by Simon Mason
Taking a glass of complimentary sparkling wine from a passing ‘Agrippina’, Garvie set off round the gaming areas, weaving through groups of punters and spectators. He sauntered into the baccarat and poker rooms, where a few older men sat silent and intent on the cards that the toga’d croupier flipped from the baize with a thin wooden spatula, and sauntered round the roulette and blackjack tables, crowded with people determined to have fun, and past the noisy slot machines glowing against the dark walls, and sauntered on further to the cocktail bar, where the crowd was thickest, people sitting with drinks and canapés while the white-toga’d waitresses went among them with trays of finger food and drink.
For some time he stood by the roulette table, watching. He hadn’t seen roulette played before. It was interesting, mathematically. Thirty-eight numbered pockets on a shiny wooden wheel: eighteen red ones, eighteen black, and two – marked 0 and 00 – green. The wheel spun in one way in a red-and-black blur, and the white ball ran in the other. Like a little runner racing round a track, it ran until exhausted, falling at last, bouncing and clacking, into one of the pockets.
The house paid out thirty-five to one on a bet placed on any number. It didn’t pay out anything on 0 or 00. Garvie thought about this.
A probability of of winning your bet, a probability of of the bank winning.
In other words, the bank always had a 5.26% better chance of winning than the punter. Put another way, over the long term the punter always loses.
Garvie thought again of Chloe and how, if she came here, she came here to win.
There was a commotion suddenly at the other end of the lounge. One of the waitresses had spilled a drink on the shoes of a man who sounded as if he’d been losing at the tables.
She apologized in vain. A man appeared – a bald giant in a black-and-gold striped shirt stretched tight over his watermelon belly. He started smooth-talking the man with the slightly damp shoes and clicking his fingers at the barman and shouting at the waitress. Garvie couldn’t hear what he was saying, but he saw how he jabbed his fat finger into her face. It was several minutes before she managed to totter away with her tray, and by then Garvie had seen enough to fear the worst. Grabbing a tumbler of water from the bar, he went out of the lounge the other way fast, and caught up with her as she was trying to negotiate a Staff Only door in a quiet corner among the slot machines.
As he watched, she hesitated, took a step backwards, a step forwards, wavered, and started to slowly spin.
‘Hey,’ Garvie said, and caught hold of the tray as she went down in a heap, a slow flurry of white toga and dark brown hair and a soft muffled thump on the nice casino carpet.
He stood there balancing the wildly tilting tray in one hand, and she lay in a faint at his feet, her legs tucked up neatly together, her arms almost lazily spread out at her sides, and her hair fallen back from her face.
The tray balanced itself at last and he glanced down. And stood there staring, the tray forgotten in his hand.
She was beautiful. She was so beautiful he seemed to feel his skin dilate as he looked at her. Her face was very pale, her mouth soft and red, her nose small and precise. Her eyes fluttered open and he saw that they were grey.
‘Here’s something your mother obviously never told you,’ he said. ‘Never faint with a full tray of champagne flutes in your hand.’
She sat with her back against the wall while she sipped the water he’d brought. For a minute she was silent, then she gave herself a little shake and said, ‘I’m OK now,’ and she sounded it too. Her voice was light and musical. When she looked at him her gaze was clear and amused. ‘So you can stop looking so pleased with yourself.’
Garvie just stared. Her grey eyes were so cool and humorous and large they seemed to pull him in.
‘You can stop staring too. Haven’t you ever seen a girl dressed up like a harlot from the first century AD?’
At last he found his voice, or bits of it. ‘I’m Garvie,’ he said. ‘Garvie Smith.’
‘Hypatia. As you can see. Thanks for catching the booze, Garvie. Spillages come out of our wages. Call them wages.’
‘Hypatia? Nice. What’s your real name?’
She smiled, and her mouth curved up towards two neat dimples. ‘Real names not allowed. They—’
‘Come out of your wages, I bet.’
‘Call them wages.’
They stood together by the slot machines looking beyond the roulette wheel and blackjack tables to the coffee lounge, where Bald Giant was now berating the barman.
Garvie nodded. ‘I don’t want to know his real name.’
‘Scumbag,’ she said. ‘Though he has others.’
‘And who is he?’
‘He owns the place.’ She hesitated.
‘And?’
She looked at him curiously.
‘You can trust me. Hypatia.’
She nodded. ‘He’s a complete bastard. Actually, I don’t think I’m giving away confidential information.’
They watched him back the barman up against the racks of bottles. He flashed gold when he moved. He lifted a fat finger and prodded the barman in the chest, hard.
‘He’s a big man,’ Garvie said thoughtfully. ‘A big, big man. Do you happen to know what sort of car he drives?’
Again she looked at him curiously. ‘I don’t know anything about cars and I don’t want to. But it’s low and sleek and black and expensive.’
Garvie nodded. ‘It would be,’ he murmured.
Together they watched the big man as he left the bar. There was a smaller man with him now, in tow, who paused and looked over at where they stood, and scowled.
‘Got to go, Garvie Smith. Nice talking to you. But here’s a little tip. Finish that bubbly and leave before they check your member’s card and find out you’re only seventeen or whatever.’
‘Sixteen,’ Garvie said. ‘But thanks. Whatever your name is.’
He watched her disappear through Staff Only. A flip of white tunic, a brief brown swirl of hair, and she was gone. Sighing, he turned and made his way through the bar and past the coffee lounge towards the lobby. The small man was scowling at him again, but Garvie ignored him, sauntering on slowly, acknowledging the receptionist behind her fishtank, who smiled at him once more as he passed, sauntering up the circular steps through the glass doors, opened for him by a man in a bulging dinner jacket, and out onto the small frontal plaza, where he encountered Detective Inspector Singh just coming in.
‘Good luck at the tables,’ Garvie said and, putting a finger up to one of his quiffs, carried on into the street and down The Wicker in the direction of home, leaving Singh standing there in a state of silent fury.
16
HE STOOD IN front of them, his back to the operational chart, even more uptight than usual. It was the ninth day of the murder investigation and their nineteenth briefing.
He said, very quietly, ‘I’ve just come from seeing the chief.’
He paused, looking at them.
‘The chief has asked me to remind you of something.’
He cleared his throat softly, and the muscles in his neck stood out briefly.
‘He’s asked me to remind you that Chloe Dow was blonde.’
They shifted uneasily on their seats, embarrassed, but Singh took no notice. Very carefully, as if they didn’t understand, he explained what the chief had meant. That Chloe Dow’s picture was going to be in the news everywhere, all the time, non-stop, until the case was closed. This was important – he explained – because it meant that public interest was going to remain at fever pitch. And this was important because it meant that politicians, justices, the heads of criminal investigation and the self-appointed guardians of a thousand pressure groups would continue to call the chief constable every hour of every day to ask how Singh and his team were progressing with the case.
‘And you know why that’s important,’ he said.
There was a grudging silence in the office.
‘So let’s get to
work.’
Before he asked them for their reports he briefed them on his interview the previous evening with Nicholas Winder, owner of the Imperium Casino and Restaurant, a typed report of which was already in their dossiers. As they knew, Winder drove a black Porsche. As the report stated, he also had an alibi for the Friday night.
‘I hope you’ve found time to read the transcript. Winder was in the South of France. His Porsche was locked away in his underground garage. Winder lives alone, and only he has the keys to either the car or the garage. It’s a non-starter.’
‘Pity,’ Nolan said. ‘I’ve personally worked on three cases against him, none of which came to anything. He’s a scumbag and ought to be in jail for a hundred other things.’
Dowell grunted. ‘Time to shift resources away from the Porsche. It was a flaky lead to begin with.’
Singh made no reply. He asked Collier to begin the briefing with his report on Market Square on Thursday night.
‘Big fat zero so far,’ Collier said. ‘Nothing showing up on CCTV. No sightings in any of the bars. We’re still shaking down the cabbies. But it’s not looking good. I think maybe the kids are wrong about this.’
Singh frowned. ‘Lawrence?’
‘What the kids are telling us is that Chloe talked a lot about going out to the Market Square clubs. Two places in particular: Chi-Chi and the Black Cat. Half the kids believed her, half didn’t. It’s hard to tell what the truth is.’
Singh flicked through his dossier thoughtfully. ‘She wasn’t quite the girl the media have been showing.’
‘No. Not so innocent. Pushier. Lots of boasting about modelling contracts, celebrity parties, rich boyfriends, fast cars, that sort of thing. The Market Square clubs and bars are part of that.’
Singh turned to Mal Nolan. ‘Mal?’
‘None of this night-life is corroborated at home. But then, Mrs Dow seems to have known very little about what her daughter did. Certainly, Chloe could make herself look older if she wanted to. I don’t think she’d have had any problem getting into places. I think probably some of what she said was true.’
Singh gave no reaction. After a while he turned back to Shan. ‘Anything else to report from school? What about this teacher? MacArthur.’
‘A case of guilty conscience.’ Shan opened his file. ‘Seems he often gave Chloe a lift home after school. Very often. She used to train on the track and he’d wait for her and run her back in his car. He denies meeting her at other times, but he’s defensive. Married, of course. Three kids. Doesn’t look as if he’s slept since she was killed.’
‘Anyone else?’
‘No other teachers. But the caretaker there’s a strange man.’
‘Strange?’
‘Nothing I can put my finger on. It’s just he gives me the creeps.’
‘In what way?’
‘He’s odd. Sort of bottled up. Might just be the nervous type. But he looks like a man who could really lose it. He has an alibi for Friday, so maybe I’m making too much of it.’
They waited for Singh to respond, but again he was silent. A tight, distracted look came across his face.
‘You haven’t talked to the boy Garvie Smith, have you?’
‘No. You asked us not to.’
He nodded. ‘I’ve dealt with him already. He’s not helpful. He’s’ – he searched for the right word and failed to find it – ‘unhelpful.’ His mouth twitched. ‘Let’s move on. What’s the news from Froggett Woods?’
Mal Nolan said, ‘Spotty. It’s hard to track down all the residents. Quite a few are away travelling on business, some are on holiday. We’ll get hold of them all eventually. But in any case most of the houses are round the other side of the woods; it’s not likely they’d have heard much going on at Pike Pond.’
For a few long moments Singh was silent.
‘Pike Pond,’ he said at last. ‘Something about it bothers me.’
Dowell shrugged. ‘It was one of her usual routes. She went there a lot, so her mother says.’
‘It’s ...’ Singh paused. ‘Spooky.’ He corrected himself. ‘A fifteen-year-old girl might find it spooky.’
‘Her favourite route,’ Collier said. ‘Besides, it was still broad daylight when she went.’
Singh looked at him, thinking. ‘But the woods. Those ruined buildings.’ At last he bent his head to the dossier again. ‘No sightings of vehicles along the road there on Friday.’
‘No.’
‘A few references to vagrants. Who are they, Mal?’
She put down two photographs. ‘Steven Wallis. Known as the Waterman. In and out of Hope House. Sleeps rough sometimes up at Four Winds Farm. And Lloyd Johnson. Twenty-eight. Cautioned for aggravation a few years back.’
‘Aggravation?’
‘Harassing a girl. Claimed she led him on.’
‘No one else?’
‘One more. Not really a vagrant.’ She put down a third photograph.
Singh nodded. ‘Alex Robinson.’
‘Chloe’s ex. Six months ago he was picked up at Four Winds selling cannabis to another school kid. We’ve talked to him once already, as you know, after the rumpus he caused at Pike Pond. “Uncooperative” is how I’d describe him.’
‘He’ll cooperate with me,’ Singh said. ‘I’ve got something else I want to talk to him about.’ He shut his dossier and sat thinking, and they waited for his summing up.
‘Lawrence, bring in MacArthur and shake him down. Bring in the caretaker too. I want you to trust your instincts. Mal, locate those two vagrants. Darren, I want all the angles explored at Market Square before we move on.’ He paused and looked at Bob Dowell. ‘Bob, I want you to stick with the Porsche enquiries.’
In the silence Dowell cleared his throat and the others looked around the room.
‘There isn’t a kid at the school believes in this Porsche,’ Dowell said in a low voice.
‘Perhaps they’re wrong. Just as they might be wrong about Market Square.’
‘And we’ve covered all black Porsches in the city already. All of them.’
‘Then widen the search.’
‘We don’t have the manpower to widen the search.’
‘Then pull people off the door-to-doors.’ Singh fixed him with a stare. ‘I want us to follow our instincts. And this is my instinct.’
There was silence.
‘Any more questions?’
Dowell began to gather his things together.
‘Before you go,’ Singh said. ‘The calls record. Lawrence?’
Shan winced. ‘There’s still some sort of technical problem, according to the supplier. We’ve sent down some guys to speed them up.’
‘I don’t think that’s effective. You’ll need to go down yourself.’
Shan nodded.
‘Final thing. I notice that Alex Robinson hasn’t been interviewed at the Academy.’
‘He’s stopped attending.’
‘Where is he?’
‘Some squat out in Limekilns.’
‘Get me the address. Right. That’s all.’
It was eleven o’clock. When the others were gone, Singh got up and went into the corner of his office and stood facing the wall. For a moment he was irresolute. His face was pale, the skin around the eyes dark. He began to recite his prayers but, glancing at his watch, broke off and left the office without looking back.
17
RAIN CAME ON again as the cab emerged from the underpass. It was a little after half past one; double chemistry was just beginning back at school.
On the other side of the ring road traffic was light, no more than a few security vans and council trucks driving between jobs. The pavements were quiet too. The only kids Garvie saw were some lads from Sandhills smoking in silence outside a newsagent’s. While the cab waited at lights, one of them caught sight of Garvie and gave a brief salute, and Garvie wound down the window and put out a hand as they pulled away. Though it wasn’t his neighbourhood he had friends all over the city.
Ab
dul gave him another nervous look in the rear-view mirror, and Garvie said, ‘What is it, man? You’ve been twitching ever since we set off.’
Abdul attempted one of his famous smiles and his face got stuck halfway. ‘Miss Dow,’ he began, and bit his lip.
‘What about Miss Dow?’
‘Police come visit yesterday.’
‘Again? That’s the third time, Abdul.’
‘Ask this, ask that. Ask everything, Garvie man. Très hard people.’
‘Très dim people. What did they ask you about?’
‘Ask all about Thursday.’ He shot Garvie another anxious glance. ‘I say, is Friday when Miss Dow decease. Friday. I don’t work Friday. They say no no, Thursday. Always Thursday. Ask me – who you drive, who you see.’ He licked his lips. ‘Where you papers.’
‘You’ve got your papers, Abdul.’
Abdul looked petrified.
‘Do you want my mum to come over and give you a hand? She’ll talk to the police for you. They won’t know what hit them.’
Abdul reached back between the seats and squeezed Garvie’s hand.
Garvie said, ‘It’s OK, man. It’s safe. You don’t need to worry.’
Abdul’s smile worked properly again.
In the drizzle they drove down Strawberry Way, past the community centre, through the Strawberry Hill estate with its garages and tower block, out towards Limekilns.
‘Anyway,’ Garvie said. ‘Tell me what you told the police about Thursday.’
Abdul told him, with his hand against his heart most of the time. He hadn’t picked up Chloe on Thursday evening. He hadn’t seen Chloe. He hadn’t been near Fox Walk. He hadn’t seen or picked up Chloe’s mother or stepfather. He hadn’t even thought about Chloe. He swore it.
‘Let’s forget Chloe a minute.’ Garvie thought. ‘Did you pick up any female passengers that night?’