by Vince Vogel
“He stole her,” the man went on with his speech, “so he could sell her to men. Use her like some piece of meat and desecrate the innocence that my master had cultivated in the girl. He’d have gotten away with it, too, if it hadn’t been for the cutting of Charles Carter’s throat. My master thought her lost forever. He had me kill many men in the search for her. Many men that I now realize were innocent of the crime I was accusing them of. How very startling it was to learn of her existence the other day on the news. Jess Rawly alive and well. And at the Belgravia of all places. Did your boss really hate my master all that much to do this to him?”
“I have no idea. No one tells me anything I don’t need to know. You know how the Ring is.”
“Yes. The Ring. My master’s continued involvement in it is nothing more than a mere courtesy to you people. But you’re nothing but slave traders. Only interested in your bank balances. My master adheres to a higher calling. One beyond morals and petty greed. One which sees him high up on the peak of a mountain watching over all the little people below as they squirm and writhe.”
Carlton James was staring up at him. The pain in his knee was excruciating. The man smiled at him and James felt terrified by it.
“A day of reckoning is coming for your boss,” he said, reaching into his boot and retrieving a cut throat razor that glinted in the morning light shining through the window. “Starting with you.”
Carlton James gritted his teeth together. It was surely coming.
31
Barker stood in his kitchen, watching John take a whole host of medications, washing them down with a glass of water. Once he’d finished, he stood holding the edge of the sideboard for several seconds with his eyes closed, gently rocking. He appeared to be suffering from dizziness and his yellow skin went a lighter shade as the feeling passed.
“You good?” Barker asked when the eyelids sprang open.
“As good as it gets,” John replied.
“Okay. Well, I did the briefing this morning and then I got a call. The building that was on fire. It belongs to a man by the name of Jacob Harris.”
John turned his mottled eyes to Barker. “You mean Sir Jacob Harris, the property tycoon?”
“You read the society section?”
“Cath does. So is that where we’re going next?”
“Yes. I came back to get you. Do you feel up for it?”
“I don’t feel up for anything other than lying in bed with my eyes closed. But then if I did that, I wouldn’t get to the bottom of this before I die.”
“No, you wouldn’t. So I take it you’ll come.”
“Try stopping me.”
John got dressed. Barker helped him. It made him sad. The man was only a year older than him, but he could have been fifty years older. It made him terribly distraught to see John’s atrophied body; the liver spots that covered him like the marks of a leopard, the varicose veins that stuck out of the pale flesh like knotted up cables, the large patches of random bruising that looked like rot on a fruit. The body was breaking up and it made Barker feel like he himself were much closer to death simply by being within such a close proximity to his sick old friend.
“Don’t look at me like that,” John had said.
“Like what?”
“Like you’re staring at death itself.”
An hour later, they arrived at Sir Jacob Harris’ office building, a tall, monolithic glass tower that rose out of the ground and lorded it over the much shorter surrounding buildings like a playground bully. They entered through a set of electronic sliding glass doors. The reception was all black marble and the receptionist was all white teeth.
“How may I help you?” she asked cheerily.
Barker flashed his badge.
“I’m Detective Sergeant Barker. This is John Hudson.”
John nodded at her. She stared at him for a while. Stared at his yellow, gaunt face. It looked like the reflection of a ghost in a window. Like the man was only half there. Fading slowly from existence.
Sending her gaze back to Barker, she said, “And what would you gentlemen require?”
“We require a talk with your boss, Mr. Harris.”
He wasn’t going to add the ‘sir’ part. Nevertheless, he didn’t have to. She did it for him.
“You mean Sir Jacob Harris?” she asked.
“Yes. That’ll be him.”
“He’s been expecting you,” she said.
“Oh, has he?”
“Yes. He told me when my shift began this morning that there’d probably be some police show up at some point.”
“Well, I hope he’s prepared then.”
She took two passes from a desk drawer and handed them across. They had the word Visitor written on them in bold black. They strung them around their necks.
“Thirteenth floor,” she said. “Ask at the reception desk for Sir Jacob.”
They went up in the lift.
“I wonder if this one’s gonna have his lawyer there,” Barker said. “Like Jaqueline Carter.”
“No,” John said.
“Why no?”
“A man like Sir Jacob is one of those classic rich assholes who thinks he can outsmart everyone below him on the socioeconomic scale. The supercilious little prick’ll want to think he can get rid of us by himself.”
“Probably can,” Barker said. “There’s nothing to connect him with the place except his name on the deeds. I’d be very surprised if he’s ever visited the place or has anything directly to do with it.”
They arrived at the thirteenth floor and asked at the reception. A tall woman in a tight cashmere sweater and knee length pencil skirt guided them to his office. It was in the corner of the building. The woman left them with Sir Harris’s secretary, who in turn buzzed them in. A polished walnut door clicked open and they stepped through it.
A large window overlooked the surrounding rooftops. London wasn’t a very tall city. It never got involved in the early twentieth century western obsession with tall buildings, and it certainly didn’t get involved nowadays with the second coming of this obsession in places such as that abomination in the desert Dubai and the ridiculous overnight cities of China. Therefore, you could easily spot the whole of the cityscape from a thirteenth floor window.
When they entered the office, Sir Jacob Harris was standing at the window with his back to them.
“Take a seat, gentlemen,” he said without turning.
It sounded like a command. It annoyed both men. Barker did as told and took a seat, grumbling to himself as he did. But John didn’t. It was like his close proximity with death gave him a certain spirit. He was no longer willing to just let things go.
When Harris turned around, John was still standing.
“I said take a seat,” the man said.
“I don’t take orders,” John retorted.
“Then you’ll just stand there?”
“It’s fine by me.”
Barker found himself a little irritated by his friend’s behavior.
“Come on, John,” he said. “Take a seat.”
“I’ll stand.”
Barker rolled his eyes and turned to Sir Harris, who still stood at the window. He was tall and skinny, and reminded Barker of a spider, all long limbs and spiteful face. His shining blue eyes were set deep in the sockets, resembling jewels set in the face of an idol. His nose and other features were petite, meaning that—like his building—there was a monolithic quality to his appearance. As though he were a blank copy, waiting for its creator to add details to it.
He went back to staring out the window with his arms folded behind his back. Barker looked at his friend and John, in turn, rolled his eyes. He mouthed the word performance. Barker nodded in agreement.
“Do you know how many buildings I own in this city?” Harris said.
“Lots,” Barker said.
“Thousands. I own thousands of properties in this city and all of them are for different purposes.”
“Like trafficki
ng children,” John put forward.
Harris turned sharply on him. Glowered at him for a split second from his tiny eyes and then smiled.
“Yes,” he said, pointing at the sick man.
John was beginning to sweat, his body swaying slightly. It was the effort of standing. His legs were beginning to buckle. He wondered if he wouldn’t faint the longer he stood. It would be terribly embarrassing. But he hated orders from men such as this. Had hidden that hatred his whole life. But now that the life was nearly over, he could afford to do things how he wanted for once. And if that meant fainting in the middle of this office, then so be it.
“Would you gentlemen like a drink?” Harris offered.
“We’re all good,” Barker said.
“I’m not,” John added. “I’d like something alcoholic.” He pointed at a walnut drinks cabinet in the corner. “I take it that thing’s got some in it.”
“It has. Allow me to prepare you one. What would you like? Whiskey? Gin?’
“Brandy. On the rocks.”
“Brandy it is,” Harris said, leaving the view of the window and going over to the cabinet. “I have a wonderful bottle of Hennessy.”
He opened it up and John gazed inside from across the room. His eyes were still good, regardless of how decrepit they looked. He could spy into the cabinet and see everything.
“What about that Vintage Armagnac 1939 you got there?” he said.
Harris glanced over his shoulder at him as he crouched before the cabinet, a slightly embarrassed look on his face. Compared to the ’39 Armagnac, Hennessy was dishwater. Dishwater for the plebs, John thought. Save the good stuff for my fellow rich bastards.
“Of course,” the gangly man said, placing the Hennessy back and grabbing up the Armagnac.
He poured two glasses, handing one to John and taking the other around a huge mahogany desk, where he sat back in a large leather chair and gazed across.
John decided he’d had enough of standing. He took his drink over and sat in a chair next to Barker.
“So let’s get to it,” Harris said, sipping his drink.
“The property at 116 Rigsby road,” Barker said.
“Of course,” Harris said, pointing a bony finger at the detective.
“Can you tell me about your ownership of it?”
“There’s not much to tell, really. It’s part of a portfolio of properties that I bought up shortly after the crash of 2008. A lot of the businesses—especially in industrial estates such as Rigsby road—went bust. We decided it was a good opportunity.”
“You mean because they were desperate to sell?” John said.
“I guess.”
“Desperate people tend to sell for much less, I gather?”
“The market was bad. What can I say? They needed to sell and we were willing to buy.”
“Okay. So you bought the building in 2009,” Barker said, having already done a little homework on the place.
“No,” Harris corrected. “The portfolio bought it on my behalf. I, myself, had very little to do with the acquisition except to sign the required paperwork.”
“So am I right in thinking that the people running the portfolio selected the property?”
“Exactly so. I never even saw the place until this morning, when the news came on.”
“So how did you recognize it?”
“I didn’t. I saw the news and ate my breakfast as though it was nothing but the news. It wasn’t until an associate of mine rang and told me that the building was part of the Phoenix portfolio that I knew it was mine.”
“And who is it that called?”
“Peter Selwick. He’s in charge of the portfolio.”
Barker wrote this down in his notebook before he asked, “So you must have been surprised that one of your buildings was being used for what it was?”
“Very.”
“And have you any idea why twenty-six trafficked underage girls came to be locked inside of it?”
Harris smiled and sipped his brandy. John did the same. When he’d finished, Harris turned to him and said, “Good, isn’t it?”
“Perhaps a little too rich,” John said back. “Maybe we would have been better off with the Hennessy.”
“More to your tastes?” Harris asked.
“More honest.”
“In what way?”
“In that the flavor’s not trying to be something it’s not. How much did the Armagnac cost?”
“Five hundred pounds.”
“The Hennessy?”
“I wouldn’t know.”
“No more than twenty quid,” John said.
“Is that all? Well, my secretary buys it.”
“Does she buy the Armagnac?”
“Yes.”
“But you knew the price of it.”
“I selected it myself.”
“Well, the Armagnac certainly isn’t four hundred and eighty pounds better than Hennessy. About a tenner better, if anything. Yet, for only a slight improvement, you’re expected to pay twenty five times the amount. That’s where it becomes pretentious. Offering itself up for something it’s not.”
“You find the brandy pretentious?”
“Among other things,” John said before sipping his drink.
“Okay, let’s get back to the building,” Barker said. “Who deals with it? Is it the portfolio?”
“No,” Harris said, grinning. He found it funny that the detective had no idea about finance. Wouldn’t know a hedge fund from a mutual fund. Little people, he couldn’t help remarking. “The Phoenix portfolio only buys up property under one heading. It buys up dilapidated and abandoned warehouses in order to develop them later on when the market becomes more favorable.”
“You mean turn them into posh flats?” John asked.
“Yes. We had a lot of luck back in the eighties buying up the old docklands. We hope to do the same with these areas.”
“Yeah,” the sick man scoffed. “People’s jobs dying. Industry dying. And what do we need? More posh flats that ninety-nine out of a hundred can’t afford. Brilliant.”
“I’m sorry you feel that way.”
“You’ll find most people outside your social circle feel that way.”
“Indeed.” Harris was grinning uncomfortably.
“So if the portfolio doesn’t have much to do with the building,” Barker said, “who does?”
“A pertinent question, Detective. Peter—”
“That’s Peter Selwick?”
“Yes. Peter sent me the required paperwork.” He reached into a desk drawer. “And I’m handing it to you.”
He pulled out two pieces of paper stapled together and handed them to Barker. The detective took it and checked it over. Thompson and Thompson Property Management was written as a header at the top. The thing was a contract for Thompson and Thompson to manage the property at Rigsby Road and several others at separate locations.
“We practically have nothing to do with the place,” Sir Jacob Harris said. “They organize security and make sure the buildings are looked after. Any maintenance is done through them. So however those girls got in there, that’s your next move.”
Barker folded the paper up and placed it in his pocket.
“Okay,” he said. “So there’s nothing else you can tell me about Rigsby Road?”
“Nothing at all, Detective. My hands are clean.”
John sniggered loudly and Harris turned to him.
Standing up, finishing the last of the brandy and slamming the crystal glass down hard on the desk, the sick man said, “You people are never clean. Never. No matter what the law may tell you and no matter how hard you kid yourselves. One day, a reckoning will come for you and all the others. You’ll be lining the streets hung from your necks from lampposts as the poor cut chunks of meat from your hanging bodies. They’ll feed you to their children. Only then will you people realize the terrible mistake you’re making.”
And with that, he turned and left the office.
“I beg your pardon,” Harris said, a look bordering on bewilderment and fury making his blank face go red.
“It’s okay,” Barker said.
Sir Harris turned his perplexed eyes on him.
“He’s not well,” Barker added. “He’s sick.”
“Then why’d you bring him?”
Barker didn’t answer the question. Instead, he thanked the man and left the office. At the end of a corridor in front of the lifts, he found John pacing up and down the gray carpet tiles.
“What was all that bollocks in there about a reckoning?” Barker asked in an irritable tone.
John looked agitated. He couldn’t keep still. His arms hugged his body, except when they reached forward and impatiently tapped the button for the lifts. Something he kept doing every few seconds, as if this would speed it up.
“I need to get out of this place,” he said.
He was dripping with sweat.
“You shouldn’t have drunk that brandy,” Barker said.
“It wasn’t the brandy. It was him. It was this place. It’s like death.”
“What do you mean a reckoning is coming?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
The lift came and John barged inside it, not even letting the people out first, so that they had to squeeze past him. Barker followed him in. There were two other people. They stood to one side as John went to the back and leaned against the mirrored glass, closing his eyes as his chest heaved breathlessly in and out. Barker pressed for the ground and came beside him.
“You know, John,” he said, “I invited you up here out of courtesy. I don’t appreciate it when you—”
John lurched forward and vomited everywhere, the vomit spraying out of his mouth and hitting the closed doors of the lift. The two people inside got splashed and jumped backwards from him.
“Oh my God!” one of the women exclaimed. “It’s all over my skirt.”
Inside the cramped space of the lift, the smell hit them immediately.
“I’m… sorry,” John said as he stood bent over, hand on his stomach, other leaning against the wall of the lift, mouth dripping with vomit.
“Who’s going to pay for this?” she went on, an angered expression pointed at John.
Barker turned to her angrily.