by Jane Adams
“And the murder weapon?” someone asked. “I’ve never seen injuries like that before, I don’t think any of us have.”
Clarke opened his briefcase and took out a linen bag. From that, he took a docker’s hook. It had been welded to a T-bar handle. The tip, currently plunged into a block of polystyrene, had been sharpened, as had the inner curve of the hook.
He heard a ripple of laughter as someone asked if he’d got Peter Pan in there as well, but once he’d started passing the weapon round, the laughter faded and a mood of distaste and outright horror permeated instead.
He pointed to the pictures of Harry Prentice on the board, the photographs of his injuries. “It’s a variation on a standard docker’s hook,” he said. “It’s a legitimate tool of the trade. The old-time stevedores used them for unloading bales of whatever, used the hook to grab the bale or the rope binding it and then pulled it down so it could be unloaded. It took a lot of skill. Trouble was, they also used them when they got into fights and it was not uncommon in the East End of London for someone to be found with part of his arm ripped off — or his face — or even the hook driven into a skull. But Kyle Sykes, and we suspect it is him, he’s taken this to a whole new level. Of course, Mr Sykes has been alibied in every single instance, by at least a dozen worthy witnesses, and of course he’d always wear gloves.”
“You’d have to be committed to use something like this,” a young constable commented. “It’s even more up close and personal than a knife. A knife goes in and comes out relatively clean, but with this you’ve got to jab it in and then pull. The only way it’s going to come out is if it slices through whatever you’ve hooked it into.” He mimed the action he was describing.
“It’s a nasty thing,” Clarke said. “Once you see those injuries, you never forget them.”
“Was this evidence in a crime?” Reynolds asked. The weapon had now come back to him and he was holding it somewhat gingerly.
“The first time we came across this was six years ago. Lauren was eleven. She found her mother dead and this is an exact copy of the weapon that had been used to kill her. The man who was arrested and subsequently locked up, he was holding it. His fingerprints were all over it, and we can’t prove that he wasn’t the culprit. We can’t prove it.”
“You think Sykes used it on his own wife?” This from the constable who had been so curious before. He looked a little green around the gills now.
“That’s where the smart money is,” Clarke told him. “If Lauren Sykes did have something to do with the death of Charlie Perrin — well, that would have upset her father’s plans very badly, and I’ve no doubt that if her father had caught up with her at that cottage, she’d have been subject to the same treatment as Harry Prentice and Joe Messenger. I have absolutely no doubt that he is still looking for her and that he won’t stop until he finds her. Lauren Sykes is seventeen years old, and we have absolutely no idea where she might have gone.”
Chapter 31
Kyle Sykes was not a happy man. He had one man dead and two wounded. The dead man now had a certificate saying that he had succumbed to heart failure, which, Kyle Sykes thought morosely, was what killed most people in the end anyway. The two wounded men had been patched up and they and their families sent away for the foreseeable future. Sykes had places dotted around the country where they could hole up and recover with local agents to keep an eye on them to make sure they weren’t speaking to anybody improper.
Sykes could not believe how badly this had all gone. He blamed Harry of course, and obliquely he blamed Joe — how had that little fucker survived? The news that Joe had in fact died in hospital infuriated him. What infuriated him more was not knowing if Joe Messenger had recovered consciousness or not and the only person he could conceivably ask, the wife, had gone north out of the way. Her sister had followed her. No doubt he could bring pressure to bear if it became necessary, find out what the old woman knew, but even in his current rage, he knew he could do without trouble on two fronts.
Gus Perrin had invited him to a meeting that evening. Sykes had been inclined to tell him to spin on it. He still might.
No, the only person he could blame now was Lauren, and Lauren had gone to ground. It riled Sykes more than anything else that this kid had scuppered his plans twice. Once by killing Charlie Perrin and the second time by simply not being where she should have been when he’d come for her.
So where the fuck was she and who was helping her? There was nobody in his own organization unaccounted for, nobody who could have nipped up there and got the kid away. And it seemed beyond belief that anyone working for Gus Perrin’s organization would aid someone who had killed their boss’s son.
So had she called the police? Did they now have her in custody somewhere? Sykes had put out feelers but so far, no one was saying anything. Even under more focused pressure, his informants either genuinely didn’t know, or were a damn sight braver than Sykes had previously given them credit for. Or just more stupid.
* * *
Lauren was at that particular moment standing at the entrance to the railway station and getting her bearings. The station was being renovated, and great swathes of it were blocked off by scaffolding and by advertising boards, from behind which came the sound of hammering and sawing and voices. There were peepholes at intervals through which members of the public could see the progress and when she got past these and into the station proper, she discovered that there were three routes down to different platforms and two temporary ticket offices set up at the top of the stairs.
Someone asked if she needed help. She glanced round to see a guy in uniform. He was smiling and friendly and held a tablet in his hand, stylus poised for any enquiries she might make.
Lauren smiled back and told him she was fine, she was just checking what platform she needed. He looked as though he’d like to ask more, to be more helpful, but she distracted him by pointing out a lady who genuinely looked lost and who had come up to ask him a question. She now stood at his elbow looking anxious and as he turned towards her, Lauren beat a swift retreat.
“Idiot,” she muttered to herself. She really needed to be more careful not to draw attention.
Satisfied that she could at least find her way around the station, she left and crossed the triangular pedestrian area, heading back towards the hotel. Three major roads converged at this point, all heavy with traffic and with knots of shoppers getting ready to cross. She had noticed on the night they’d arrived that the Christmas lights had already been switched on. In daylight they were off, of course, but they still looked festive. She would usually spend Christmas with Harry and Jean and of course more lately, just with Harry. Her father gave her presents on Christmas Eve and then, duty done, kissed her goodbye until the festivities were over. It was a relief on both parts. Her dad had no idea how to do Christmas. Lauren knew he’d spend most of it drunk with various women in various nightclubs or in various casinos. It always amazed her that however much he drank, he still had this incredibly acute awareness of what was going on around him. It was something that was quite scary about him. That even when he lost control, he seemed to be kind of in control about losing it.
She crossed the road alongside groups of families, chattering teens and excited kids who were going to see Father Christmas. A bit early for that, Lauren thought. When her mum had been alive and Lauren had been a little thing, they’d gone to see Santa Claus in one of the big department stores in town. That had been a tradition every year, but they’d always left it until the last week. Her mother said it made it special that way, like the way their visit to the pantomime was put off until close to New Year. Her mother always argued that there was too much going on in the days over Christmas, and it was better to have something to look forward to afterwards as well. Lauren didn’t remember her dad becoming involved in any of this. His biggest contribution was giving her mother some spending money and giving Lauren extra pocket money as well.
Gifts for her father were always very s
afe — scarf, tie, cigars, a bottle of booze. In her early years, she’d bought these while she’d been out with her mother, but later, Harry or Jean had done it for her. She realized that she didn’t know her father well enough to buy anything but safe stuff. Besides, he didn’t seem to like very much. He didn’t like music, he didn’t read, he didn’t even watch the telly much and wasn’t into films. The only jewellery he ever wore were a watch and a ring and they were expensive.
She passed the hotel. It too was half covered in scaffolding. She turned down the next little road that she knew led to the back of the shopping centre, the way she had gone with Petra. For a while, she wandered around clothes shops, then looked at shoes, stationery and toiletries and shelves packed with “ideal” Christmas gifts. Who were they ideal for? she wondered. She spent some of her dad’s money on a notebook and pen, a couple of paperbacks and a bright blue woollen scarf that she just took a fancy to. She also bought a shoulder bag and a small purse, the inconvenience of having to dip into her coat pocket and peel money off the stack making her aware of how odd that seemed. Girls always carried bags, that was a given.
She was aware that sometimes people were looking at her curiously, that she wasn’t really blending into the shopping crowd, a teenage girl on her own and clearly a little ill at ease. She suddenly realized that she’d never really wandered round a shopping centre alone before. Her mother had taken her shopping, Jean had taken her shopping, but there had always been somebody keeping a discreet distance behind. She was driven to school. She was picked up after. If she went to anybody’s house, she was driven there and was always conscious that there would be somebody sitting in a car down the road, just in case she should break the arrangement and try to go somewhere else.
Not surprisingly, this freaked people out, so the invitations to go to somebody else’s house were few and far between. Not that she was particularly close to any of the girls at school anyway. Mostly she shopped online and had it delivered, it was just so much simpler that way.
Bored now, she headed back to the hotel, slipping through the lobby and into the lift. At least no one here seemed to take any notice of her. She fumbled in her bag as an excuse to keep her head down, turning her face away from the many CCTV cameras.
Back at her room, Lauren got a shock. Housekeeping had been in and made her bed and tidied up. She realized with rising horror that she had forgotten to put the “do not disturb” sign on the door when she left. Though thinking about it, she couldn’t even remember having taken it off the door in the first place. Looking around her room, she could not find it inside either. She opened the door to her room and peered down the corridor. The door opposite had a “do not disturb” sign hanging on it. Lauren looked more closely. She was sure it was hers. There was a wine stain on it that looked familiar. Perhaps it had been knocked off and put back on the wrong door? She recalled the drunken guest bouncing off the walls the night before. Could they have done it?
Lauren tiptoed across the corridor, unhooked the sign and reattached it to her own door. She locked the door from the inside and leaned heavily against it, breathing hard. Her heart was beating very fast.
She took a deep breath and tried to control herself. There was nothing suspicious about this, nothing at all. It was just one of those random things. But even so, she checked her room carefully and was relieved that she still had the gun, the money and her phone in her coat pockets and that she’d stowed all her new clothes and the bags in the wardrobe. Who turned up at a hotel with that much new stuff?
Lauren decided that she’d done enough for the day. She made herself a cup of tea, called room service for sandwiches and transferred some of the money into the purse that she’d bought.
Now what? Lauren wondered. She could try and read, or she could watch more television. She put the television on low volume and then took out the notebook and pen she’d bought. She remembered how Petra had written what amounted to a statement about what had happened at the cottage. Lauren wondered again who she had sent it to. Petra had promised faithfully that she would not tell where Lauren was and Lauren did find herself believing that. After all, Petra had a lot to lose, too. Lauren guessed Petra had been undercover for quite some time. She didn’t imagine that the Perrin organization would treat undercover cops any better than she surmised her father’s organization had. Petra had left the rest of the lined notepad behind, but Lauren had wanted something she could keep on her, hence the smaller notebook. She finished her sandwiches before she even attempted to begin writing, mentally recounting to herself what had led to all this mess. She decided she would write an account of everything that had gone on from the moment Charlie Perrin had locked the door to her room. She would then write down everything she knew about her father’s organization, about the Perrins. Anything she could remember that she’d picked up, overheard, that might be knowledge she wasn’t supposed to have. Exactly what she was going to do with this, she wasn’t sure yet, but she wanted to make a record, just in case.
Just in case of what? Lauren thought. Just in case I end up as dead as Harry? And who the hell am I going to give this to when I’m done? Maybe leave it in the hotel room for someone to find? Maybe post it to the local police? Right now, she didn’t know.
Because she had nothing better to do, she made some more tea and forced herself to begin. At first it was hard, reliving that time with Charlie Perrin. She’d told Harry all about it, of course, but that had been in halting, faltering, roundabout terms. She had told Petra. But now she was trying to put things in proper order. Once she’d begun, it was easier than she had thought it was going to be. It poured out of her — the anger, the fear, the frustration. Having told it all to Petra, it was now clearer in her mind than it had been when she’d told Harry. She’d already gone through a sorting process and that had really helped.
Her hand was cramped and it was dark outside when she finally stopped. She stowed the pen and notebook in the bag she had bought that morning and went to look out of the window. Christmas lights were on now. Below her, between the hotel and the station, lay a pathway of red and gold and white. A sudden wave of loneliness crashed over her. She had always been alone in real terms, apart from Harry and Jean and her mum. She had always been alone and now they were all gone. Was this what it was going to be like from now on? Lauren didn’t know if she could cope with that.
Chapter 32
The Sydonia Gallery was on the ground floor of the Palace Hotel, occupying space alongside designer boutiques and high-end jewellery stores. It was not large, and it was not quite the kind of white cube space that had become fashionable. It maintained some of the wood panelling and marble tiles that were a hangover from when this had been the atrium of the Palace in more affluent days. The Palace Hotel itself was Art Deco and always reminded Petra of the wonderful cinemas from that era, one of which had been her regular filmgoing spot when she was a kid. That had since been pulled down and replaced by a supermarket, but for a long time she had harboured the plan that if she ever won the lottery, she would buy it outright and turn it into an arts centre.
Carole Josephs and Sam were already there when Petra arrived. Carole turned with a big smile. “Pat, I’m so glad you’re here early. I’m in a bit of a panic, I think.”
Petra hugged her. She liked Carole Josephs and she got on with Sam really well, too. “You look great,” she said. Carole was dressed in deep red, it set off her dark hair and pale skin. The lipstick was a richer colour than she usually wore but it suited her, Petra thought. Though she did look nervous and Petra reminded herself that this really was a big night for Carole.
Sam took Carole’s arm. “I keep telling her, it looks fabulous. And everything’s set, everything is ready. Buffet’s laid out, drinks are chilling — it’s going to be a brilliant evening.”
“I thought I’d start with some contextual shots, before everybody gets here,” Petra said. “And then I can repeat the same shots during the evening and create a layout with them placed side by
side. I want to catch the emotional response when people come in. I want to compare that with the way these objects just sit in space, the way they occupy the room.”
Carole began to look a little more relaxed and Sam mouthed thank you at Petra. Then, patting Carole on the arm, she went to check that everything was in fact absolutely perfect.
The glass doors at the rear of the gallery opened on to the atrium of the hotel and the grand piano had been set up there. Petra could see the pianist and string quartet setting up. She told Carole she was going to nip out and get a few shots of them, too.
“I’ll come with you, just to say hello. I heard them in the summer, doing their concerts in the park thing, absolutely fab they are.”
It was odd, Petra thought, all this happening just a few days after her brother had died. No one seemed to be mourning Charlie Perrin particularly. She’d heard Carole say that her brother was an idiot anyway and that if it hadn’t been this, it would have been something else. At least this way, he’d not taken anyone else with him and Petra knew that Charlie Perrin, despite his ban, still had a habit of driving while under the influence. She wondered if Carole really did think there’d been an accident, if she really had no clue that her brother had actually been shot to death by his reluctant fiancée. Petra sympathized with her. She was trying so hard to be her own person and to crawl out from under the shadow cast by her father and brothers. But to Petra’s mind, the only way she was really ever going to do that was to leave the compound, leave the farm and get right away from Gus Perrin’s influence. She couldn’t see that happening.