‘Everything.’
‘When did you last speak to him?’
‘Tuesday.’
‘Did he say anything that struck you as unusual?’
‘He seemed tense.’
‘About what?’
‘About everything. The world. Forces ganging up on him. He was, you know, paranoid or whatever. He wasn’t around that much anyway.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Like he was sometimes at his mum’s but other times he’d be AWOL, for days on end.’
‘Where?’
‘I don’t know. That’s what AWOL means. You’re the detective.’
This fitted with what Belsey had seen: the Queen’s Crescent flat could easily have been just a crash pad, a hideaway for Mark and his obsessions. The question was, where was this alternative accommodation?
‘What’s he like?’ Belsey asked. Lee gave it consideration now.
‘He’s one of those people who’ve been done in by their own head. You know what I mean? Smart guy, but lost it. Lost in there.’ Lee tapped his shaven skull.
‘What does he score?’
‘Everything. Speed, coke, gear, downers.’
‘Where does he get the money for that lot?’
‘I don’t know. But he had money. What’s up with you, anyway? You been fired?’
‘Suspended.’
‘You’ll be back.’
‘Not this time.’
‘You’ve got to be cleverer than that, Nick.’ He straightened to face the windscreen again, sighing. ‘You should have done your sergeant’s exams, got a proper grip on it.’ Lee shook his head. ‘Where’ve you been? Here?’
‘Lying low.’
‘Lying low!’ Lee laughed. He checked his phone again. ‘You’re low, Nick. Right now you’re practically invisible.’ He scrolled through a few more shots of the Loulou’s crowd. Belsey sensed a useful alibi.
‘Have you seen anything claiming me and Amber left that club together?’
‘Why?’
‘I’m just asking if you’ve seen anything saying that. It might be helpful.’
‘No. Will I?’
‘Probably not.’
Belsey’s phone started to vibrate: ‘Amber PA’. Lee smiled.
‘Answer my calls,’ Belsey said, getting out of the Shogun. ‘Tell me if you hear from Mark, or anyone who’s heard from him. And tell me right away.’
Belsey took the call. Gabby was breathless.
‘He’s been in again,’ she said.
‘What makes you think that?’
‘More stuff’s gone missing. Last night.’
‘Last night?’ Belsey wondered if that was possible: Mark Doughty in the house while he’d slept on the sofa. After the killing? Given the state he’d been in, it wasn’t as impossible as Belsey would have liked.
‘And what do you want me to do?’ he asked.
‘Help us,’ she pleaded. ‘You know about him. I need you to do something.’
‘Gabby, I’m not the person you need—’
‘Just get here. Amber’s terrified and I don’t know what’s going on or what we can do about this. Just get here and be discreet.’
Belsey groaned. The sensible thing – the only thing – was to start putting some distance between himself and whatever it was that was happening here. But he found himself walking down Pond Street past the back of the Royal Free Hospital, to a crumbling structure that still promised Late Night Dancing and Shisha Garden. Currently it was offering little more than a skip full of rusted catering equipment and a mound of refuse sacks. Belsey slipped through a gate at the side, through a concrete garden filled with old casks and a pool table streaked with bird shit. He took the padlock off a garage.
His Audi 80 was still there: boxy, navy blue, reliable as it was unfashionable. He sat in the car, in the darkness beneath the garage’s mouldy canopy, wishing he could stay there for ever. Then he turned the key in the ignition. The engine started. He didn’t feel particularly relieved.
8
HE FILLED UP WITH PETROL at the Morrisons in Chalk Farm then continued into Primrose Hill. The high street was lively: bistros crowded, couples lunching with shades on. Belsey drove by Amber’s place. It looked quiet enough outside. He parked a few houses away, called Gabby as he approached the entrance.
She met him inside the gate, led him fast into the house and upstairs.
‘You didn’t tell me,’ she said.
‘What?’
‘Last night. I said phone me if she goes anywhere.’ Gabby glanced into rooms either side as they hurried along the landing.
‘Is Amber OK?’
‘It’s a while since she’s been OK. Karen’s furious. And now we’ve got this fucking stalker coming in and out. And there’s you – which company did you say you’re with? Nobody’s got a clue any more.’
‘I’m not,’ he said. ‘I was lying.’ But she’d been distracted by the sound of voices and hadn’t heard him. She put a finger to her lips and beckoned Belsey into the corridor to the office, where she closed the door.
‘So look. He’s taken more clothes, her bag. I don’t know what else.’
‘Did you check the security cameras?’
‘I checked. I can’t see him. But I’m not the security expert.’
‘A guy breaking into a house is fairly obvious.’
‘The All Saints jacket she had last night has gone, her Louis Vuitton bag, a pair of Jimmy Choos and the dress from last night too. The dress was on loan. Did you come back with her?’
‘Yes.’
‘Oh Jesus. Did you sleep with her?’
‘No.’
She sat down behind the desk. ‘Well, thank Christ for small mercies. Did she have the jacket and her handbag and everything with her when you came back?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then he’s come and taken the lot, hasn’t he. And god knows what else. She’s been searching everywhere. And she’s freaked by this Chloe Burlington story.’
‘She should be. It might connect. Do you have any idea how he got in?’
‘No.’
‘The doors and windows were locked overnight,’ Belsey said. ‘I locked them.’
‘So how would he get in?’
Belsey wondered. Big house, plenty of windows, he could have easily missed a few. ‘When did you notice that things had been taken?’
‘Amber saw first thing, but thought maybe the cleaner had moved it all. But the cleaner only came in at ten and everything was gone by then.’
‘Last night, when we got back, she dropped her stuff in the bedroom. He must have been there while she was sleeping.’
‘Oh Christ. What do I tell Karen?’
‘Can I see her room?’
Gabby checked the landing, ushered him out. They went up to the bedroom and stood in the doorway. The bed was unmade.
He stepped inside and saw, through the doorway into the bathroom, items beside the sink: keys, lip balm, paracetamol, gum. That was the first odd thing. As if whoever had taken the bag had emptied it first.
‘Tell me what was missing again.’
‘Jacket, bag, shoes, the Donna Karan dress. Probably other stuff we haven’t noticed yet.’
‘But the only clothing that’s definitely missing is what she was wearing last night.’
‘Yes.’
‘Why?’ he said, more to himself than the PA.
Something nagged. He walked a circuit of the room.
‘You said she seemed upset by the murder.’
‘Wouldn’t you be?’
‘Did Amber know Chloe?’
‘Of course.’
Belsey turned to the PA.
‘Are you sure?’
‘Definitely. She hasn’t mentioned her for a while. But they were friends. Or used to be – I’m sure.’
‘Amber said she didn’t know her.’
‘Really?’
‘I asked her last night.’
‘Then I guess she doesn’t really know
her any more. She probably meant that, or something.’
Belsey looked at the room again. He could picture the clothes where they fell after she’d taken them off. There was only one response he knew to a situation where someone had disposed of all the clothing they were wearing on the night someone was killed. But surely that wasn’t the appropriate response here.
He tried to remember how she’d seemed after the club. By the canal. Then, with a small chill – a chill he didn’t quite trust – he thought of their conversation. Do people always look different when they’re dead?
‘Has Amber been out today?’
‘No.’
‘Where does rubbish go?’
‘The cleaners do it. There are wheelie bins round the back. It gets collected every morning.’
‘Has it been collected today?’
‘Probably – they usually come first thing. Why?’
‘Maybe Amber threw everything out.’
Gabby frowned. ‘Why would she do that?’
‘I don’t know.’ Belsey moved past Gabby, back onto the landing. ‘Where is Amber now?’
‘She’s in the middle of a work-out. You can’t talk to her. Not when she’s working out.’
‘I reckon I’ll manage.’ Belsey tried to remember where the gym was. Gabby followed.
‘I’d really rather you didn’t.’ He turned the corner and walked into a very tall woman dressed head to toe in black.
‘You,’ she said.
‘Karen—’ Gabby began.
Amber’s manager. Red hair scraped back into a bun, newspapers clutched to her chest. To one side of her was a short man in a roll neck, on the other was a lanky security guard with slicked-back hair and a crisp, white G3 Security shirt.
‘What’s he doing here?’ Karen said, glancing furiously between Belsey and Gabby.
‘He’s here about the intruder,’ Gabby said.
‘But he’s not a security guard.’
‘He’s definitely not with us,’ the guard added helpfully.
‘Did you take her belongings?’ Karen asked.
‘No,’ Belsey said. ‘Where is she?’
‘Get out. You can’t be here. Do you know the trouble you’ve caused?’
The new security decided it was a chance to prove himself. ‘Come on, fella. Looks like you’re not wanted. Shall we go?’
Belsey let himself be steered towards the stairs. Amber was in the gym room. Belsey saw her as he was hustled past, on a treadmill in front of a mirror, in Lycra, shoulders glistening with sweat. She saw him in the mirror, met his eyes and kept running.
9
HE LEFT THE HOUSE AND walked to the park. According to McGovern, the signal from Chloe Burlington’s phone had cut just east of Avenue Road.
Belsey crossed the park to Avenue Road, down to Prince Albert Road. He followed it to where the hired Mercedes had dropped them last night, walked down the embankment to the canal. He stood by the water.
Splash, he thought.
The water was thick, soupy with chemicals and algae. He couldn’t see Chloe Burlington’s phone down there, or anything else. He watched the scum and felt his mind struggle.
You’ve got no idea about the situation I’m dealing with right now.
Stabbed once to the throat. Skull smashed. Amber Knight?
No way.
But detective habit kicked in. First thing you did when you got a suspect was put instinct aside and assess facts. It was facts that were needed in a courtroom. And it meant you avoided clumsy assumptions about what was and wasn’t possible. Because there was no limit to what was possible.
But there were patterns. And there were practicalities.
They got back to Amber’s between 12.30 and 1 a.m.; say they left the club at 12.30 at the latest. They were there for, what, four hours. Less. The first two he had a sense of what was going on. Amber had been around. The last two he had absolutely no idea. His memories of the night clustered around the sober edges. Individual moments flashed out from the fog in between. He remembered the courtyard, the game with malts, the whole Lake Como plan. He remembered waiting at the bar and being handed a glass of champagne, drinking a toast to someone’s racehorse.
He last saw Chloe sometime between 11 and 11.30 by his estimation.
The dance floor, the American guys, then Amber back with him. From then on she wasn’t out of his sight.
Could Amber have headed out and back in? She had access to the back door. Belsey brought up a map on his phone. The back door led to Trebeck Street. Trebeck Street to Market Mews, where Chloe Burlington met her end, was a brief and potentially unseen walk.
Then what?
He considered a compromise scenario: say Amber had been present as someone else killed Chloe Burlington. For one reason or another she’s there, close enough to worry about blood splash. She disposes of Chloe’s phone; maybe the knife as well, getting blood inside her clutch.
There was that other issue: Chloe’s reaction to Mark Doughty’s ID. How did Mark fit into all this? Both women had responded to the ID with intrigue or puzzlement. He saw Amber’s reaction, looking from the doorway in Gabby’s little office, walking over to study it. He saw Chloe’s expression in the light of the courtyard.
Belsey sat on the bench he had sat on last night. The canal in daylight felt less isolated, but still not a popular stretch. Occasional cyclists tore past, joggers, a couple of men with cans of high-strength cider.
Amber hadn’t originally intended to go out. That was one of the first things Chloe commented on: asking if he was with her. Then: I didn’t think Amber was coming tonight.
And it wasn’t on the schedule.
At 7 p.m. Chloe puts a picture online, posing with her Beluggi bag; 7.40 p.m. Amber finds Belsey – and Amber goes out.
Did you tell Gabby we were going out tonight?
He interrogated each scene he could remember from last night, as if he could use his memory like a drill, boring down: from her demeanour on the way there to her vomiting once back.
A canal boat passed. People with wine glasses waved at Belsey from the deck. He waved back. His phone rang. This time he answered.
‘Is that Nick Belsey?’ a man said.
‘Speaking.’
‘DCI Steve Tanner here. Calling with regards to the fatal stabbing last night in Mayfair. I believe you were at Loulou’s nightclub.’
‘That’s right.’
‘We’re keen to talk to you.’
‘I’m keen to talk to you.’
‘Great. Can you come in now? West End Central.’
‘Of course.’
‘Want me to send a car?’
‘It’s OK. I know where it is.’
10
HE PARKED ON CURZON STREET. It allowed him another stroll past the police tape. Four p.m. There was a growing pile of flowers at the corner with Shepherd Street, as close to the crime scene as the public could get – bouquets, cards, other votive offerings: a scarf, some lipstick. It provided a backdrop for news reports at least. Two men were speaking to camera, another handful of crews waiting their turn.
Belsey scanned the messages in the cards. He got a lot of polite condolences. No photos, no memories. Maybe her aristocratic acquaintances were too cool for crime scenes. Something to think about when choosing friends.
He crossed two blocks south.
West End Central police station stood at the north end of Savile Row: a surprising, square-shouldered conclusion to the tailors’ shops. Belsey took a breath and climbed the steps.
‘I’m here to speak to Steve Tanner. Nick Belsey.’
The woman on reception lifted a phone, announced Belsey’s arrival and hung up. She buzzed the internal door and told Belsey to take a seat in the waiting area. Belsey walked in and sat down. Then he got up and went through to the corridor.
The incident room was at the back of the ground floor. It was large, open-plan, with hi-tech screens, whiteboards and, between the various displays, a Major Investigation Team of
fifteen police and civilians busy at desks and computers. No sign of the office manager. No one by the door.
Belsey walked in.
A board at the back carried a map of Mayfair with fluorescent stickers marking Loulou’s and the crime scene. A panel beside it contained a list headed ‘Loulou’s 11/5/15’, subdivided into guests and staff, just over half with phone numbers. Tick boxes recorded whether they’d been interviewed. Some of the guests had stars by their names. Going by the names, it looked like these were the sensitives: Saudis, minor royalty, men and women who came up on diplomatic protection lists. Even murder investigations had a VIP area. Someone had started filling in the times each guest was at the club. There was his own name and phone number, allowed to nestle anonymously amongst the rest for now. No VIP star. They had his time into the club at 8.50. Time out: question mark.
No phone records for Chloe that he could see.
He walked over to another free-standing board, still unnoticed. On its front, facing into the room, was an inventory of clothing and possessions: what Chloe was wearing, what she had with her, finally what was found within ten metres of her body. The list was topped by his business card. She also had her wallet, sixty pounds, various credit cards and a cloakroom ticket.
On the back were the crime-scene photos. Twenty-five arrangements of Mayfair cobblestones, black dress and cold, white skin. Belsey took a second before looking, considered something between a prayer and an apology. Then he started with a close-up of the neck wound: 8.8 centimetres, according to the pathologist’s ruler. Clean-edged on both sides. Wide enough to see the muscle tendons of the throat. He checked the hands. The French manicure remained perfect. No dirt or skin or blood under the nails to suggest a fight. Her knees were grazed, which suggested she moved herself after the attack, or tried to move. Finally he looked at the face. Her eyes were open, empty of expression.
He turned to the preliminary report, displayed beside the photos. The blade had punctured the windpipe. Cause of death: catastrophic haemorrhage.
But it wasn’t the only injury.
Her hair had been shaved off and the scalp unpeeled to expose a basilar skull fracture, spidery lines where the bone had smashed – she’d fallen or been thrown against a wall, McGovern thought. The position of the injury, in the centre of the back of the skull, suggested the latter. So did bruising on the shoulder prominences, as if she’d been forced up against bricks. In addition, the right cheekbone was broken. A punch, driving her head back?
The House of Fame Page 8