by DS Butler
Brian narrowed his eyes and studied it. “You’re a bit out of your way, aren’t you? We deal with the Met boys round here.”
“What’s your full name, please, sir?”
“Brian. Brian Mann. I’m the manager here.” He wiped his hands on a towel, then leaned against the bar. “What’s all this about?”
“I’m DS Mackinnon, and this is DC Collins. We want to talk to you about Henryk Blonski.”
“Henryk? Yeah, he works here most nights. He’s a good worker.” Brian Mann crossed his arms, which caused his biceps to bulge and made his chest look twice as wide. “He’s not in any trouble, is he?”
“Henryk Blonski was killed last night,” Collins said.
“Killed?” Brian Mann repeated. His arms dropped down to his sides, and he looked deflated by the news. He stared down at the bar for a moment, then rubbed a hand over his stubbly chin. “How did it happen? Car accident?”
Mackinnon shook his head. “He was murdered.”
“Murdered?” The big man shuddered, and his belly rippled under his tight t-shirt. “Why would anyone want to hurt Henryk? Was it a mugging? Poor bastard.”
“We’re investigating,” Mackinnon said. “What can you tell us about Henryk? How long had he worked here?”
“How long? It would have been coming up to a year next month. He was a decent bloke. Trustworthy, you know?”
“How many shifts did he work a week?” The bar manager wiped a rag across the surface of the bar, a habit, something to do with his hands, rather than a conscious action.
“He worked from twelve ‘til nine, five days a week. He took a few extra shifts here and there. He needed the money. He was always looking for overtime.” Brian Mann’s head snapped up as if he had just thought of something. “He was on the books. All legit. He paid his taxes.”
Mackinnon nodded. “Its all right, Brian. We want to find out what happened to Henryk. We’re not concerned about him working a few extra hours. Can you tell us if he had any trouble at work? Any customers getting too close to the girls? Anyone that might have been upset with Henryk?”
“No. He was a good bloke. Worked hard, but kept to himself. I deal with the customers who step out of line. I make sure no one takes advantage of the girls. Henryk just worked the bar.”
“Did you ever meet any of his friends?” Mackinnon asked. “Did he hang around with a certain crowd?”
“Not that I know of.”
“Did he ever talk about his sister?”
“His sister? Yeah, he did. Anya. He thought the world of her. They shared a flat on the Towers Estate. I’ve got his address on file somewhere if you need it.”
A flash of memory hit Mackinnon – an image of Henryk Blonski lying outside his own front door, blood pooled around his body.
“Thank you, but we have his address,” Mackinnon said. “Do you know where he worked before he came here?” the bar manager nodded. “Yeah, he gave me references when he started. He was a dishwasher in a restaurant. I forget the name. I’ll go and get his file for you. Take a seat. Want a drink while you wait?”
“No we’re good, but thanks.”
As they waited for Brian to come back with the file, Mackinnon looked around the pub. It was a serious, no frills place. The tables and chairs had seen better days. The dim lighting may have helped to hide some of the wear and tear, but it still looked cheap. The chrome bar the girls used for dancing had lost its shine, and greasy fingerprints smeared the surface.
Brian stomped back through the door into the bar.
He passed Mackinnon a couple of sheets of paper. “That’s all I’ve got. It’s not a lot to show for a man’s life, is it?”
“No,” Mackinnon said. “It isn’t. Tell me, did you ever meet Anya, Henryk’s sister?”
Brian looked amused. “God, no. Henryk would have been horrified at the thought of Anya coming here. I’m not saying he was a prude. I mean, he was nice to the girls working here, but he would never have let Anya anywhere near this place. He put her on a bit of a pedestal, I think.”
Mackinnon nodded. “When was Henryk’s last shift?”
“Tuesday, he knocked off at nine.”
“Was that the last time you saw him?”
Brian’s face crumpled. “Yeah, that was the last time. Poor bastard.”
20
Victoria Trent was awoken by something slamming into her shoulder. She opened her eyes, but it was pitch black. What was going on? Where was she?
Then she remembered. The house. The fake audition.
Panic bubbled up in her chest.
Why couldn’t she straighten her legs? And what the hell was covering her mouth?
She could taste plastic and the chemical tang of adhesive. The bastard put tape over her mouth to silence her.
She screamed, but the sound was muffled by the gag and came out more like a high-pitched grunt. She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t suck enough oxygen through her nose. She felt her chest constrict. God, she recognized this feeling. She was going to have an asthma attack. She was going to die here.
She tried to breathe steadily through her nose, without panicking. She hadn’t had an attack since she was a child. If she could just calm down and slow her breathing, she might be able to figure a way out of this mess.
At least, he hadn’t bound her hands together, and she still had her clothes on. She put her hands up to her mouth and gently tugged the tape covering it. It didn’t come away easily. As she pulled harder, it peeled away, millimetre-by-millimetre, and it felt like it took a few layers of skin with it.
Once the tape was off, she gulped down air, and gradually, the tight band of pain around her chest eased.
She reached her hands out, touching some kind of fabric. Her fingers scraped the surface. She was inside some sort of compartment. She was trapped.
A new kind of cold fear passed through Victoria. She felt light-headed and woozy, as if she might pass out. But she fought against it. She had to get a grip on herself.
She wrestled with the fabric wrapped around her and pushed upwards as hard as she could. It was only fabric; surely, she could rip it.
Her arms strained against the material until they ached from the effort. It wasn’t working. There was no give in the material at all. She was caught like an animal in a trap.
She didn’t understand why he had done this, or why he selected her, but she wasn’t injured, and she would get away. The bastard picked the wrong person. She wasn’t a victim. She would fight back with everything she had.
She needed to keep calm and think her way out of this. Her hands explored the small compartment. If only he’d left her bloody handbag, she could have phoned for help.
Victoria searched her memory, trying to work out what on earth he could want from her, but her mind felt sluggish and slow. He’d drugged her, injected her with something.
She’d have to play him, talk him round, tell him she wasn’t angry, that if he’d just let her go, they could forget this ever happened. No one would need to know. She’d make him understand that this whole thing was crazy. How could he expect to get away with something like this? What he was doing was illegal, for Christ’s sake. He could get locked up for years over this.
Then once he let her go, she’d head straight to the police and make sure they annihilated him.
“Let me out!” she screamed, struggling against the tough fabric.
There was no response. She started to pray, softly, “Please, get me out of this, God. I’ll do anything if only…”
What was that noise?
Victoria’s body tensed. She held her breath and listened. There was a slight ticking noise. A clock? No, faster than a clock. Then a point of dazzling light appeared above her. It was a zip! Someone was undoing a zip.
Her arms flew up towards the opening, struggling to get free. With her head and upper body free of the fabric, she sat there for a moment, blinking at the bright light.
She looked down, staring at the blue nylon materi
al bunched up around her. Shit. He’d put her in a bloody sports bag. She stood quickly, trying to lift her legs out of the bag, but as she struggled, her legs wouldn’t work properly. She felt like a newborn deer, staggering around on wobbly legs.
She fell to her knees, looking around for him. But he was gone. He’d left her alone in a room filled with a collection of strange equipment.
21
Fifteen minutes after their arrival back at Wood Street Station, Collins waved Mackinnon over to his desk.
“Come and have a look at this,” Collins said, pointing at his computer screen.
Collins scooted his chair over, so Mackinnon could have an unobstructed view. Collins had opened up the YouTube website.
“I found a video of Nathan Cleeves’ band, Vivid. Take a look at this. They’re performing a song called ‘You’re Pretty Clever’.”
As Collins pressed “play,” a tinny, electronic beat started up, while on screen, five men dressed in black leather jackets and Lycra shorts bounded on stage, gyrating and strutting their stuff.
Mackinnon raised an eyebrow.
“It gets better,” Collins said.
“I’m not sure I believe you.”
Mackinnon was right to doubt Collins. It got worse. A lot worse.
When Collins finally muted the video, he looked up at Mackinnon. “What was it called? ‘Pretty Clever’?” Collins grunted. “It’s not clever, and it’s certainly not pretty.”
It’s not what I call music, either,” Mackinnon said. “Did he really get six Brit Awards for that?”
Collins nodded. “I’m afraid so.”
Still puzzling over how anybody could describe Vivid’s performance as a work of art, Mackinnon and Collins headed to DI Green’s office for another briefing.
They were using the DI’s office, as the briefing rooms were full. The finance unit were working on a high-profile fraud case, and MIT had commandeered the others.
It didn’t really matter as the four of them fitted in the DI’s office without a problem: DC Webb, Collins, Mackinnon and DI Green.
DI Green was already talking things through with DC Webb, when Mackinnon and Collins entered and pulled up chairs, muttering quick apologies for arriving late.
“As I was saying,” DI Green said, looking pointedly at Mackinnon and Collins. “The hostage situation is ongoing, and MIT is up to its neck right now. I will be handing over to DCI Brookbank–”
“If they’re so busy, why don’t we continue to work the Blonski case?” Collins asked. His knee was bouncing up and down like a nervous tic.
“Murder always goes to the Major Investigation Team,” DI Green said and set his lips in a firm line, signalling an end to the discussion.
But Collins didn’t pick up on that, or if he did, he was determined to ignore it.
“But it’s our case. We found him. We–”
“No,” DI Green said. “Your case is the disappearance of Anya Blonski, not Henryk Blonski’s murder.” His voice had a steely edge.
Collins charged on, oblivious. “But I found his body.”
DI Green shot Collins a withering look. “DC Collins, if you feel you are becoming too emotionally attached to this case, I could remove you from the Anya Blonski investigation as well.”
Collins fell silent.
“I need my officers to be cool-headed and logical, is that clear?”
Collins responded with a curt nod.
This case was clearly eating away at him. Mackinnon spoke up, trying to ease the pressure on Collins.
“When will we brief MIT, sir?”
DI Green glanced at his watch. “Soon. I hoped DI Hussein would be here by now.” He shrugged. “While we wait, tell me where we stand at the moment.”
“We looked into Anya’s movements on Tuesday, the day of her disappearance,” Mackinnon said. “She worked her usual shift at Starbucks in the morning and took her normal class at the Star Academy in the afternoon. Everyone we spoke to at the academy told us Anya left town to work on a cruise ship. But no one actually heard that from Anya herself. And no one remembers who originally mentioned the cruise ship.”
“Have we located Anya’s parents yet?”
“They’re in Poland,” Mackinnon said. “DC Collins got their telephone number from the address book found at the Blonski’s flat, and the Policja contacted the parents and broke the news.”
“Right. So we have no sightings of Anya Blonksi since Tuesday?” DI Green asked. “What do you think? Did she just run off, or do you think something’s happened to her?”
Collins spoke up. “No one matching Anya Blonski’s description was admitted to any of the local hospitals. None of the cruise companies have any records of an employee named Anya Blonksi.”
There was a knock at the door, and DI Hussein from MIT poked his head in the room. “Sorry I’m late. DCI Brookbank sends his apologies.”
“Ah, DI Hussein. We were just discussing the Blonski case. Have a seat.”
DI Hussein pulled a face. “I’m really sorry, but I can’t stay. The DCI sent me down here to ask if you could give him the file and send one of your officers over at six to attend the MIT briefing.”
DI Green frowned. “Oh, I see. I understand you’re busy, but–”
“We’re snowed under. All hell’s kicking off at the Towers Estate.”
DI Green’s shoulders slumped. “Oh, all right then. DC Collins will go to the MIT briefing at six, and we’ll keep looking into Anya Blonski’s disappearance. It could have something to do with her brother’s murder.”
“Fantastic,” DI Hussein said, already backing out of the room. “Appreciate your help. See you later, Collins.”
After DI Hussein left the room, DI Green sighed heavily.
“So much for MIT,” Collins muttered under his breath.
“Right, where were we?” DI Green asked.
“We talked to Anya’s colleagues at Starbucks and the owners of the academy Anya attended.”
“Nathan Cleeves is at the top of my list,” Collins said. “He is a thirty-nine-year-old ex-boy-band member and an arrogant, little toe rag.”
“Is there any reason he tops your list?” DI Green asked. “Other than the fact he is an arrogant toe rag, of course.”
“He’s got previous,” Collins said. “Attacking paparazzi outside a nightclub in 2002, and my instinct tells me he’s hiding something.”
DI Green frowned. “Mackinnon? What do you make of him?”
Mackinnon understood where Collins was coming from. Nathan Cleeves gave a very bad first impression, and Mackinnon didn’t like him any more than Collins did. But instincts weren’t enough. They needed to work with the facts, process the evidence step-by-step, then move onto the theories.
“Nathan Cleeves was obnoxious and sullen. The last thing he wanted to do was help us with our enquiries.” Mackinnon leaned forward, “But we don’t have any evidence to suggest he knows where Anya is. He told us as far as he was concerned, she’d gone off on a cruise ship.”
“You can’t deny he looked shifty though,” Collins said.
“All right, shiftiness aside, is there anyone else who rang alarm bells?” DI Green asked.
“Jim Meadows,” Mackinnon said. “He worked at Starbucks with Anya. He definitely had a crush on her, but I don’t think there was anything more to it.”
“What about customers?” DI Green asked “A pretty girl like that, there’s bound to have been a couple sniffing around.”
“Nothing ominous, according to Jim Meadows. No boyfriend either.”
DI Green sniffed and shuffled a few sheets of paper on his desk.
“I find that hard to believe.” DI Green held up the six-by-nine-inch photo of Anya that Henryk gave Collins when he first reported her missing. “Ask around again. Dig deeper, there has to be someone. And, Collins, pay Nathan Cleeves another visit. Let him know we’re watching him.”
Collins nodded. “That will be a pleasure.”
DI Green sighed and leane
d back in his chair. He linked his fingers together and rested his hands on his stomach. “I’m going to have to speak to the super about staffing. I know MIT are under a lot of pressure, but we can’t handle Henryk Blonski’s murder. It doesn’t fall under our remit.”
DI Green reached for the telephone on his desk, signalling the end of their meeting.
Mackinnon got to his feet, thinking about Henryk Blonski and wondering how he would have felt about falling outside some bureaucratic remit.
“One more thing, sir,” Mackinnon said “We found Anya’s passport at the flat she shared with Henryk. We’ve checked, and she hasn’t applied for another one. It doesn’t look good.”
“No,” DI Green said, gripping the telephone handset to his ear. “No, it doesn’t.”
22
Victoria Trent remained crouched on the floor as she slowly looked around the room. Where the hell was she? It wasn’t anywhere she’d been before. She was sure of that. It suddenly struck her that she couldn’t hear anything. No traffic, no voices and no footsteps. Only silence.
As someone who lived in London all her life, Victoria wasn’t used to it being so quiet. Where had he taken her?
She could hear nothing but her own heartbeat, thumping too fast, and her raw, rasping breath. She tried to calm down. Remembering her old counselling sessions, she tried to find her safe place, but there was no calm, no inner peace. Only panic.
She didn’t even know if it was day or night. There were no windows in the room. An ugly, bare bulb that flickered as if it might go out at any moment was the only source of light.
There was a bad smell hanging in the air, a stinking blend of body odour and public toilets.
On the floor in front of her was a bottle of mineral water. Her mouth felt dry and sour. She must have been unconscious for a while. She grabbed the water and guzzled it down greedily.
The room was arranged like a stage set. To her right, she saw cameras, three of them, mounted on tripods. They looked professional, like something you’d see on the set of a TV studio. Held up at various positions around the room were huge lights on stands. They weren’t switched on. Beside one of the lights was a fuzzy ball of grey fur on a stick – a sound boom. All this stuff was set up for recording.