The Hollow Man

by Oliver Harris

  The name wasn’t one he knew. This only made his feeling of recognition more puzzling.

  “Anything on her?”

  “Nothing.”

  “When’s the press conference?”

  “There’s one in the community centre at ten. They’re already starting to report on it and Northwood wants to get the facts straight.”

  “Northwood?”

  “He wants to get a statement out fast.”

  Belsey sat back and remembered the panic, people taking cover, the girl’s last gaze upon him. He ran Jessica Holden through the Police National Computer: nothing. Youth Records: nothing. He called Customs.

  “It’s Chief Superintendent Northwood’s office here,” he said. “Yes, I expect you’ve heard . . . Yes, we’ve got a name for the victim now and I want to run a check.”

  According to Customs, Jessica Holden had a new passport ordered five days ago, fast track.

  “Forty-eight-hour fast track?”

  “That’s right. Unused so far, sir,” the Customs officer said.

  “How much did that cost her?”

  “Two hundred.”

  “When was she last out of the country?”

  “Three years ago.”

  “Suddenly she’s in a rush to go on holiday.”

  “Looks that way, sir.”

  Belsey walked past the hospital, down towards the crime scene. News vans with satellite dishes crowded the patisseries. He felt a story breaking, like a wave crashing down on all their heads. If it bleeds it leads. But where?

  Belsey’s stomach cramped. He hadn’t had a proper meal since the Wetherspoons.

  At 10 a.m. the first reporters filed into Hampstead Community Centre. They’d halted the installation of a secondhand book sale and replaced it with cables, the first TV cameras and a chaos of orange plastic chairs. Northwood arrived five minutes late, sweating. He went to the front. Belsey stayed by the door, out of sight. It was crowded, yet quiet enough to hear the electronics whirring. For a moment he thought Charlotte might be there. He couldn’t see her. Northwood cleared his throat.

  “I’m going to keep this short. There will be a more extensive briefing at midday. At seven forty-five this morning there was a firearms incident at the Starbucks on South End Green. One member of staff and one member of the public were hit. The member of the public was a young woman. She was pronounced dead at the Royal Free Hospital at eight-thirty this morning and I can confirm that this is now a murder investigation.”

  Belsey sensed the quiet thrill pass through the room; a death, a story, a dead-girl story.

  “I can’t give you any names until we’ve notified the families. The exact chain of events is unclear at the moment, but it appears that at least five shots were fired into the store from outside. Investigations are now concentrated on a group of individuals seen leaving the area on foot shortly after the incident, and we would call upon anyone who might have seen anything suspicious to come forward.” Belsey frowned. He wondered if he’d misheard but Northwood went on: “We would implore acquaintances of those responsible for this terrible act to come forward. Don’t be afraid to do the right thing. Someone out there knows why a young girl lost her life this morning. They can contact us in the strictest anonymity.”

  He gave a Crimestoppers number, and a number for the incident room, and invited questions from the press.

  “How many weapons were fired?”

  “We’re waiting for confirmation.”

  “Do you know the type of weapon used?”

  “Not yet. Our ballistics experts are looking at that now.”

  “Is the staff member male or female?”

  “Male. I don’t have an age yet.”

  “Do you have an age for the girl?”

  “I won’t be disclosing any more details about the victim until I’ve spoken to her family.”

  “Can you confirm a possible connection with the shooting in Chalk Farm last week?”

  “I can’t confirm that, no. That is one of many avenues we are exploring. Obviously we are now going to concentrate all the resources at our disposal on solving this crime. You the press will play a vital role and I must ask you to be patient.” Northwood glanced at his watch and began unclipping his microphone. “I hope to be able to tell you more this evening.” He ignored the rest of the shouted questions.

  Belsey walked out quickly to avoid the throng. Someone grabbed his arm.

  “Nick.” Belsey looked into the pale eyes of Miranda Miller from Five News. He knew her from a Soho bar they both used to frequent, an establishment so desperate they thought a police officer lent the place some class. He was a bright-eyed constable then and she was a cub reporter for the Camden New Journal. “What the hell’s going on?” Miller said.

  “I don’t know, but that was bullshit.”

  “I owe you a drink.”

  “How about owing me breakfast?”

  They got a table at the back of the Coffee Cup cafe. Belsey ordered eggs and toast and a double espresso on her company card. Miller ordered orange juice. She launched straight into interview mode.

  “Can you confirm it’s gang-related?”

  “No. But it’s going to impact on property prices.”

  “Come on, Nick. I heard the girl who got shot was eighteen.”

  “That’s why I like you, Miranda. You tell me news.”

  “And I’ve got a leak from the chief super himself that they’re searching for three teenagers.”

  “He leaked that?”

  “Straight to me. A robbery gone wrong.”

  “It’s not a robbery.” Belsey sipped coffee and when the food arrived he set about it hungrily.

  “It’s a robbery according to Northwood,” Miller said.

  “Northwood doesn’t know how to work this sort of investigation. He’s in line for assistant commissioner and thinks this is going to be open and shut and get his face on TV.”

  “And it’s not?”

  “It’ll get him on TV. There’s nothing straightforward about it, as far as I can tell. The whole thing’s crazy. Have you heard anything else about the girl?”

  “The victim? Nothing yet. Why are you so sure it wasn’t a robbery?”

  “There was no attempt to take anything.”

  “What information do you have on that?”

  “I don’t have information, Miranda. I’ve got a hunch. It says you’re being fed desperation and guesswork. It says there were two buses parked at the stand in front of the coffee shop and no one in front of them with a gun. But I don’t have evidence and I haven’t been asked to find any. Do you want another juice?”

  “I’ve got a live two-way in ten.” Miller flicked open a compact. She checked her face and teeth. “Do me a favour: pass the usual message to the parents. Put them in touch with me if there’s going to be any interviews or appeals.”

  “What are you starting at these days?” Belsey said.

  “Two grand.”

  “For their grief?”

  “For an interview. Everyone gets the grief. And a photograph of her would be wonderful.”

  “And what do I see?”

  Miller snapped the mirror closed. She fished a fifty-pound note from her suit jacket and placed it on the table with a business card, drank the juice down and wiped her mouth.

  “Did you know, Starbucks have requested we don’t refer to it as the Starbucks shooting?” She grinned humourlessly. “No ‘Starbucks Killer’ or ‘Starbucks Victim.’ ”

  “They’re quick. Didn’t you once say you’d speak to your producer about getting me a show?”

  “I know a guy who does police-chase videos. I can talk to him.”

  “It’ll be like that,” Belsey said, taking the money. “High speed: but thought, not cars. But all the violence, all the crashes.”
/>   “Promise you’ll call me if you get a suspect. Even a wrong one.”

  “OK.”

  “A police source cast doubt on the gang-related leads. How does that sound?”

  “Sounds like you’ve got yourself a story.”

  “Give me a call soon, Nick. You’re making me curious.”

  Emergency Incident Room: St. John’s Church, Downshire Hill.

  The street was one of Hampstead’s most charismatic, with overgrown gardens behind high brick walls. Its sash windows now reflected back a stream of homicide detectives heading to the whitewashed church at its centre.

  The temporary incident room had overwhelmed St. John’s. Belsey saw officers from Serious and Organised filing in, which meant someone somewhere had twigged it might be a hit. There were also reps from the specialist gang units, press officers, heads of forensic departments. He stepped in, showing his badge. The usually airy, classical-style church was a trading floor of investigation. One large whiteboard at the front carried lists of the officers visiting every Starbucks in the area, questioning every local jogger, dog walker, milkman and rough sleeper who might have caught a glimpse of anything suspect.

  “Nick, what are you doing here?” Detective Sergeant Karl Munroe, an expert on evasion, walked past clutching two phones and a notepad: Munroe knew where people went when they wanted to vanish, how they got money, what modes of transport they used. He was short, with tinted glasses and a stubble-shadowed face.

  “Karl. Long time. Where’s he gone?”

  “It won’t be far.”

  “Do they have an address for the girl?”

  “Lived with her parents on Lymington Road. Number 18. That’s all at the moment.”

  Belsey knew the road. He’d never visited that address.

  “What are people saying?”

  “It’s a mess, Nick, I’ll be honest with you. The best we’ve got is this report of a red motorbike heading north along Willow Road.”

  “Witnesses?”

  “All shaky. One saw two men enter the Starbucks. Another thought there were three. One said the gunman was black or Asian, and came out of a back room shouting in Arabic, maybe praying.”

  “Nice to have a choice.”

  Munroe smiled wanly. Belsey walked towards the back of the church hall, where they had the pictures up. They’d set up a pigpen with banks of phones manned by civilian workers. The phones were ringing. Dead girls did that. Beyond the phones were boards with photographs of the Starbucks. To one side were photographs of the girl on the floor where she’d fallen. Jessica Holden, Belsey thought. He looked closer. Then he knew where he’d seen her before, and the world lurched.

  He caught the Northern Line to Bank, surfaced at Monument and walked past St. Clement’s Church to the office of AD Development.

  The lights were off. The door was locked. The brass plaque had been unscrewed, leaving four small holes and some unpainted wood. A broken estate agent’s “To Let” board sat propped against the front door. It hadn’t been there before, but didn’t look new either, suggesting someone had removed it and temporarily hidden it away. Belsey climbed up on the churchyard wall and peered over the curtain into the office. He tried to understand what he was seeing. The office was empty; not just of people but of furniture. He got down, fetched a piece of stone from the adjacent churchyard and smashed the office window. An alarm went off. He reached in, opened the window and climbed through, landing heavily among flaked plaster and broken glass.

  All the cabinets and drawers had disappeared, along with the hat stand, desks and chairs. Even the carpet had gone, revealing old flagstones.

  Belsey let himself out of the front door in time to see a couple of City constables turn into the lane, speaking on their radios. He pulled his badge out.

  “I didn’t see them. I just heard the alarm and took a look—the window’s smashed. Can’t see that there’s much to take anyway.” The constables went over and shone a flashlight through the broken pane. “Has this been empty long?” Belsey asked.

  “Months. Like most of the empty offices around here.”

  “The landlords should get some better security,” Belsey said.

  He found Devereux’s business card and called the London number from a phone box at the end of the alleyway. A young woman said: “AD Development.”

  “Can I speak to Mr. Devereux?” Belsey said.

  “I’m afraid he’s not in the office. Can I take a message?” The voice was bright, scripted, Scouse.

  “Is this a call-forwarding service?”

  “This is AD Development. I can pass a message on to Mr. Devereux.”

  “Is Sophie there?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Jessica?”

  “If I can take a message we will make sure someone gets back to you as soon as possible.”

  “I’ll speak to anyone in the office.”

  “I’m afraid they’re in a meeting.”

  “This is RingCentral, isn’t it?” Belsey said.

  “This is the line for AD Development. Can I help any further?”

  Belsey hung up and called the number on the estate agent’s board.

  “Yes, we’re sole agents for that property.”

  “How long has it been unoccupied?”

  “Six months. The previous tenants needed somewhere with more space, but it’s a one-off property. Very distinguished history. Would you like to take a look?”

  21

  Lymington Road led away from Hampstead Village, down from the grittier side of the Finchley Road to West End Lane. The street separated a low-rise, red-brick estate to the south from Hampstead Cricket Club to the north. Finally, as it curved towards West Hampstead, a few of the original pre-war houses remained backing onto the tracks of the North London Line.

  Belsey had no difficulty finding the victim’s home. Number 18 was made conspicuous by a ragged front garden and the fluorescent constable on its doorstep.

  “DC Belsey. Hampstead station.” Belsey pulled his badge out. “Are the parents in?”

  “They’re in.”

  “I was there earlier. I’ve been asked to speak to them.”

  The doorman looked sceptical. “OK,” he said. “But we can’t have everyone tramping through.”

  Belsey stepped into a harsh, surreal scene. The mother was on the sofa, moaning something incoherent. The father sat in an armchair staring into space. They didn’t look up when Belsey entered. A family liaison officer stood on the patio, smoking.

  The house was crowded with dusty ornaments and books with broken spines. Belsey smelt it as soon as he set foot inside: a kind of poverty which eats away from within, an erosion fought against with the accumulation of valueless objects, artworks, papers, as if to stop the whole facade imploding. The wallpaper was starting to peel. Resentment had crept into the fabric of the furnishings. Belsey had lost count of the number of times he’d attended a supposed burglary and smelt the place, then moved a magazine and seen the unopened envelopes, always the unopened envelopes. And he’d wait to see the kind of insurance claim they put in and have to decide whether to report the burglary or the fraud or neither.

  Belsey turned from the lounge. He trod silently up the stairs.

  Police and thieves: both could find their way around a home with their eyes closed. Domestic lives fall into only so many patterns, as if there were some unseen magnetic field commanding the detritus of a family.

  He walked into the dead girl’s bedroom and it was all wrong.

  Pop stars on the wall. Teen magazines. He checked the dates: two years old, three years old. A kid’s notepad, school files. He ran a finger over the bedside table and watched a line form in the dust. Belsey looked through the cupboard and the drawers and found a lot of old supermarket-brand clothes and not much else.

  He went back downstairs to the
living room thinking about the glamorous young woman he’d seen that morning. The mother had worn herself into exhaustion. The father hadn’t moved. There were photographs of Jessica on display: riding a horse, at a theme park, with grandparents. She was an only child, it seemed. Belsey picked up a framed school photograph. Now he was sure: Jessica had been Sophie, Alexei Devereux’s assistant. He put it back.

  “Mr. and Mrs. Holden,” Belsey said. The husband looked up, blankly. “My name’s Nick Belsey. I’m a detective from Hampstead station.”

  It took them a moment to process this. Feeling awkward, Belsey poured them all whisky from a bottle on the sideboard. He put their drinks on the table. The mother was shaking. Had he originally had it in mind to say something? The peace of her last moments; she spoke of you; she felt no pain. He downed the whisky, a cheap, sweet Scotch. Then he made his address.

  “I want you to know Jessica passed away quickly. I was there and I think she suffered very little. I can’t imagine what you’re going through. My job is to help bring whoever did this to justice and there’s not a moment to waste. So forgive me if this seems intrusive.”

  No one spoke. Neither of them had taken their whisky. He sat down.

  “Would you mind if I asked you a few questions?”

  After a moment there came the slightest shake of the head from the woman.

  Belsey said: “The job Jessica was doing, how long had she been working there?”

  “She didn’t have a job.” The mother’s voice was hoarse.

  “Did she work at all?” he said. “Part-time? Anything like that?”

  “No.” The mother shook her head. “She was at school,” she said. “Just school.”

  Belsey took a moment to consider this. People have secret jobs to go with secret needs for money. They have secret names to go with secret jobs. Teenagers find school insufficiently lucrative and skive into employment. Or maybe the mother was right: Jessica wasn’t working. Then what was she doing?

  “Was there a boyfriend?”

  The mother started crying again. The father found his voice.

  “Not that we knew of.”

  “When was she last seeing someone?”

  “She was too young for boys,” the father said. “There was nothing serious.”