‘That’s her version of events.’
‘I’m sure he hasn’t done anything. That doesn’t sound like Paul.’
‘Can I speak to him?’
‘Amber’s a very valued customer. We’re all proud to work with her.’
‘Me too. Can I speak to Paul?’
She lifted the phone on her desk, spun her chair away from Belsey and spoke quietly, then walked out of a side door into the car park.
Belsey watched a man emerge from a Portakabin in the corner, wiping his mouth with a paper napkin. He was young, with copper-coloured hair and a thin moustache. The woman met him halfway. Paul frowned as she spoke, scratched behind his ear, approached the office with a look of nervous bemusement. He was probably twenty-eight or so, but the uniform was large and made him look like a sixth-former in a school play.
‘Hi,’ he said. ‘What’s she claiming I did?’
‘To be honest I’m more concerned about where she went. Is it right that you drove her on Friday evening?’
‘Yes.’ The driver glanced at the woman. ‘It was that job I told you about. What’s she saying?’
‘It’s important you tell me what happened, Paul.’
‘She was acting strangely. Wouldn’t say where she was going, directed me into the middle of nowhere. Usually, she was a bit odd, nervous. But this time it was worse. Like she was maybe being followed.’
‘She said that?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Where did you drive her?’
‘Up the North Circular.’
‘To where?’
‘Nowhere.’
‘Nowhere’s nowhere.’
‘Seriously, I can show you nowhere.’
The driver took a Merc and Belsey followed in his Audi. They drove in convoy for fifteen minutes, down a descending scale of suburbia, through Swiss Cottage, Kilburn, Cricklewood, onto the North Circular. They followed the A road through Neasden – six grey lanes that seemed to expand into the landscape either side like a flooded river: vistas of business parks and warehouses behind which suburban terraces dwindled towards the horizon.
The Mercedes pulled up on the hard shoulder a minute before Staples Corner. They were deep in industrial wilderness. A hundred metres away, set back from the road, were the windowless boxes of Leatherland Sofas and an outlet for wholesale paving stone. Hedgerow was ashen, crowded with car debris: broken headlights, bumpers, hubcaps.
They got out. The driver shrugged. Traffic tore past. A low fence divided the road ensuring anyone lost amongst the channels of rubbish stayed on their fated side. To the south, the road curved left and spared you any more of the view.
‘Where did she go?’
‘I don’t know. She told me to drive off.’
‘You didn’t see her go anywhere?’
‘No.’
‘Did she mention a bridge at all?’
‘A bridge? No. I don’t know anything. I said I’d take you where she went, that’s all.’
‘Any bridges around here that you know of?’
‘No.’
‘Has she been driven here before?’
‘No. Never by me, at least.’
Belsey wandered a few metres amongst the faded cans and cigarette packets.
‘Did she get picked up later?’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘What was she wearing?’
Paul blew his cheeks.
‘Cap. Sunglasses.’
‘Dressed down.’
‘Yeah, dressed down.’
‘Skirt? Jeans?’
‘God knows. Jeans. Trousers, anyway.’
‘You said she was giving directions.’
‘She was. And then she just said stop.’
Belsey looked around for anything that felt like a destination.
‘Did she seem to know the route?’
‘No. I thought she was making it up as we went along. It was all over the place. Maida Vale, Kensal Rise. Like I said, mate – she thought she was being followed.’
‘How long did it take you to stop?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘She says “Stop”, but you can’t just slam the brakes on, right? So how long till you were able to pull over?’
‘I don’t know. Straight away. Ten seconds, max?’
Ten seconds’ drive, at the speed of the A road. Call that about two hundred metres.
‘Come with me,’ Belsey said. They walked back, past the bend in the road. Belsey cut through the traffic to the central barrier. Paul stayed on the hard shoulder.
‘She said stop around here?’ Belsey called over a break in the traffic.
‘Yeah. I suppose.’
Just visible on the far side of the road was a row of small, fume-coated shops: Vijay’s News, Drinker’s Paradise Off Licence, AAA Speedy Minicabs.
‘OK,’ Belsey said.
‘What?’
‘You can go.’
‘I didn’t touch her.’
‘I know.’
Paul stared at him, then turned back towards the Mercedes shaking his head. Belsey vaulted the fence, wove through traffic to the front office of AAA Speedy Minicabs. A couple of drivers loitered at the front, smoking. Inside was a waiting area with a collapsed armchair and a broken fruit machine. It was tiny, but then they probably didn’t rely on passing trade. A man slept curled up in the armchair. The controller sat behind a screen of cracked Perspex, pudgy face just visible above a handwritten notice: all jobs had to be paid in advance.
Belsey opened the office door and walked in. The controller clicked out of whatever he was looking at on his PC.
‘You can’t be in here.’
‘I want to show you something.’ Belsey sat down beside him, pulled the keyboard over and brought up paparazzi shots of Amber. He found one where she was dressed casually, baseball cap low, out shopping. ‘I think that last Friday, around five-thirty p.m., this woman came here.’
‘What do you want?’
‘I want to know where she went. I’m a police officer,’ he added, to get a bit of pace going. He sensed nervousness now, a lot of thinking about tax, work permits, all sorts of sticky things. The controller called to the men at the front. The drivers filed in uncertainly. He pointed at the picture on the screen and explained the nature of Belsey’s investigation. They consulted one another in Urdu, checked the picture again. One of them went to the waiting area, put a foot on the sleeping man’s knee and rocked him awake. The man stood up holding car keys. He was young, skinny, missing a front tooth. He tilted his head inquisitively when they spoke, then came and looked at the monitor. He nodded immediately.
‘Friday, five-thirty p.m.,’ Belsey said.
There was another exchange amongst the drivers, then the young man turned to Belsey.
‘I drove her. What is wrong? She is famous?’
‘That’s right. Where did you drive her?’
‘North.’ He gestured vaguely.
‘To where?’
Once again it proved difficult to explain.
‘I can show you.’
Convoy again. This time following the back of a powder-blue Toyota Lexus. They drove back towards London for a mile or so. Then they swung north onto Edgware Road, and finally back onto the North Circular.
From here Amber had woven another winding route. North again, past Brent Cross, into Finchley. Wherever she was going she was determined not to be tailed. Eight p.m., not yet sunset, roads quiet. Suburb curfew. Ragged shopping arcades and more post-war houses.
The driver slowed a minute later, signalled left, turned into a sprawling car park. On either side of the tarmac, dwarfed by the car park itself, were two stretches of leisure options: chain restaurants and a plastic-looking multiplex. A sign announced the Great North Leisure Park.
The minicab stopped. Belsey got out. The driver stayed in his car.
The Great North Leisure Park, then. Closest attraction was Pizza Hut. Then Nando’s, then McDonald’s. At the back was a David Lloyd
sports centre. Up a small gradient, past a disused Café Rouge and another fifty parking spaces, was the Comfort Hotel, like a beige and grey barracks, orange flags fluttering in the wind.
No bridge.
The driver wound his window down.
‘Is this it?’ Belsey said.
‘Yes.’
‘Where did she go?’
The driver pointed in the direction of the hotel.
‘Did you see her meet anyone?’
He shook his head.
‘What time was it?’
‘Six. Six-thirty. What fare did he say?’
‘Fare?’
‘The man at the office. What did he say you pay for this?’
Belsey gave him a tenner.
He crossed the car park to the hotel, through the sliding doors into reception. The beige and orange theme continued inside. To the left, a doorway led into a darkened restaurant. No staff visible. A screen in reception showed a promotional video for the hotel in case anyone wasn’t convinced yet. Beneath it were two balloons and a stack of leaflets. ‘Explore Finchley from The Comfort Hotel.’ What was there to explore? ‘You’ll find plenty to do in the Finchley area of London. Visit the Lido, Golf Club and Brent Cross shopping centre. The Comfort Hotel offers free parking, Wi-Fi and cooked breakfasts. West Finchley Underground Station is just a 20-minute walk away.’ Which meant you were twenty minutes from the middle of nowhere. Maybe that was exactly where Amber wanted to be. ‘The fully air-conditioned Flames Restaurant serves breakfast, lunch and dinner every day from a Mediterranean-style menu.’
He walked into the unlit restaurant. The windows afforded an un-Mediterranean view across the car park to the cinema. A man wheeling a trolley of linen bags to a laundry van. Belsey pinched the leaf of a plastic plant and tried to piece together the holiday on offer. Sun yourself by the A1 before a walk around Finchley Memorial Hospital. Grab some Nando’s, 50ml of vodka from Lidl. Finish the day watching the sun set behind the prefabricated office units of the North London Business Park.
What was Amber Knight doing here?
He walked past reception to the lifts. There was a screen set into the wall between the two lift doors showing BBC News. He caught a helicopter shot of the Mayfair crime scene. Chloe’s face again. It made for a chilly form of decoration. He was watching it, thinking about ash on an oven tray, when the lift doors opened and a pair of hotel staff appeared. Two girls, neither much older than twenty, one with a name badge that said Shannen, one Habiba. They smiled, and when he followed them over to the reception desk Shannen said, ‘Sorry to keep you waiting, sir. Are you checking in?’ Shannen was plump, freckled; Habiba pretty in a blue headscarf.
‘No. I’ve actually got a bit of a crazy situation. You know Amber Knight? The singer?’
The girls gave a confused smile. ‘Yes.’
‘Well, I’m Amber’s manager. I think she might have been around here on Friday evening.’
‘Here?’ They looked doubtful.
‘Between you and me, we’re worried about her. Please don’t tell anyone, OK?’
‘You’re joking.’
‘No. Were you working on Friday evening?’
‘I was,’ Habiba said.
‘Did you see her? Maybe dressed down, wearing a baseball cap and sunglasses?’
‘I don’t think so. Are you serious?’
‘You’d remember, right?’
‘Yes.’
‘Can you check the bookings for that night?’
The girls huddled around the reception monitor.
‘No rooms booked under her name.’
‘Can I see?’ Belsey walked around the desk. He scrolled through the list of bookings for that day. Fourteen of the sixty rooms had been occupied, none in any name he recognised.
‘I need to see any CCTV you have for that time.’
‘I can get the manager,’ Shannen said.
‘Thank you.’
She returned three minutes later with a broad, ginger man in his early thirties. He walked with a bounce, hands clasped in front of him. Graham, according to his badge. He was smiling in a way that suggested he was prepared for a nutter.
‘You think Amber Knight was here?’ he said.
‘Yes.’
‘And what is the problem?’
‘A lot of potential problems, Graham. Would it be possible to see the CCTV?’
Graham now looked appropriately tickled by all this. He opened a door behind the reception and led Belsey into a windowless office crowded with left luggage. A desk at the back had a widescreen monitor divided into nine squares of surveillance. He sat down, clicked into the main menu.
‘When exactly?’
‘Last Friday, around six p.m.’
The first channel he selected was a high shot from above the reception desk itself. He typed in ‘Friday, 17.30’. The screen showed a couple of businessmen wheeling luggage past. The camera filmed three frames per second which made the footage juddery. He skipped ahead. Then, at 17.37, a woman came into view at the bottom of the screen. She wore a black Emporio Armani baseball cap, shades, jeans. No luggage. She walked in, past the desk to the lifts.
The hotel staff looked from the screen to Belsey.
‘That’s not really her, is it?’ Habiba said.
Graham played it again. The woman entered alone, looked around much as Belsey had done. Except there was someone on reception; you saw a corner of headscarf to the far right.
‘That is her,’ Shannen said, wide-eyed. ‘And that’s you.’
‘Oh my god,’ Habiba said.
‘Where did she go?’
‘She must have gone up to a room. Someone else must have already checked in.’
They scrolled backwards. 17.30: the two businessmen passed through.
‘Go back further.’
17.21, a man alone checked in. He also wore shades, two days’ stubble, hair tied in a short ponytail.
‘Let’s get a better angle.’ Graham clicked back to the menu screen. Nine options. He brought up a camera covering the car park.
17:19, a silver hatchback parked: a Renault Clio with the passenger door dented. The man got out, glanced around. He took a hat and glasses from the passenger seat and put them on. But before he did that it was obvious enough he was Mark Doughty.
Graham switched to a camera above the entrance. They all watched Doughty walk in. Up close, he looked nervous. A little more groomed than the ID photo: still gaunt, but the stubble was shaped.
He checked in, took the lift up.
Amber appeared sixteen minutes later. She went straight to the lifts.
‘Could you check the bookings again?’ Belsey said. ‘Double-check there’s nothing under the name Mark Doughty?’
Shannen went to the PC at the front desk.
‘No,’ she called through. ‘Nothing. Who is he?’
‘Not someone you would have heard of.’
Belsey studied the footage again. ‘Who checked in at seventeen twenty-one then?’
‘Seventeen twenty-one. Someone checked into the Finchley Suite. No name.’
‘No name? How was it booked?’
It took Shannen a moment.
‘The room was reserved by a Mr A. Majorana. But it was paid in cash.’
‘But you would have needed a card as deposit.’
‘Yes.’
‘When was it booked?’
‘Hang on.’ He heard typing. ‘A couple of hours earlier.’
‘By a Mr A. Majorana.’
‘That was the name on the card.’
‘Who took the booking?’
Habiba spoke up, a little sheepish, with a glance at her manager as if she might have done something wrong: ‘I think it was me. I remember the name.’
‘Did you ever see the card?’
‘No, it was over the phone.’
‘Did you run the card number past an authorisation department?’
‘No.’
That was well-studied discretion on the part of t
he guest. Almost professional.
‘What did he sound like on the phone, Habiba? Foreign?’
‘Maybe. A bit. I don’t know.’
‘Which room did you say?’
‘The Finchley Suite,’ Shannen said.
‘When does it say they checked out?’
She looked down at the screen.
‘Two and a half hours later.’
He found the moment on the security footage. Amber walked out at 20.05. Again, straight through reception, alone. She looked no different than when she’d arrived.
Mark gave it two minutes. Two other guests walked out before he appeared at 20.07. He checked out, counted out cash from a wallet, took the printed receipt.
Back to the Renault, head turning as he scanned the car park.
Belsey left the back office and walked outside, stood where Mark Doughty had emerged from the Renault and stared back at the hotel. The world around it was growing dark. Dark, yet rich with possibilities. A world more extensive than it had seemed five minutes ago.
Mark Doughty. You player.
That online personality test in Mark’s room – the same one he’d seen on Amber’s laptop: What’s stopping you living the life you want to lead? Not as much as one might suppose. Maybe Chloe Burlington had been stopping her. He returned to the reception.
‘Are there any bridges near here?’
‘No. Why?’
‘Just a thought. Do you have cameras up on the floors themselves?’
‘No.’
‘Can I see the room?’
Shannen took a key card and went up in the lift with Belsey. ‘I literally cannot believe this,’ she muttered. The fourth-floor corridor was beige. Shannen knocked tentatively on the door of the Finchley Suite, inserted the key card, walked in.
The suite consisted of two rooms with dividing doors that folded open to create a continuous space. It was clean, empty. To the right was a large bedroom with double bed and en-suite bathroom. The rest of the suite was a living area with a sofa, dining table and kitchenette.
‘Know what state it was in, afterwards?’
‘No idea.’ Shannen shrugged. They took the lift back downstairs. In the back office, he wrote down the registration number of the Renault Mark Doughty was driving, then emailed himself a copy of the footage. He stood up, said he’d be in touch.
‘Is this a secret?’ Habiba asked.
‘A secret?’
The House of Fame Page 12