‘He might be, but I don’t think so. Silverman was hardly there long enough before the gunman turned up. Why write down the number? I think he was prepared for a longer wait. As soon as he heard the shooting, he was out the back and away.’
‘And if he wasn’t?’
‘If he wasn’t, and the killer took him, it’s because somebody wants him alive. For now, at least.’
TWENTY-ONE
‘Joanne Archer? Yeah, she lives upstairs – when she’s here. Who’s asking?’ The gaunt individual who answered the door to the large Victorian property was dressed in scuffed tartan slippers and a ratty brown jersey. His unshaven face had the appearance of soggy cardboard as he stood squarely in the entrance, squinting through the morning sunlight at Rik and Harry. A faint rumble came from the North Circular barely two hundred yards away, where it sliced through Finchley past St Pancras and Islington cemetery.
Harry gave the man a stony look and a flash of his old MI5 card. ‘Police,’ he announced. ‘We’d like a word with her.’
Rik had crunched the mobile numbers through his laptop and come up with this address for J.A. He hadn’t been able to get a copy of the call records, but that would have to come later if they needed it. After the two killings and Silverman’s disappearance from the farmhouse, Harry had decided not to waste any time watching the house, but to come straight in. It was risky, but so was losing the mysterious Joanne Archer to the killer before they could talk to her and find out what her connection was with Silverman.
‘She’s not in.’
The house was divided into separate flats and bedsits, with a line of bell-pushes and name cards to one side of the door. The plastic square for flat No. 3 was the only one without a card, the slot grimy and rimmed with dust.
‘And you are?’ Harry played the deadpan cop.
‘McCulloch. I own this place.’ The man looked unimpressed by the ID. ‘Jo’s a PA or something. Travels a lot . . . sometimes away for weeks at a time. The first I know if she’s back is when she appears out of the blue. She doesn’t communicate much.’ He looked from Harry to Rik. ‘You don’t look like police.’
‘He’s undercover,’ said Harry.
‘Oh. I see. She’s not in trouble, is she?’
‘Nothing like that, sir. We need to speak to her, that’s all. It’s a private matter.’ He gave the landlord the kind of look meant to provoke instant respect for privacy. ‘Can we see her flat?’
‘I don’t know about that. Shouldn’t I see some sort of documentation?’ McCulloch scowled and straightened his bony shoulders, a lowly individual taking a stand against official invaders. Then he noticed the uncompromising expression on Harry’s face. ‘I mean, it’s only right.’
‘A warrant, you mean?’ Harry nodded. ‘Probably. But that would mean going to a judge and giving reasons for wanting access. We can do that, if you insist. It would give us access to every flat in the building, of course. And the rental records.’ He stared up at the walls and pulled a face. ‘Plus health and safety, fire regs . . .’ He smiled coldly. ‘They’d be checked, too.’
McCulloch looked appalled at the idea of an official open season on his affairs. He stepped quickly aside. ‘You’d better come in, then. Not that I’ve got anything to hide, of course. Upstairs at the back . . . number three. I’ll open it for you.’
They trooped upstairs, McCulloch jangling a bunch of keys and muttering beneath his breath. He pushed past them and bent to unlock a door at the rear of the landing. It opened directly into a tiny lobby laid with plastic tiles and contained a stiff-backed chair and a pair of walking boots. The soles and sides of the boots were crusted with dried mud, and a few pieces had fallen to the floor, like pale chocolate flakes.
‘She walks a lot,’ explained McCulloch unnecessarily. ‘Always off somewhere, she is. Never could be doing with that fitness stuff, myself.’
A door led from the lobby into a living area and another opened into a small kitchenette overlooking an untidy garden. The decor throughout was utilitarian and sombre, but Archer had evidently made an effort to brighten up the place by the addition of some colourful pictures in the living room, showing what could have been desert sunsets and a line of single-storey buildings with white walls and black holes for windows. A large ornate vase on a coffee table was empty save for a yellowed chalk in the bottom where the water had evaporated in the dry atmosphere.
‘You know who she works for?’ asked Harry. ‘Any visitors, deliveries, that sort of thing?’
‘No. She never told me anything like that. Kept herself to herself. Wish I had more tenants like her, to be honest.’ McCulloch sniffed. ‘Some of them treat the place like a knocking shop, bringing in all sorts. Not her, though. Quiet. Goes running and walking, like I said. Likes her own company, I suppose. Nice-looking girl. Bit butch for my tastes, but the meat’s all the same in the dark, isn’t it?’
‘What about the rent?’ Harry resisted the temptation to give the man a slap. ‘Does she always pay on time?’
The landlord nodded. ‘On the nail. When she knows she’s going away, she pays up front. Cash.’ He gave a sly smile and rubbed his fingers together, drawing them into his little conspiracy. ‘Suits me, you know what I mean? Bloody government takes enough off us already.’ He clearly didn’t see them as a threat to his livelihood, official ID or not. Even so, he glanced nervously at Rik. ‘He doesn’t say much, does he?’
‘He doesn’t have to. I keep him for other uses. The bedroom this way?’
McCulloch blinked and scurried after him.
The bedroom lay at the rear of the building. It contained a single bed, a cabinet with a narrow door and a small wardrobe, the door open. A few garments hung on the rail, but none looked recently worn, the fabric lightly coated in dust. A pair of trainers and some slip-on sandals lay jumbled at the bottom, like cast-offs. The air inside smelled musty.
Harry sat on the bed and bounced. It creaked but nothing crackled under the mattress. He’d take a look anyway, as soon as they could get rid of the landlord. ‘When was she last here?’
McCulloch pursed his lips and studied the ceiling. ‘Now you’ve got me. Ages ago. When was it . . .? Oh, I know – about three months. Yep, she paid for four up front, said this job was a long one but she didn’t want to lose the flat in case things didn’t work out. Like I said, fine by me.’ He appeared to realize rather belatedly that the two men wouldn’t have shown up without good reason. ‘Here, I hope she’s OK. She was a good tenant.’
‘That’s what we hope to find out,’ said Harry. ‘Nice of you to show concern, though.’ He stared at the surface of the bedside cabinet. A palm print showed clearly in the dust along one edge, as if someone had bent to retrieve something, using the cabinet for support. A small hand, like a woman’s. And recently made.
He smiled at McCulloch. ‘Thanks for your cooperation. We just need to look around . . . get a feel for things. We’ll shout if we need anything.’ He nodded at the door.
The landlord seemed reluctant to move until Rik stepped up to him and gave a hard smile.
‘Right. No problem.’ McCulloch got the message. ‘I’ll be downstairs if you need me.’
They waited for his footsteps to recede. ‘Amazing,’ said Rik with a smile. ‘Saying nothing really put the frighteners on him.’
‘Silence is golden. Never forget that.’ Harry pointed at the handprint. ‘See that?’
‘Yes. Looks fresh.’
‘There’s another one in the kitchen. She must have dropped by without McCulloch knowing. Come on, let’s get to work before Prince Charming decides to check with the local nick.’
They began to toss the place, working their way through each room, checking every drawer, cushion, chair back and crevice. The carpet lifted easily enough, but there were no loose floorboards and no signs of anything hidden within the fabric of the room. The wardrobe slid aside to reveal nothing more than dust and a yellowed, ageing newspaper covered in splashes of paint, evidence of a long-ago attemp
t at decorating.
Back in the small lobby, Harry checked the walking boots. They were worn at the heel and smooth on each sole, but still serviceable except for a torn eyelet. He tried to flex one of them, but it had dried solid and unyielding. As he turned them upside down a small square of brown card fell to the floor. It was for a gym membership.
Rik joined him and peered at the card. It was topped by a logo and the name PARK’S GYM, and made out to J. Archer. The expiry date was nearly twelve months old. A membership number was handwritten at the bottom. Evidently Park’s Gym had not yet embraced electronic membership systems.
‘So,’ mused Rik. ‘She’s not often here . . . she travels a lot, but we don’t know where; she’s a fitness freak – we know this because of the used walking boots and the gym card, and because handsome downstairs says she runs a lot.’ He looked around. ‘Pretty basic lifestyle. No frills to it, no softness.’
‘For a girl, you mean?’
‘For anyone. Where did you last see that?’
‘Unmarried squaddies’ quarters,’ said Harry automatically. ‘She’s army. Or was.’ He went into the living room and stared at the desert sunset pictures. ‘I think she did the Gulf.’ He turned to a point opposite the window where a small square of wallpaper was slightly darker than the surrounding area. He peered closely at the surface, then tapped the wall where a small hole showed in the paper. ‘Looks like there used to be a frame hanging here.’ He looked down at his feet and bent to retrieve a small panel pin lying against the skirting. ‘I should have been a cop.’
‘If she paid up her rent a month ahead,’ Rik concluded, ‘why come by to clear out without telling anyone?’
‘Frightened? Called away on another job?’ Harry shrugged. ‘With McCulloch as a landlord, I wouldn’t hang around either. I wouldn’t live here in the first place.’
Rik flicked the gym card. ‘This place might know. People with a shared interest exchange gossip without realizing.’
Harry looked doubtful. ‘Yeah. I always give away secrets when I’m pumping iron.’
They closed the flat and went downstairs. McCulloch was waiting for them in the hallway.
‘Any joy, gents?’ he asked, ingratiating. ‘See everything you wanted?’
Rik ignored the question and showed McCulloch the gym card. ‘How do we get to this place?’
‘Park’s? It’s about a mile away. Clarence Road.’ He gave them directions. ‘She used to go there a lot. Surprising, really – it’s a bit . . . you know.’
‘No.’
‘Hardcore. Spit and sawdust we called it when I was younger.’
Rik gave the man a sour once-over. ‘Yeah. I can see you used to work out.’
McCulloch was unruffled by the taunt. ‘You know what I mean. It’s not the place for a girl, exactly. Not that she was into Spandex or all that designer gear.’ He blinked rapidly as if realizing he’d said too much. ‘I mean, not that I’d know what she was into, would I?’
‘Of course you wouldn’t,’ Harry growled. ‘What about Park’s?’
McCulloch flushed and wiped a hand across his face. ‘Well, you get some rough types down there . . . a few boxers, weight trainers, that sort of thing. Not for the faint-hearted, anyway. She seemed to like it, though.’ He shook his head, mystified at the ways of the world. ‘I suppose I should have mentioned it to the other two, but I forgot.’
Harry was turning away. He swung back and fixed McCulloch with a stare like a mongoose eyeing a cobra. His voice came out unnaturally quiet.
‘What other two?’
TWENTY-TWO
McCulloch floundered visibly, aware of his slip, mouth working like a stranded goldfish.
‘Two men,’ he muttered. ‘Came by just over a week ago. I thought they were coppers at first, but they were too smart. Well, one was; the other hung in the background and didn’t say much. The one who did the talking flashed a card, same as you. But I can’t remember what was on it. Very polite, he was.’
‘What did they want?’
‘They said they needed to contact her . . . something about insurance, I think. I figured they were sales reps. Anyway, I told them she hadn’t been around for a while and I didn’t know when she would be back.’ He looked between them, his forehead beaded with perspiration. ‘Did I do the wrong thing?’
‘Not yet,’ said Harry heavily. ‘What did they look like?’
‘Like I said, smart, wearing suits and that. They were both tanned, like they’d been on holiday. The quiet one was a bit of a bruiser; big guy. Didn’t really look like a rep, now I think about it. I didn’t notice anything else.’
‘They have a car?’
‘No idea. They walked down the street, that’s all I know.’
‘What about her mail?’
‘Sorry?’
‘Miss Archer’s post,’ Rik said clearly. ‘There was none in her flat. She must have had something, even if it was only junk. What did you do with it?’
McCulloch gestured towards a half-moon table against one wall. ‘All the mail for tenants is left here, so they can sort through it. They take what’s useful and leave the rubbish. Anything addressed to Joanne, I’d do it for her. She was OK about me doing that – not that she got much . . . maybe two a week at most.’ He licked his lips. ‘I suppose I should have taken it in.’
‘Should have?’ Rik’s voice dropped to a dangerous low and McCulloch blanched, reaching out a restraining hand as if he was about to get hit.
‘Wait – hang on. Two days ago her mail disappeared – I don’t know how. It was there, with a rubber band on it, on the table like always. Maybe a sneak thief got in and took it on spec. There’s plenty of them around here, nicking whatever they can get their hands on.’ He shrugged. ‘What can I say?’
They left McCulloch and walked back to the car, trying to figure out who or what Joanne Archer was, why she led such a Spartan lifestyle, and why she should attract official-sounding visitors in suits.
‘Do you believe the bit about the sneak thief?’ asked Rik.
‘No. Archer’s been back. I wonder why the secrecy, though, if she’s all paid up?’
They followed McCulloch’s directions and found Park’s Gym at the end of a cul-de-sac backing on to a small commercial estate. The area was tired and rundown, a backwater overlooked by local civic development plans and left to rot. The gym was a two-storey brick structure which might once have been a garage and showroom. A single door with the word ENTRANCE invited visitors to enter.
The air inside reeked of stale bodies, dust and industrial-strength deodorant in equal measures. The clang of weights echoed from behind a wooden door on the ground floor. Upstairs, a loudspeaker hammered out a disco track. A door marked ‘CHANGING – MEN’ stood off to one side, with a similar sign for women pointing upstairs.
They pushed through the wooden door and found themselves in a large, brightly lit room filled with weights, exercise machinery and a fight ring. The walls were lined with mirrors reflecting half a dozen men of varying ages undergoing several kinds of self-induced torture. The atmosphere was stale and heavy, a place dedicated to pain and effort rather than leisure.
A stocky individual in a cutaway vest and sloppy training pants left one of the weight benches and walked across to greet them. He had a bald head and an unshaven chin, and had clearly spent his life working weights, the muscles on his arms and chest like tattooed slabs of meat. He measured the two men with a professional gaze and lifted his chin. ‘Hi. I’m Danny Park. Can I help?’ He eyed them without a flicker of welcome, balanced and solid, relaxed.
‘We hope so,’ said Harry. ‘We’re looking for Joanne Archer. I gather she’s a member.’
They waited while the information was processed. A few of the men in the background had stopped training and stood watching. None of them looked particularly friendly. The sound of the music upstairs thumped through the ceiling, punctuated by the repeated clang of weights from the far end of the gym.
‘Who wan
ts to know?’ Park said at last.
Harry didn’t think flashing any ID would impress the man, so he nodded to Rik to show him the membership card from Archer’s flat. ‘She hasn’t been home and her friends are worried. We’ve been asked to look for her.’
Park looked sceptical. ‘You’re not police – so what are you?’
‘We look for people. People who go missing.’
‘Yeah?’ Park pursed his lips and seemed to find the answer acceptable. He barely looked at the membership card. ‘That’s well out of date. Current colour’s green. She hasn’t been here for a bit. You think she’s in trouble?’
‘That’s what we’d like to find out.’ Harry bent to a rack of hand weights and picked up a ten-pound dumb-bell, turning it over as easily as he would have handled a bar of chocolate. ‘I really need to get back into this. I miss the burn, y’know?’ He replaced the weight on the rack with a faint chink. It wasn’t true – he’d never seen the point – but the lie came easily.
‘You should come here, then. We’re always on the lookout for more mature members.’ Park flashed a line of white teeth to show he was joking.
‘I might do that. So . . . Joanne.’ He raised his eyebrows.
Park turned and shouted, ‘Anyone seen Jo recently?’ When nobody replied, he turned back and said, ‘Sorry – they’re not the most talkative bunch. They’ll have you two down as cops.’
‘Can you tell us anything about her? It might help,’ Harry said.
‘Sure. She’s a good kid. Tough. Came here to keep fit. Not that she wasn’t already fitter than most of these sad sacks.’ He smiled dreamily. ‘Fitter than a lot of the guys I used to train, actually.’
Harry looked at the tattoos, which included a set of faded wings. ‘Paras?’
‘Used to be. Ten years and counting. Wish I was still in, tell you the truth.’
He was interrupted from further reminiscing by a boy in his teens who ambled across from a punchbag in one corner. He wore scrappy tracksuit bottoms and a pair of training gloves, and his chest was narrow and pale, but taut with muscle. In spite of his youth, he already had the battered look of someone who would never reach the top of his game, and his eyes held the slow vague expression of someone who’d taken too many punches.
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