‘This is just between us,’ she says. ‘Klara, I’ll need you to look over Faulkner’s ANPR and phone records again. Perhaps there is something we missed. Also I need the address of his apartment in Soho.’
‘Of course.’ Klara’s long fingers rattle across the keyboard. ‘He lives in Paramount House on Wardour Street. Very fancy.’
‘He’s from old money. Wouldn’t expect anything less,’ says Quinn.
‘There is a twenty-four-hour porter who can give you access.’
Archer looks to Quinn. ‘Let’s see what we can find.’
*
They make the journey by foot to Wardour Street and stop outside Paramount House, a stylish seven-storey block, built in the 1930s. Archer feels an odd sense of nostalgia mixed with regret. ‘This used to be the UK headquarters for Paramount Studios. My dad and I would walk past here sometimes and he would tell me about the movie stars he’d seen arriving and leaving this building when he was growing up. It always seemed like a magical place to me. It was probably just an office full of accountants and pen pushers, but it was nice to have that fantasy.’
‘It’s a shame to see these old buildings with so much history butchered and made into offices, flats and . . .’ Quinn gestures to the immense ground-floor coffee shop, ‘ . . . a Starbucks.’
‘That’s progress for you.’
The porter is a red-faced middle-aged man called Bell, who reluctantly escorts them to the third-floor apartment. He hesitates before unlocking the door. ‘I should really speak to Mr Faulkner before allowing you inside,’ he says.
‘Unless you’ve been living in a bubble, Mr Faulkner has been missing for some time now,’ says Quinn.
‘I know but . . . perhaps I should call his father instead.’
Quinn sighs impatiently. ‘That’s a crackin’ idea. Perhaps we can ask for a vote in the Commons while we’re at it.’
The man flinches at Quinn’s tone. ‘I’m only looking after my client’s property.’
‘How many bedrooms are in your client’s apartment?’ asks Archer.
‘Two. En suite and the highest of specs they are, too.’
Archer smiles. ‘And does Mr Faulkner have a cleaner?’
‘We have contractors who come in once a week.’
‘When was the last time it was cleaned?’
‘Yesterday.’
‘Thank you, Mr Bell. We can take it from here,’ says Archer.
The porter unlocks the door. ‘I must insist that you treat the property with respect and don’t break anything.’
‘Aye, we’ll do our best. You wait outside,’ says Quinn, ‘we’ll call you if we need anything.’ Quinn shuts the door behind him. ‘Officious Bell end.’
Faulkner’s apartment is a double-aspect, bright and airy open-plan living space with a glossy fitted kitchen and even glossier wooden floorboards. It has a flowery, freshly cleaned smell and the look of a showroom flat. Archer notices there are no stand-out art pieces anywhere; the walls are mostly decorated with art deco-style mirrors, wall lamps and the occasional photograph of Faulkner with someone famous.
‘I can take the bedrooms,’ says Archer, pulling on a pair of protective gloves.
‘I’ll make a start here.’
Archer enters one of the bedrooms and searches carefully through the drawers, bedside cabinets and wardrobe. They contain next to nothing, which makes her think this must be the spare room. The en suite yields no results either and she heads into the main bedroom.
‘How’s it going?’ she calls to Quinn.
‘Nothing so far. How about you?’
‘Same.’
The next bedroom is larger in size and has a more lived-in feel. There are books on the bedside cabinet, a large television set and through the en-suite doorway she sees neatly organised male toiletries sitting on a shelf above the sink. Her eyes are drawn to the mirror above it. In the reflection she sees something hanging on the hook behind the bathroom door. She swallows. One side of a pale, expressionless face looks back at her. She hurries inside the bathroom and lifts it from the hook. It’s a rubber mask. Daubed around one of the eyes is a bleeding ‘@’ symbol.
‘I found these,’ says Quinn, stepping into the bedroom. He is holding two cans of spray paint. His eyes fall on the mask. ‘Jesus H Christ!’
40
I
T’S ALMOST 3 P.M. AND Victoria Dunmore-Watson is the only one in the bloody office. Again! Stevie is still ‘off sick’, although she thinks the sickness is just him wallowing in a mire of self-pity at being dumped by his girlfriend, Charlotte. Victoria felt sorry for him but soon got over that when she realised she’d have to cover his workload. Her boyfriend, Hugo, seems to think this is hilarious and told her just now it will do her good to do a whole day’s work for once. She told him to fuck off and ended the call.
It’s all just so intolerable!
And Jamie doesn’t seem to mind one bit. He swanned off two hours ago to meet some new client, who she knows nothing about.
Doubly intolerable.
The trouble is that she needs to talk to him. There are details on the Harmony House deal with creepy Clive that she needs to sort out before tomorrow. She reckons it unlikely Jamie is meeting a client. It’s more likely he’s on a date with some fawning bint from Tinder, so he’ll probably ignore his phone, like he always does.
With her long, pale varnished fingernails, she taps the glossy dark red packet of Dunhill cigarettes sitting on top of her desk and tries to decide what to do. At that same moment her phone begins vibrating. She thinks it might be her twattish boyfriend phoning back to apologise, but it’s actually Jamie. She is relieved he’s called but also feels a twinge of irritation that it’s not Hugo.
She answers.
‘Jamie, thank God!’
‘Vics. Are you OK?’ His voice has an echo as if he is in a car.
‘I’m fine. I’m fine. I’m trying to finish this report for Clive.’
‘Oh my God, do my ears deceive me. Are you actually working?’
‘Yes, I am and it’s unbearable.’
‘Don’t worry about Clive. I’ve just spoken to him and he is happy to wait a few more days.’
‘Are you kidding me? Oh, I fucking hate him! He makes my life a misery demanding that I get this report ready by tomorrow. But then you talk to him and he’s all sweetness and light. Yes, Jamie. Of course, Jamie. I’d love to, Jamie. Fuck me up the arse sideways, Jamie.’
Jamie laughs. ‘For a posh girl you’ve got such a potty mouth.’
Victoria tips a cigarette from the packet and puts it between her lips as she continues to talk. ‘I only speak the truth,’ she garbles as she fishes for a lighter in her bag.
‘Have you got something in your mouth?’ asks Jamie. ‘I’m not disturbing you and Hugo, am I?’
Victoria snorts and almost chokes on her cigarette smoke. ‘I wish! I haven’t sucked that dick since the August bank holiday. He hasn’t been that interested recently. He had better not be getting sucked off elsewhere.’
‘Do you think that’s why Charlotte dumped Stevie?’
‘Oi! Shut up. You’re supposed to support me.’
Jamie laughs. ‘You said it first.’
‘Yeah, but I didn’t mean it!’
‘Maybe it’s not Charlotte. Maybe it’s Stevie.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Stevie is sucking Hugo off.’
‘Ugh! Stop. The thought makes me want to vomit.’
‘I’m only kidding.’
‘Anyway, babes. Are you driving?’
‘I’m in a cab.’
‘Where are you going?’
‘I’m meeting a client.’
‘Tell the truth.’
‘I am!’
‘You’re such a liar, Jamie. You’re either meeting that policewoman or a slaginder.’
‘A what?’
‘Slag from Tinder.’
‘You have a vivid imagination, my dear.’
&nbs
p; Victoria rolls her eyes and inhales a glorious lungful of Dunhill smoke. ‘Where are you meeting this mysterious client?’
‘I’m not sure, actually. We’re almost there.’
Victoria hears the click of the cab’s indicators.
‘We’re just pulling over. Give me a minute, Vics.’
She hears the car door closing and Jamie is talking. ‘Thank you. Bye,’ he says.
‘Are you still there?’ he asks.
‘Yes, babes.’
‘Wow, this place is weird.’
‘In what way?’
‘Well, I’ve no idea where I am. Somewhere west of London. Ealing.’
‘Ealing . . . ugh. First that horrid little hovel in Waterloo and now Ealing.’
‘That’s nice, Vics.’
‘Well, you know what I mean, babes.’ She exhales a large plume of grey smoke.
‘It’s an old manor house,’ he says. ‘There’s no one here. The place is empty and there’s a weird smell.’
Victoria feels a fluttering in her stomach that she cannot explain.
‘I’m just going to look inside.’
‘Wait. I don’t like it, Jamie. Call the taxi back and go home.’
‘Oh, Vics, that would just be rude. Perhaps the client wants to sell this property?’
‘I know, babes, but you know weird shit has been happening in London lately.’
He doesn’t respond but she can hear his footsteps as they crunch on what sounds like glass.
‘Jamie?’
‘What the hell is that?’
‘What do you see?’
‘There’s three large glass cabinets in the middle of this building.’
‘Oh God, Jamie. Get the fuck out of there now!’
‘Fuck this. I’m leaving.’
‘Thank God.’
Relief washes over her but ebbs quickly back when she hears Jamie grunting followed by a cracking noise. Horror grips her. She wonders if he has just dropped the phone. ‘Jamie?’ she calls, with a frightened whisper.
He doesn’t respond.
‘On my God! Jamie? Jamie!’
She can hear a horrible gurgling sound that stops suddenly.
‘Jamie, what’s going on?’
She hears footsteps approaching the phone.
‘Jamie!’ she calls.
All she hears is heavy breathing.
‘What have you done? Where’s Jamie?’
But whoever it is, he doesn’t answer.
The phone goes dead.
41
M
IKE HAMILTON KNOWS HE IS onto something. He has that feeling like an invisible hook tugging at his gut. Detective Inspector Grace Archer, daughter of a murdered police officer (a killing sanctioned by Frankie ‘Snow’ White, no less), abductee, and the only surviving victim of serial child killer, Bernard Morrice. And here she is, back in the news, pitted against another wacko serial killer. It is a delicious story that barely needs embellishment, but it is missing that key element: Archer’s viewpoint. He still hasn’t heard back from her and has done everything she’s asked including sending her the article for approval and the photographs. He is getting impatient and wants to speak with her, but she has taken to ignoring his texts and phone calls again.
Fucking bitch!
Sitting at his desk he can only half hear the drone of journalist jabber, the rapping of plastic keys and the never-ending ring of telephones.
‘How do I make this happen?’ he asks himself. She’s as stubborn as a mule. He tuts at himself for thinking such a clichéd simile. You’re a journalist, a writer, for Chrissake! Not some bottom-of-the-ladder hack.
He shuts his eyes tightly, rubs his rough cheeks and tries to think.
Over the past week he has divided his focus between Archer’s dubious past and the @nonymous murders. His concentration on the formidable, and let’s be honest, foxy Grace Archer, has caused him some criticism, but that doesn’t bother him. Sales are up and that’s all that matters. But it’s just not enough for him.
‘What’s up, Mike?’ asks Katy.
Mike sighs and frowns. ‘I’m busy, if you don’t mind.’
He can sense Katy looking at his computer, where he has opened an online story from the archives on Bernard Morrice and his final victim, Danny Jobson.
‘I saw a piece in the Express online.’
‘Good for you.’
‘An interview with Danny Jobson’s parents.’
Mike feels his body tensing. How the fuck did the Express get that?
‘So what?’
‘Our sales figures have dropped. Theirs are up. Thought you might like to know.’
And with that bombshell Katy turns and leaves. Mike feels his neck flush red. Katy’s rebellion has begun. She is getting her own back. He is irritated but also impressed. Maybe she’ll make a good reporter after all.
He rereads the old Danny Jobson article and has a thought. Grace Archer has never quite recovered from his death. She tried to save him, but failed. He thinks about Jordan Kelly, who is still missing. Mike sits up, unaware of the grin that has spread on his face. He can see the headline now: CAN DETECTIVE INSPECTOR GRACE ARCHER DO FOR JORDAN KELLY WHAT SHE COULDN’T DO FOR DANNY JOBSON? It’s sounds a little harsh, but he’ll work on that.
But not here. At home. He may have to work late.
He closes down his laptop, disconnects it from the docking bay and slips it into his shoulder bag.
He catches the bus home to his one-bedroom flat in Hackney, which has the convenience and class of being situated above a kebab shop called AbraKEBABra.
AbraKE – fucking – BABra.
Give me strength!
As if that isn’t bad enough, the hot stench of processed lamb and fried onions is forever present. He can never leave the windows open. He made that mistake once before only to come back and find the entire place reeked like the foetid sweat of a Bedouin’s bollocks. He had to buy several cans of Febreze spray to ‘gypsy-wash’ his curtains, duvet and the clean washing he had left hanging on the clotheshorse. It almost put him off kebabs for life, but he managed to get over that phase.
All that said, the flat is only temporary, or at least has been for the last four years.
He can afford nothing better. With two failed marriages, crippling alimony and debts to make your hair stand on end, there is no way he will be upgrading anytime soon. Not until he gets round to finishing his magnum opus and commands a six-figure deal from one of the big publishers. That day will come. He is sure of it. In the meantime, he has other fish to fry.
Next door to AbraKEBABra is a grocery store, where he picks up a six-pack of Foster’s, reduced in price because it’s slightly past its sell-by date. It might be kangaroo piss of the worst kind, but at that price he will willingly drink from the marsupial’s cock.
He stands at the white uPVC front door between the grocery store and the kebab shop and fishes for his keys.
‘Hello, Mr Hamilton. How are you?’ says Mr Bahadir aka Mr AbraKEBABra.
Hamilton remembers he is behind on his rent.
Fucking hell!
He grimaces as he frantically searches for his keys. ‘Hello, Mr Bahadir. I’m fine. How are you?’ A cold sweat covers his body but he is relieved to find the keys, and shoves one into the keyhole. ‘Nice to see you. Goodnight, Mr Bahadir. Goodnight!’ Hamilton turns the lock and pushes the door open.
‘One moment, Mr Hamilton.’
‘Fuck,’ mutters Hamilton. He pulls out his phone and points to it with a faux apologetic expression. ‘Must take this call.’ He hurries inside shouting hello down the phone at no one and closes the door shut behind him. The last thing he wants is another of Bahadir’s passive-aggressive confrontations on why his rent is late again.
He pushes the timer light.
White light fills the narrow stairwell with its worn red lino. He climbs up to the small landing, unlocks the flat door and enters. The beer is weighing heavily on his arm and he is thirsty. He makes his wa
y into the tiny kitchen, opens one of the dented cans and drinks it down. The cold amber kangaroo piss stings the back of his throat but lifts his spirits.
It’s midnight when Hamilton polishes off the last of the beer and lets out a loud belch that almost makes the walls shudder. He rubs his eyes, which are sore from spending the entire evening typing his Jordan Kelly and Danny Jobson story.
On the streets below he hears the drunken hollering from the closing-time crowd as they spill out of the pubs and queue for the exotic delights of AbraKEBABra to soak up their beer and cheap cocktails.
Hamilton stands up but feels a giddiness that makes him wobble on his feet. He lifts his arms to right his balance.
‘Steady on, you old fucker,’ he mutters and stumbles into the bedroom. Unwashed underwear and socks litter the floor. Kicking off his shoes, he climbs into bed with his clothes still on. His body has had enough for the night, his eyes begin to close and soon sleep washes over him.
He wakes sometime later to the creak of a floorboard. He has a pounding headache and a bloated bladder.
He sits up.
The room is dark. He doesn’t remember switching off the lights, but then he did drink a skinful. The bedroom door is ajar and a slice of yellow light cuts through from the living room. The voices outside are gone. The only sound is the occasional beep of a car horn.
He hears breathing, deep and unfamiliar. He freezes, thinking he must be imagining things, but isn’t so sure.
‘Who’s there?’ he says, his voice trembling.
He sees the silhouette of an arm swing up and close the bedroom door, plunging the room into darkness.
‘Mr Bahadir, is that you?’
He wonders if Bahadir isn’t the weak-minded fool he takes him for. Perhaps he and his dodgy foreign mates have come to rough him up for not paying his rent again.
Hamilton points at the darkness. ‘I’m with the press, you know. I’m important. Don’t any of you think of laying one finger on me.’
The light switches on. It’s glaringly bright causing Hamilton to shield his eyes but in a single moment he catches a glimpse of a solitary dark figure standing at the end of his bed. As his eyes adjust to the light he takes in the intruder.
The Art of Death Page 23