the Leatherman and the flick knife into the kitchen and hide them behind the food processor.
I’m just about to bin the jacket when I find a folded piece of red and white paper. It’s the rental receipt for the SUV. Venture Car Hire, 36 Prideaux Road, Stockwell, London SW9 4AH. Black Ford Explorer. Rental period two days starting yesterday. There’s an unreadable signature in three places on the sheet and a company name: T.R.J.E. Ltd.
Well, at bloody last. All I have to do is get down to Stockwell, find out who T.R.J.E. Ltd are and the whole thing’ll be magically solved. Or not. It isn’t much, but it’s all I have to go on.
I get dressed, go in the bedroom, sit on the side of the bed and shake Sara awake. She rolls onto her back and looks up at me, smiling.
‘Is it morning already?’ she purrs. ‘I’m exhausted after last night.’
‘I have to go to work, darling. Remember to do the cleaning and particularly the inside of the oven. And the ironing. If this place isn’t totally spotless by the time I return, you’ll be getting a firm spanking.’
‘I’m going to smear mud and offal over your carpets and furniture.’
Oh my God.
‘Seriously – I’ll let myself in when I get back. Don’t answer the door and don’t let anyone know where you are. Just go back to sleep.’
‘Mm-hm. What was your name again?’
I grab my jacket, walk down to The Strand and get a cab to Stockwell. It’s starting to rain.
20
VENTURE CAR HIRE
Prideaux Road is a small residential street filled mainly with terraced Edwardian houses. It’s so deserted and quiet that I’m wondering if something terrible has happened here and the whole population has been evacuated.
Typically, number thirty-six is right down the other end from where the cab dropped me. There’s a large, crappy-looking rusted gate with a wooden sign reading: Venture Cars. Tacky-looking purple writing on a green background. For a moment, I think I’ve somehow come to the wrong place or at least maybe to the wrong branch.
I push the gate open and walk into a wide, pothole-ridden yard. I can hear a bell go off somewhere, so presumably I’ve stepped on something without realising it. I look down, but I can’t see anything. However rundown the whole operation looks from the outside, however, the rows of smart-looking vehicles tell a different story and maybe the rundown exterior is intentional.
There are several arc lights dotted around plus nine CCTV cameras, some discreet, some not so discreet. I assume the place is pretty well lit up at night to discourage casual theft or even casual inspection. It wouldn’t surprise me if they hired a security firm to keep an eye on things when there was no one here, though I can’t see any signs indicating a security presence, and they usually like to advertise.
The walls around the yard have broken glass embedded in them, which I thought was illegal, but I could be wrong. Not impossible to get past, but it would certainly discourage kids.
There’s a wide, flat metal strip running across the base of the gate, probably some sort of security ramp, which is raised when the place is shut. There are about half a dozen SUVs like the one Blond Hair was driving, and the remaining vehicles are Daimlers, Jaguars, Nissans, Mercedes, BMWs and the like; all new, all clean and all in excellent condition. I can’t imagine how much money it would take to set up an operation like this. Maybe they just started with a bank loan and two second hand Volkswagen Golfs or something.
There’s a kid of about seventeen wearing a pink Ulan Bator t-shirt and he’s cleaning the windscreen of a band-new white Jaguar XK-R Coupé as if his life depended on it. He looks up when he sees me and nods towards a Portakabin to my left. Another bell goes off as I walk up the steps. There’s a sign on the door: Reception.
The guy behind the reception counter is a heavily bearded, longhaired Asian dude in his mid-twenties, who is so big he seriously looks like he could be a Sumo wrestler.
He has a big pair of lime green Sennheiser headphones slung around his neck and one of his ears is pierced six times. He’s wearing a red and white Kobayashi Porcelain Indonesia t-shirt. Left-handed. Copper bracelet on his right wrist. Rheumatism? I can’t see how he would get through the door. He quickly walks around to greet me personally and even though he’s smiling it’s slightly intimidating. I’m expecting a bone-crusher handshake, but it’s actually light and delicate, like he’s barely touching me. He’s been drinking Dr Pepper.
‘Good morning, sir. I’m Nick Sarna. How can I help you?’
His voice is South London and educated. I wonder if he went to university but then decided to join the family business.
‘Hi. My name’s Daniel Beckett. I’m a private investigator. If you have the time, I’d like to talk to you about a vehicle that was rented here yesterday.’
He looks at me as if I’ve just told him I’m from outer space.
‘You’re shitting me.’
‘About what?’
‘That you’re a private detective.’
‘No.’
‘You’re actually a real private detective.’
‘Yes.’
‘Shit. It’s like you’re some fictional character and you’ve just walked in the fucking door in reality. This is really strange. You’re even dressed like a cool fuck.’
‘Thank you.’
‘I don’t mean that like it’s a bad thing. Cool fuck, I mean. Yeah. Fucking great. Let’s go in the office.’
He pokes his head out of the door and shouts at the kid. ‘Szymon! Keep an eye out. I’m in a fucking meeting.’
Szymon waves and gets on with the windscreen.
‘Szymon’s got some sort of obsessive-compulsive disorder,’ says Nick Sarna, grinning at me. ‘It’s great for keeping all the motors spotless, inside and out.’
We go through a back door into another, slightly larger Portakabin. I watch him as he sidles through the door and still can’t work out how he does it. This one is smartly decorated and has a huge tank of tropical fish in the corner. There are art prints all over the walls. There’s a print of Nighthawks by E
dward Hopper, which is the only one I recognise. I’m going to briefly soften him up. I point to the print.
‘Hey. Nighthawks.’
‘You like that? I fucking love his stuff. It’s so creepy. Wait.’
He rummages around in a desk draw and produces a thick coffee table book full of Edward Hopper paintings. I take it and flick through it appreciatively.
‘I did a BA in Fine Art at Northumbria University. He was one of the guys I tried to copy, but it’s harder than it looks. It looks really simple, but it’s not.’
‘I’m sure.’
‘You’d be amazed at how many people don’t recognise stuff like this. I mean, he’s one of the most famous artists in the fucking world. He’s one of the greats. It’s the same with others. People just don’t – I mean, it’s a big fucking thing. Art, I mean. And most people only recognise two or three artists, if that. Picasso, Van Gogh, stuff like that. Fucking Monet’s water lilies on fucking tea towels.’
‘Nothing wrong with them, though.’
‘What – tea towels?’
‘The artists.’
‘No. Of course not. But there’s so much more, y’know?’
I can see now that the bookshelf to my left is full of art books. Warhol, Kandinsky, Klein, Rothko, Chadwick. This is obviously his Big Thing. I don’t want to get him started on why the hell he’s working here. I don’t have the time. I think I’ve broken the ice now, though, which is what I was aiming for.
‘So let me just show you something…’
I fish the car rental receipt out of my pocket and put it on the desk in front of him. This is going OK so far. I’m not being too officious or pushing too hard. He’s the type that would suddenly become unhelpful if you started sounding too much like authority.
‘Yeah. I remember this. The black Explorer. Guy came in yesterday. I’m expecting him to bring it back today. Sneering, arrogant fucker. Impatient. Expected me to get down on my hands and knees in front of him. A face made for punching. Sighed irritably when he had to fill in the form. You know the type.’
Death is the New Black Page 20