The Smiling Man

by Joseph Knox

  It looked like it had been hastily hidden.

  Watching the bedroom door, I twisted the lid off and smelt the mixture. Although the shaker was cold to the touch I was still surprised to see un-melted ice cubes in there.

  It was 10 a.m.

  I dipped a finger in and tasted it. Gin and juice. Either the party had only just ended, or it started to pick up again, moments before I arrived.

  I heard movement behind the door and took a seat.

  Coyle re-entered the room in a crisp, electric-blue suit and apologized for the delay. His thin pencil moustache looked like a crack in white ceramic, and his jet-black hair had been slicked back, welded into place with product. I thought at his age, mid-to-late forties, it must be a dye-job. When he went to the window I thought he was checking on the shaker hidden behind the curtains, but he twisted the venetian blinds closed while he was at it, filtering the sunlight so it broke through the room in strips.

  ‘A little bright in here this morning, if you know what I mean.’ He took a seat and clapped his hands together, as if to activate me. When I didn’t say anything he began cautiously. ‘You’re here about the break-in at the Palace …’

  ‘It goes a little further than that, Mr Coyle.’ I wasn’t sure if Natasha had apprised Aneesa or him of the details after our discussion so I let him fill the silence.

  ‘This attack on our security chap …’

  ‘Ali,’ I said, helping him out.

  ‘Ali, yes. I was sorry to hear about it. We’re not liable, though, if this is related to a claim …’

  ‘I don’t work for an insurance firm, Mr Coyle. As I said, I’m a detective.’

  ‘I take it you’ve caught the burglar if you’re banging down people’s doors at this hour?’

  There was a sound from the bedroom. We both looked towards it and Coyle smiled, aiming for self-deprecation. Missing it by a mile.

  I leaned forward. ‘I’m sorry if I’m interrupting something, but we did have an appointment for this morning. A man died in your hotel, after all …’

  I didn’t think edging towards it would get the best out of him.

  ‘Died? Ms Khan informed us he was injured …?’

  ‘In Mr Nasser’s case that’s correct, but I’m afraid that following the assault on him we discovered a dead body on the fourth floor.’

  ‘What the hell?’

  ‘We suspect foul play.’

  He rubbed his index finger back and forth across his moustache for a moment. ‘And who is the man?’

  ‘As yet he remains unidentified. Any assistance you could give us there would be greatly appreciated.’

  ‘What assistance could I give?’

  ‘You might have an idea of who he could be.’ Stromer had provided us with a facial shot of the man. I’d emailed it to Natasha Reeve to no avail. When I showed it to Coyle he grimaced.

  ‘Not the faintest.’

  ‘What about any unusual activity in the Palace?’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘It looks as though one of your security guards might have been renting rooms.’

  ‘Renting rooms?’ he asked. ‘For what?’ But the answer occurred to him a moment later. ‘Ah, the world’s oldest profession.’

  ‘We’re keeping an open mind.’

  ‘You must get very open-minded in your line of work.’

  I nodded. ‘I think it’s the second or third oldest profession.’

  ‘So you suppose this man’s death is, what? Related to prostitution? Does Blick know about all this?’

  ‘I was actually hoping to speak to him, but he’s out of the country.’

  A roguish look passed across Coyle’s face and he dug his phone out of a pocket. ‘I’ll say …’ He held it out to me. On the screen was a picture of a topless, overweight man. He was wearing designer sunglasses and was surrounded by young Thai women. ‘I won’t be surprised if he never comes back.’ I had to admit that for a solicitor he looked pretty relaxed.

  ‘Returning to the Palace, Mr Coyle …’

  ‘Prostitution, you said?’

  ‘That’s one line of enquiry. When was the last time you visited the hotel?’

  He laughed at that. ‘I haven’t been there in years. That’s the truth.’ I thought I believed him but his making the distinction this late in our conversation seemed interesting.

  ‘And you don’t have any personal enemies who might want to delay the sale of the hotel?’

  The smile froze on his face. ‘Delay the sale? Could it delay the sale?’

  ‘The point is that it could be an effort to.’

  He thought for a long moment, his eyes moving off and then back on to me. I thought I could see last night’s booze finally breaking the surface.

  He shook his head. ‘I’m certain that’s not the case but we have to be careful. Can you be discreet?’

  ‘About …?’

  He shook his head in pity and spoke slowly so I’d understand. ‘Headlines about assaults and dead bodies will only send the asking price in one direction.’ He gave me an illustrative thumbs down.

  ‘It’s an interesting chain of events, though. A closed-down hotel in negotiation for sale gets broken into. Nothing’s taken but the security guard gets assaulted. A dead body’s discovered. You can understand why we’d want to speak to the owners …’

  ‘Have you spoken to Natasha?’

  ‘Your wife? Yesterday.’

  ‘My ex-wife.’

  ‘I didn’t realize the divorce was finalized.’

  ‘That only the makes distinction more important. The Palace is our divorce in practical terms, and she’s the only one holding things up.’

  ‘Do you suspect your wife of some involvement in this?’

  ‘I didn’t say that.’ He looked at me. ‘Natasha wouldn’t have left any survivors …’

  ‘But she’s obstructing the sale?’

  He ignored the question. ‘I merely wish you’d spoken to me first.’

  ‘I wanted to speak to the two of you together. You weren’t available.’

  ‘To discuss a break-in,’ he said. ‘If I’d known the full details, I’d have cleared my schedule.’ His eyes darted about the glasses in the room. I got the impression that they were his schedule.

  ‘Why does a dead body change things so drastically for you?’ I asked.

  ‘Because of the potential ramifications. If we’re to avoid negative publicity, things need to be handled delicately. Not something Natasha has any great flair for …’

  He invited the question so I asked it. ‘What does Ms Reeve have a flair for?’

  ‘The dramatic,’ he said, reclining into the couch. ‘What did she tell you about me?’

  ‘Just the facts.’

  He looked up, shrewdly. He was a man who’d been betrayed by facts before. ‘So you’re on her side?’ he said.

  ‘I’m usually on the dead person’s side. Ms Reeve told me very little about you.’ I wasn’t interested in feeding his martyr complex. ‘And she was pretty vague on the details of the Palace itself.’

  That seemed to please him. ‘Well, no surprise there. She acts as though she built it from the ground up.’

  ‘That’s not true?’

  ‘She married into it,’ he said triumphantly. ‘Then remade the place in her own image. You can imagine why I’m so desperate to get rid.’

  ‘Are you desperate, Mr Coyle?’

  ‘For everything except money,’ he said, waving the question away. ‘I was using what’s called a figure of speech. It’s Natasha’s fault that we’re going through all this. I would have been content to remain a silent partner in the business. She gave me an ultimatum …’

  ‘And that’s what happened six months ago?’ He didn’t answer. ‘Is that when the two of you separated?’

  ‘We separated years ago, as far as any real relationship goes.’

  ‘May I ask if there was someone else involved in your marriage?’

  ‘You may,’ he said, sitting upright. �
�But you won’t get an answer. I fail to see the question’s relevance.’

  ‘What about now, are you seeing anyone new?’

  ‘Again, I fail to see the question’s relevance.’

  ‘Its relevance is that I’m wondering if you can account for your movements on Saturday between 10.30 p.m. and midnight.’

  ‘We both know I never killed a man.’

  ‘Even if we did. Other things happened that you could have done.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘Your security guard heard two voices, arguing, shortly before midnight. When he went to investigate, he was attacked. We saw someone flee the scene and found the unidentified dead man soon after.’

  He smiled. ‘You think Natasha and I meet there for our midnight punch-ups. Perhaps we killed a stranger on our way out to alleviate the stress?’

  ‘You could quite easily have had an argument there and had nothing to do with the man’s death. If that was the case, now would be a good time to say something.’

  ‘It’s almost worth it to take her down with me, but I haven’t spoken to Natasha in months, not since I moved out. I’d love to hear what she said to this accusation …’

  ‘It’s not an accusation, Mr Coyle, and she simply explained where she’d been, what she’d been doing.’

  ‘And?’ When I didn’t expand he went on. ‘Well, I’m afraid I can’t account for my movements. Saturday night? I was here. Alone.’

  ‘Your ex-wife was on her own as well.’

  ‘As she no doubt delighted in telling you.’

  Freddie kept a jazzier, more flamboyant mask on his disappointment than Natasha, but it was there all the same. I left his apartment feeling grateful not to have seen the two of them together. They were both evasive in their own ways, argumentative too, and I wondered if that’s how they’d lasted for ten years, by evading each other. I wondered why that had suddenly stopped working. As I reached the staircase I thought I heard voices, or at least his, talking to someone else. Then I heard ice, rattling inside the cocktail shaker.

  2

  My phone was vibrating when I reached the street.

  ‘That rubber,’ said Sutty by way of a hello.

  ‘Good morning to you, too. The condom wrapper? Was there a print on there?’

  ‘Yeurgh, but no hits. It’s the brand that caught my eye, though.’

  ‘Remind me.’

  ‘Lifestyle,’ he said. ‘Ever come across it? So to speak …’

  I thought for a second. ‘It looked unusual, but I didn’t recognize it. To be honest it’s been a while.’

  ‘Well, I’d worry if it was your protection of choice. Y’know the clinic on Hulme Street?’

  Around the corner from the Palace, there was a sexual health walk-in clinic run by a charity. As soon as Sutty mentioned it I remembered.

  It was branded as the Positive Lifestyle Clinic.

  ‘I’m about a five-minute walk away.’

  ‘All right then, but Aidan …’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Get yourself checked out while you’re there.’

  There was a homeless couple sitting outside, sharing a bottle of fortified wine. I passed them and walked into an off-white, clinical reception area. The waiting room was an even split between young men and women. Some looked like sex workers and carried on loud, outrageous conversations as I passed them. Others looked nervously at their phones or their shoes. I went to the front desk and spoke to a woman through a battered Perspex screen.

  ‘Hi,’ I said, discreetly showing her my badge. ‘I’d like to speak to whoever’s in charge, please.’

  She wasn’t impressed. ‘Name?’

  ‘Aidan Waits.’

  ‘Yes, he does. Someone’ll be with you in a minute, Mr Waits.’

  I sat down. The three escorts who’d been discussing the wilder fantasies of their regulars looked at me. Then they looked at each other. They stood up as one and walked out of the building. I couldn’t tell if I looked like a cop or just especially contagious. After a few minutes a woman in a white coat came through and spoke to the receptionist, who pointed at me.

  ‘Mr Waits,’ she said, with a professional smile. ‘Shall we go through to my office?’

  We stepped through and I closed the door behind me. ‘Sorry, I think I cleared out half your waiting room.’

  ‘They’ll be back,’ she said. ‘Their bodies are their livelihoods. Now, what seems to be the problem?’

  ‘I’d like to ask you about condoms.’ She raised an eyebrow. ‘It’s work-related. Would you happen to have any to hand?’

  She looked at me for a moment then leaned off the counter and opened a drawer. She reached inside and held one out for me to take. The packaging was identical to the wrapper I’d found at the Palace.

  ‘Are these available anywhere else?’

  ‘There are two other Lifestyle clinics—’

  ‘But not in the city?’

  ‘Correct.’

  ‘And they’re not for commercial use?’ She shook her head. ‘So if someone’s using these in the city centre, they most likely came from here?’

  ‘Stands to reason.’

  ‘This is a very long shot but you don’t happen to keep records of—’

  She was shaking her head before I could finish the sentence. ‘Nothing like that, I’m afraid. First of all, we supply contraception to anyone who needs it. Usually students or sex workers. Secondly, there are confidentiality issues involved. A clinic like this is built on trust. If people felt as though they couldn’t come here in confidence we’d be losing the battle.’

  ‘I understand that,’ I said. ‘Thanks for seeing me at such short notice, I know you must be busy.’ We both heard the disappointment in my voice.

  ‘Not since you scared off the waiting room. Where did you say you found it?’

  ‘A hotel.’

  ‘A condom in a hotel?’ She smiled. ‘A needle in a haystack, surely?’

  ‘It’s closed down at the moment but a man died there in suspicious circumstances on Saturday night. We’re trying to trace anyone who might have seen something.’

  ‘Closed down?’ She frowned. ‘You don’t mean the Palace?’

  ‘I can neither confirm nor deny that,’ I said, nodding.

  ‘So if someone had been working from there, they wouldn’t be in any trouble …’

  ‘They’d be making my day.’

  She looked at me for a moment. ‘I’ve heard a couple of girls mention it. I think there’s a room they use sometimes.’

  ‘Even since it’s been closed?’

  ‘You’d be surprised at some of the uses these empty buildings get put to. Someone was hiring it out for a percentage. There are some real users in this city, and I do occasionally feel compelled to report things, but in this case it sounded like a good deal for the girls. A fairly safe environment. Fairly cheap. And they could just cross the road for supplies, or a check-up here if it came to that.’

  ‘Any girls in particular?’

  ‘I’m afraid that really is as far as I can go.’ I passed back the condom and she smiled. ‘It’s on the house, Detective.’

  I shook my head. ‘I hate seeing things go to waste.’

  3

  I requested the address that uniform had been given for Marcus Collier, the day-shift guard, and then settled into some paperwork. Sutty and I had an unspoken agreement to spend half of each shift apart from each other, so I could ghostwrite his reports. Although this meant more work, and was in violation of several regulations, I took an odd pleasure in approximating his constipated, staccato writing style. Or at least, in spending a few hours apart from him.

  When uniform still hadn’t supplied Collier’s address several hours later, I knew that they probably never would. Lately, my name was closing a lot of doors. I requested the CCTV from the site of the latest dustbin fire on Oxford Road, just in case Parrs decided to check up on me. There had been three of them, spread across five days. So far the perpetrator had chos
en surveillance blackspots, by accident or by design, and I assumed this would be no different.

  Finally, bored with waiting, I called Aneesa for Martin Collier’s address. She gave it to me immediately and, with some hours to kill before my shift actually started, I decided to head out there for a look. It was still bright out but creeping towards evening. The streets were filled with rough-looking young men about my age, their arms wrapped around women so beautiful it could break your heart. I tried to look at the skyline instead. Endless regeneration cranes, vanishing off into the smog.

  Marcus Collier lived at a Salford address. I saw his area code, a gun-crime hotspot, and grimaced. Almost a quarter of all reported shootings in the city took place in a one-mile radius of his street. Dynastic crime families going back generations carried out beatings, robberies and even hits with near-impunity. No one blamed the bystanders, the civilians, when they didn’t make statements. A code of silence was what kept them safe. Due to this, most violence in the area went unreported, and we speculated the true gun-crime figures were much higher. When I visited it was usually to deliver Osman warnings. Threat-to-life alerts. Sutty and I had communicated dozens of such threats to men, women and even children, most of whom declined police protection.

  Marcus had a room in a beat-up-looking boarding house at the dead end of a cul-de-sac. I heard the whistles as I pulled into the street, followed by a stillness that was very different from calm. The whistles were an early-warning system. Literally a boy on the corner who’d put his lips together and blow. It told his employers – the local dealers – to close the first-floor windows, where they’d usually sit dropping down zip-bags of dope for passing regulars. The whistles put everything on hold, pausing the sad melodrama of the street for a few minutes.