Beautiful Death

by Fiona McIntosh

  She nodded, more contrite now. ‘Who else is on the team?’

  ‘I’m calling in Cam and Sarah and a few of the younger guys, like Dermot, who did a good job on Danube. A few others, probably someone with an Indian background would be helpful.’

  ‘I guess I’ll learn why soon enough.’

  ‘See you tomorrow, Kate. By the way, have you ever used anyone from NRPSI?’

  ‘A few times, why?’

  ‘We need someone really good, really reliable who’s fluent in Urdu and possibly Gujarati.’

  ‘I’ll ask around.’

  ‘Okay, let me know. Talk later.’

  For a moment she stared wistfully at the phone, then snapped herself out of her thoughts. It was time to pack up her desk and see her boss, make sure it was all in order for her to depart Lewisham for Westminster and the opportunity to work alongside the man she was infatuated with. She also made some enquiries about interpreters, and came up with someone she felt would suit Jack’s needs. Rather than call him, she texted him the details. This operation, she promised herself, she would be utterly professional.

  Namzul stood in the shadows opposite facing Stamford Hill station. About 100 metres away he saw Gluck lean towards a young woman and whisper something to her. They both laughed, then entered a nearby shop. Prostitution had been a major problem in this area for a decade, but the Amhurst Park Action Group, made up of local residents, had made some inroads into cleaning up this part of Hackney, especially as it was a main conduit into and out of the more fashionable Hertfordshire. Namzul knew the clean-up didn’t mean the girls had gone away; they simply became more cunning, their pimps less obtrusive. These days the girls were mainly Eastern European; probably most of them were slaves, kept working on a diet of fear and drugs.

  This was the second time he’d met Gluck at Amhurst Park and it was now obvious to him that Moshe made use of the prostitutes who prowled the area, even though he was sure Moshe would claim he ran a legitimate office above the shops on Amhurst Parade. The realisation came as a surprise, but now that he considered it, he didn’t know why it should. Moshe liked to act all pious and be seen as the dedicated family man, but he clearly had needs that were not being met at home.

  Namzul waited and soon enough the girl emerged from the store, a small paper bag in her hand, and strolled on long pencil-thin legs back towards the station. She was pretty in a hollow-cheeked, haunted way; dark, not overly made up and dressed in jeans tucked into stiletto boots and a cropped leather jacket that accentuated her lean body and height. Her hazelnut-coloured hair curled and moved gently in the breeze around the thick scarf she had wrapped around her neck. She looked cold but he was convinced she would not be fazed by a British winter, unlike him. He still craved the warmth of a Bangladeshi spring, despite it being fifteen years since he last experienced the sultry heat of his homeland. Namzul eased further back into the shadows as the girl looked towards him. She didn’t see him but she was certainly looking in his direction, no doubt scanning for someone she could fit in before Moshe, perhaps. He tried to sneer, but knew deep down he was envious. He struggled to find the courage to approach a woman like this and yet — it was so strange — he was capable of befriending women, making them laugh and sharing conversations with them they’d normally reserve for their girlfriends. That was part of the problem. No one ever saw Namzul as a potential lover. He hated that someone like Moshe not only had a dutiful wife but cheated with the sluts he could afford to pay and make all his dreams a reality.

  He watched the girl arrive at the station, laugh at something one of her mates said, shove her paper bag into her jacket as if to say it was all hers and then disappear down the station steps to the warm platform.

  Namzul hunched deeper into his parka and walked to the kosher café — Milo’s — that was open round the clock and where they’d arranged to meet. Moshe was already tucking into one of the famous cream cheese and smoked salmon bagels.

  ‘Sorry I’m late,’ Namzul said, although he didn’t mean it.

  ‘You missed out. You’ll have to get your own,’ Moshe said, barely looking up from the Hebrew newspaper he was reading.

  Namzul didn’t show his disgust but politely put down his things and went to the counter to order a salt beef sandwich, equally renowned as a delicacy in this café that baked all of its own bread and bagels.

  When he returned balancing his food and a small pot of tea, Moshe finally looked at him.

  ‘I hear you delivered.’

  Namzul nodded but said nothing, simply busied himself pouring his tea. It was far too weak, he hadn’t let it draw properly, but he didn’t care. He was here purely for the salt beef and for his money.

  ‘Schlimey said she was perfect,’ Moshe continued between mouthfuls. ‘Not that I care if she doesn’t match. The orders are so broad anyway, I presume they use only the parts they want.’

  ‘I did my best,’ Namzul replied noncomittally.

  ‘It seems you did, which is why we’ve been asked to source another.’

  He shook his head now. ‘No, Moshe. No more like this.’ He leaned closer, but still whispered. ‘I’ll find kidney donors but Lily was —’

  ‘Lily?’ Moshe’s eyebrow arched before he made a tutting sound. ‘I told you long ago, Namzul, don’t trade with people you know.’

  He didn’t want to know the answer but still the question forced its way through his lips. ‘Is she dead?’

  ‘I have no idea. Probably. I don’t care but you obviously do because you knew her, and that’s a mistake,’ Moshe said, seemingly unaware of the cream cheese in his beard.

  ‘The deadline was unreasonable,’ Namzul complained. ‘I had no choice.’

  Gluck made a sound of admonishment. ‘She could lead the police to you.’

  ‘I doubt it. Where’s my money?’ he said, sipping the tea, but realising talking about Lily had turned it sour in his mouth. He hadn’t slept since Schlimey had collected her. Beautiful, graceful Lily.

  ‘I have half of it, Namzul.’

  ‘Why only half?’ he asked, stirring sugar into his tea, working to keep his voice even and not show Moshe any of the emotion churning inside him. His salt beef sandwich sat untouched beside the teapot. His appetite had fled.

  ‘We want to keep you interested, that’s why. You’re too good. The order is for a white girl this time. She needs to have that really pale skin, rather than a honey colour. You know, it usually comes with red hair or that really whitish blonde. Know what I mean?’

  He shook his head deliberately. ‘I said no.’

  ‘They will pay for her twice over. I can pay you for kidneys as well. Everything if you agree to this one.’

  Namzul looked up. Together it would add up to a deposit on a flat of his own. He could disappear . . . if only Gluck would leave him alone. His private argument raged only briefly. His fury made him reckless. ‘I want it all up front today.’

  Gluck’s expression was one of surprise. ‘That’s a lot of cash. What do you plan to do with it, Namzul?’

  ‘That’s my business. Do you have it on you?’ he asked, knowing full well Gluck probably carried more on a daily basis.

  Gluck reached inside his black overcoat and pulled out another Hebrew newspaper. Within its folds Namzul could see a manila envelope. ‘It’s all there,’ he said, his eyes showing just a hint of glee in their otherwise malign darkness.

  Was he that predictable? Gluck had known he would say yes; was that it? He’d stopped breathing, he realised, and tried to let the air out silently, slowly, so the Jew could not know that his heart was hammering in tandem with his impotent rage. Nevertheless he took the newspaper and with it a deal was agreed.

  ‘A white European woman, with a smooth, unblemished, pale complexion in her mid to late twenties. Nothing much else matters, I’m assured. Same arrangement, although you’ll need to let Schlimey know where the pick-up is. She is required by Friday week.’ Gluck stood.

  ‘I don’t want any more of these job
s, Moshe.’

  Gluck looked unimpressed. ‘What are you going to do? Chase real work?’

  ‘Why not? I’ve been ignoring it of late. I turn down more than you can guess at. I won’t be saying no again to real employment. The first job offered me I’m taking. After this I won’t spot any more donors.’

  ‘Until you need money again. By the way, rent’s due.’

  Namzul stared at him in shock.

  Gluck seemed not to notice. ‘You can afford it now. Give it to Schlimey.’ He finally wiped his mouth, though some food still clung to his straggly beard.

  Namzul swallowed. This is how Moshe kept him beholden, controlled; it’s why he needed his own place and why this needed to stop after this job. ‘How much?’

  Gluck stood. ‘Three hundred. A steal.’

  His mouth opened in shock. ‘Three —’ and he stopped because his voice squeaked. How could he afford that for rent?

  Gluck began moving away. ‘Utilities are extra by the way.’ He contrived a sad smile and was out of the café, no doubt already imagining himself being pleasured by the leggy Eastern European.

  It had been a long day but everything was now in place to kick off Operation Panther the next morning. Sharpe was speaking on the phone and sounded pleased with Jack’s team.

  ‘Angela Karim is a great choice. And although I don’t know him I hear only good things about Malik Khan.’

  Jack nodded. ‘I’ve worked with him, he’s good, although I imagine there’ll be some banging of fists on chests with Brodie.’

  Sharpe gave a grunt of agreement.

  ‘Well, I just wanted to let you know we’re ready, sir. I hope you enjoyed the book club.’

  Sharpe rang off, still spluttering.

  Jack sighed. He might as well ring Lily now while he could. He’d planned to take an evening run around the Royal Park but the light had faded dramatically — it already looked cold and gloomy out there. Beware the ides of March, he heard in the back of his mind, dredging it up from school days. He knew it related to the assassination of Julius Caesar but had never quite grasped how the English related it to the weather. He had to presume it meant that until the middle of March it remained freeze-your-balls-off weather. Today it was the ninth. Almost another two weeks before spring could be declared!

  He dialled Lily’s mobile. Got her answering service . . . again.

  ‘It’s me,’ he said, trying to keep the peevishness out of his tone. ‘I’ve called a few times. Going out for a run but I’ll have my phone with me. Call me.’

  He frowned. That was odd. Lily didn’t usually turn her phone off for such a long time. She had said there would be a lot of deliveries at the hospital today and tomorrow but surely she wasn’t still delivering at — he glanced at his watch — nearly seven. Or perhaps she was. He didn’t know much about the floristry business. But what nagged at him was that Lily usually checked her messages regularly and always got back to him quickly.

  He sighed, pulled on his runners, grabbed his keys, thought about taking his iPod but instead pocketed his mobile so he could take Lily’s call if she rang, pulled on his hoodie and left Croom’s Hill, turning right to enter the elegant wrought-iron gates that heralded the entrance to the nearly 200 acres of one of London’s oldest enclosed parks.

  By the time he had passed the Knot Garden, Jack had found his breathing rhythm, and his mind turned towards the case notes he’d begun reading, and would finish tonight. His irritation at Lily’s silence was soon forgotten.

  At a quarter to three the next morning a van stole quietly into the car park of Sainsbury’s on Cambridge Heath Road, a stone’s throw from the Royal London Hospital. The engine was cut. Two men emerged from the vehicle wearing beanies, gloves and scarves wrapped halfway up their faces. They were not unusually dressed for the time of year — or night — although their furtive glances and stealthy movements as they left the van behind them picked them out as being up to no good. Their luck held, however; at this hour no one looked twice at anyone else. Cars and shoppers were on the move into and out of the supermarket and its car park for a spot of late night/early morning shopping. The men melted away from the supermarket surrounds into the alleyway that led onto Commercial Road and turned right at the HSBC Bank. From there they wended their unhurried way towards Brick Lane. Minutes later, in Brick Lane’s Beizel Bakery, also open twenty-four hours, they were served by a weary counter girl, who could not know that the still warm, salted bagels she bagged up and took the money for were for two men who had just dumped a faceless corpse . . . not that they knew it either.

  She batted uselessly at the fine dusting of baker’s flour that had settled around her shoulders before she tiredly counted out the change from the ten pound note to what looked like a pair of taxi drivers.

  The men walked out of the shop, already cramming the delicious bread into their mouths and joshing each other about an easy night’s work delivering a van to a hospital. The men melted away into Tower Hamlets, stomping ground to many a famous crim, including Jack the Ripper and the Kray Brothers.

  By the time she was found Lily was in full rigor mortis, her limbs stiffened, fingers like claws, her ruined face no longer beautiful . . . in fact no longer there.

  5.

  The middle-aged receptionist’s feet were lifted off the floor in the bear hug she received from DCI Hawksworth as he entered the top-floor corridor near the library.

  ‘I was hoping Superintendent Sharpe would secure you for us, Joan,’ Jack murmured for her hearing alone. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘I know how you need lots of mothering, Jack,’ she said, smiling warmly at him. ‘I also revel in the clamour of television and radio crews desperate to get interviews with you,’ she added archly over her half spectacles. He grinned.

  Jack knew he was one of her favourites and to have the Joan Field stamp of approval meant he was definitely in the good books with the power players of New Scotland Yard. ‘Everything sorted?’

  ‘Just about. Helen’s been a saint. Malcolm gave her all of yesterday off and you know how she can get anyone to do anything for her.’ Jack nodded. Joan was one of the few people in the Met who called everyone, no matter how senior, by their first name and got away with it. ‘So I think we have all we need to get going — anything else that needs to be done I’ll iron out today.’

  He blew her a kiss. ‘Kettle on?’

  ‘Better!’ she called after him. ‘I secured an urn and a proper coffee-maker for you.’

  ‘Brilliant!’ Jack murmured as he arrived at the main operation room. It was still deserted but wouldn’t be for long. Kate, he imagined, would arrive first and then everyone would be in by eight. The clock on the wall told him that was in thirty-three minutes. He checked his mobile. No message from Lily. He pulled off his coat and scarf and threw down the files he’d pored over till just before midnight, and dialled her number. He hit her voicemail yet again.

  Now he was worried. Dare he risk it? Yes. He scanned through the numbers in his phone until he found the name of her store and hit the call button. No one answered. Now that was strange. Lily and her mother worked from the early hours to buy and prepare their flowers for the day’s trading. Perhaps Lily’s silence meant there was something going down in the family — there was no other reason the shop would be closed. Had they found out about him?

  He skipped through the numbers again till he found the one he was looking for and had never rung previously. He rang it now, holding his breath.

  ‘Hello?’ a small voice answered.

  ‘Alys?’

  ‘Yes.’ The girl sounded shaken. ‘Who’s this?’

  ‘It’s er, it’s Jack. Jack Hawksworth.’

  ‘Lily’s policeman?’

  He was pretty sure Lily had admitted to her young sister that she was seeing Jack and the girl had been sworn to secrecy. ‘Yes. What’s wrong?’ Her voice sounded strained.

  Alys began to cry.

  ‘Alys? . . . Alys! What’s happened?’

&nbs
p; ‘Lily’s missing,’ she stammered.

  ‘What?’ Missing? That word was so wrong.

  ‘We haven’t seen her since yesterday. My parents are with the police now. I’ve been sent to my room.’

  ‘Police?’ The irony was missed on Jack as he struggled to grasp that Lily’s family hadn’t heard from her either. He cleared his throat to help clear his mind. ‘Listen, Alys, where was she last seen?’

  ‘She had a full afternoon of deliveries, I think. I don’t really know the whole story because I’ve just come back from an overnight camp,’ she explained tearily.

  ‘I see.’ What a stupid thing to say. He didn’t see. He didn’t see anything because it wasn’t making sense.

  She sniffed. ‘I thought she might have been with you to tell the truth,’ Alys added, a slight edge of conspiracy in her tone — but also hope.

  ‘No, I . . . I . . .’ Jack could feel the situation spinning out of control. His mind was already racing to how the police would find out about him, how it was going to look when they needed to ask questions about his relationship with Lily when he was spearheading the most prominent and ghoulish case in the country. ‘Alys, you mustn’t say anything about me,’ he blurted. ‘For Lily’s sake,’ he added, feeling treacherous.

  ‘I haven’t. I promised Lily I wouldn’t.’ She was resolute.

  ‘Good. Keep that promise. It’s only going to look bad. I’ll ring the police and explain, but we don’t want your parents getting any more upset.’

  ‘They’ll die if they find out, or if Jimmy finds out . . . our family’s name will be blackened.’

  Jack couldn’t give a flying fig about Jimmy-bloody-Chan. ‘Then just say nothing. No one has to know about me. Lily and I are just good friends anyway,’ he said, despising the cliché as it escaped his lips. ‘We always knew it couldn’t turn into anything beyond friendship.’ At least that was honest. ‘Now, dry your eyes and try and stay calm. I’m going to do everything I can to find Lily, I promise you, Alys. In fact by tonight I’m sure we’ll all know where she’s been.’ Making a promise like this was suicidal — he knew better than this!