At Your Door

by J. P. Carter

  DS Prescott was waiting at the entrance smoking a cigarette. The smell of burning tobacco made Anna crave a nicotine fix, but she knew she had to resist for the time being.

  Prescott dropped what remained of his fag onto the ground and let the smoke jet from his nostrils.

  ‘I didn’t expect you to get here so quickly, ma’am,’ he said.

  ‘We weren’t that far away,’ she responded. ‘Who’s inside?’

  ‘DS Niven and a PC. I’ve called up forensics, who should be here soon. And the landlord, a Mr Jason Lattimer, is up in his flat on the first floor waiting for you to talk to him. You’ll want to hear what he has to say.’

  ‘So show us what you’ve got then.’

  Anna and Walker snapped on latex gloves and followed Prescott into the building. There was a small, spotless entrance hall with a lift, stairs and corridors to the left and right. A uniformed officer was standing outside the first front door on the left, Holly’s flat.

  ‘We got lucky because the landlord happened to arrive just as we did so he let us in,’ Prescott said. ‘He told us this is one of several flats he owns and rents out. Holly Blake moved in just over twelve months ago.’

  DC Niven was waiting inside to give them a tour of the flat. It was decorated in whites, creams and pastel colours. There was a mix of wooden floors and carpets. The furniture looked fairly new and expensive, and Anna was struck by how tidy it was. There was nothing to suggest it had been the scene of a crime, although she knew that the forensics officers might well come across something that was invisible to the naked eye.

  In the living room, Niven pointed to a sideboard below a wall-mounted TV. On top of it rested an iPad and a laptop.

  ‘The techies are working on getting into them now,’ he said.

  The surfaces were adorned with framed photos of Holly. In some she was fully clothed and in others she was wearing bikinis or underwear. They had all clearly been taken by a professional photographer and had probably graced the pages of fashion magazines at some point.

  The small kitchen gleamed with brushed aluminium and the contents of the fridge included no fewer than four bottles of champagne.

  ‘It’s a two-bedroom flat and this is the one Holly obviously slept in,’ Niven said as he pushed open a door and they followed him in.

  The room contained a double bed with a purple duvet, a large dressing table and a fitted wardrobe across one wall that was filled with designer labels and shoes.

  ‘Check this out,’ Niven said, as he took out one of the many hangers. ‘A pair of men’s trousers. There are also a couple of shirts. And in the bottom drawer socks and pants and a soap bag with shaving gear in it. According to the landlord, Holly had a regular male visitor, a guy who he says is a lot older than her. But before you talk to him there’s something you have to see.’

  He led them along the corridor to the second bedroom.

  As he waved Anna inside, he said, ‘Needless to say this is not what we expected to find.’

  And it certainly wasn’t what Anna had expected to see. Her stomach muscles contracted and the hairs on her neck stood up. It was left to Walker to put into words what she was thinking.

  ‘I don’t fucking believe it,’ he said. ‘I thought we’d already had enough surprises for one day.’

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  When Sophie woke up she was shocked to find that she was lying on the kitchen floor. It was several seconds before she realised that she must have passed out.

  Then it came back to her. The bottle and a half of wine. The shocking revelations in the newspaper about Detective Anna Tate. The knowledge that she might soon lose the only good thing in her life – her daughter.

  And the fear that someone had been watching her as she walked to and from the dental clinic.

  Her head was pounding and there was a foul taste in her mouth. She hauled herself into a sitting position and planted her back against the wall. Thank God Alice hadn’t got out of bed and found her like this, she thought.

  The digital display on the oven told her it was eleven o’clock, which meant she had been unconscious for less than an hour. But that had been time enough for the past to resurface in a familiar dream that took her back to where it all began ten years ago.

  Those images, so frighteningly vivid, returned now as she closed her eyes in the hope that it would ease the pain that raged behind them. It was like she was actually there watching herself re-enact the encounter that was to change her life and eventually lead her to this flat in Shoreditch.

  Ten years ago

  He enters the restaurant with the child in a pushchair. He has fair hair and a handsome face, and is dressed in a tight blue T-shirt and jeans.

  The little girl, who looks about two, is wearing a pretty red dress and matching sun hat. She’s fast asleep with her head back and her mouth open.

  The sight of her is a painful reminder to Sophie that she isn’t able to have a child of her own because she’s infertile thanks to fucked-up ovaries.

  The man decides to sit at a table close to the big window that looks out on the shaded patio. He’s the first customer of the day and as she approaches him with the breakfast menu she can’t help wondering where his wife or girlfriend is.

  ‘Buenos dias,’ she says. ‘Or should I say good morning?’

  The man beams at her, white teeth gleaming.

  ‘You’ve guessed that I’m English,’ he says. ‘And I’m guessing that you are too despite the perfect Spanish accent.’

  ‘I am indeed,’ she tells him and places the menu on the table. ‘Are you here for breakfast or just a drink?’

  ‘I’d like a bacon sandwich and a large Americano coffee with milk and sugar,’ he says.

  She gestures towards the child. ‘And what about that sweet little lady? Would she like something?’

  He laughs. ‘That sweet little lady is really the devil in disguise. She kept me up most of the night, which is why she’s out to the world now.’

  For some reason she feels emboldened to ask him if the child’s mother is with them.

  ‘Her mother died a while ago,’ he tells her, the smile vanishing. ‘She contracted a rare form of blood cancer. That’s why we’ve moved to Spain. I want us to start a new life here.’

  ‘I did that four years ago,’ she says. ‘I got fed up with the crowds and depressing weather in London.’

  ‘We’re from London too,’ he says. ‘We’ve been here just over three weeks. I’m renting an apartment close to the marina while I look around for a business to invest in.’

  ‘What kind of business?’

  ‘Not sure yet, but I’ve always wanted to run a bar ever since I spent some time here in Spain as a teenager. Of course, it needs to be something that will allow me to be a proper father at the same time.’

  ‘That sounds exciting.’ She holds out her hand. ‘By the way, my name is Sophie and I’m the head waitress here at The Clover.’

  He takes her hand and the smile is back.

  ‘And I’m James. James Miller. This is my daughter. Her name’s Alice. She’s two and she means the world to me.’

  Sophie opened her eyes and wondered briefly what would have happened if they hadn’t lied to each other that morning. Would they have hit it off like they did and stayed together for the next seven years? Or would James have eaten his bacon sandwich and walked out of her life?

  He’d almost certainly be alive now if he had done so. And she would probably still be in Spain, having never experienced true love or the sheer joy of motherhood.

  Sophie sat on the kitchen floor for almost five minutes as dark thoughts trampled through her mind.

  At the same time the pain in her head was getting worse, insistent, and it seemed like the silent walls of the flat were closing in on her.

  She had to force herself to resist the weakness that was taking her over. But it required an enormous effort.

  As she clambered to her feet her head spun and the floor seemed to shift beneath
her. She had to hold onto the worktop until she regained her equilibrium.

  Then, squeezing the memory of ten years ago to one side, she staggered across the kitchen, grabbed a glass and filled it with water from the tap. She downed it in one go, filled the glass again, and carried it unsteadily towards the bedroom.

  On the way she paused to look at her reflection in the hall mirror and it made her cringe. Her eyes were glassy, her face sweaty, her shoulder-length black hair a total mess.

  She wanted desperately to talk to someone, to unburden herself. But who could she trust? Her parents were dead and she hadn’t spoken to her sister for well over a year. She had also lost touch with her uncles and aunts.

  There was Lisa, of course. But Sophie wasn’t sure she wanted her to know what she’d found out. Since her friend lived and worked outside London it was likely she hadn’t read the Anna Tate story in the Standard. If she had then surely she would have called by now.

  She couldn’t resist looking in on Alice on the way to her own room. Thankfully she was still asleep, one arm dangling over the edge of the bed. Sophie leaned over and gave her a gentle kiss on the forehead.

  It was Alice who gave meaning to Sophie’s life. Alice who had helped her to bury the past and embrace the future.

  She loved that wonderful, beautiful girl as if she were her own. And she knew that Alice loved her back. As far as Alice was concerned Sophie was her mother now. Her biological mum wasn’t even a distant memory. She existed only in a couple of photographs that James had kept.

  It was Sophie who had helped to potty-train her. Sophie who had taken care of her while James worked in the bar he opened. Sophie who had looked after her since they’d been forced to flee from Spain to Southampton three years ago. And Sophie who had had to break the news to her that her father had died.

  And that was why it was such a shock to discover now that all along Alice’s real name was Chloe. That her mother was still alive. And that James had lied to her about being a widower.

  It felt to Sophie as though her heart had been ripped out of her chest. The urge to drink herself into oblivion was strong. But the urge to hold onto the life she had was much stronger.

  And for that she needed to stay sober, focused and determined.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  There were various ways to describe the second bedroom in Holly Blake’s flat. But Anna felt that Walker put his finger right on it when he said, ‘It’s like a poor relation of The Red Room in Fifty Shades of Grey.’

  He was referring to the movie about a billionaire who’s into S and M and has an elaborate pleasure dungeon he calls The Red Room of Pain in his luxury apartment. Holly Blake’s DIY version was on a much smaller scale, but it clearly served the same purpose.

  The room, which was only slightly smaller than the one Holly had slept in, was equipped with all kinds of kinky sex paraphernalia. Some of the items were hanging from hooks on the walls and others were neatly laid out on shelving units.

  There were ankle and wrist restraints, canes, rolls of bondage tape, chains, handcuffs, lengths of rope and a variety of sex toys.

  A single bed had pride of place in the centre of the room and there was a flat-screen TV fixed to the wall above it. Leather straps were attached to the bed frame at both ends, and on a small table next to it was a DVD player. Anna’s eyes were drawn to a contraption that she had never seen before. It stood about three feet off the floor and had four steel legs and padded rests to support a person’s body and limbs.

  ‘What the hell is that thing?’ she asked.

  Walker shook his head. ‘It looks like some weird piece of exercise equipment.’

  ‘It’s known as a fuck bench,’ Niven said. ‘It allows those who like to play rough to position each other so that they can gain full access for penetration and stimulation.’

  Anna and Walker stared at him and saw the blood rush to his face.

  ‘Well, it’s a new one on me,’ Anna said.

  ‘Don’t jump to the wrong conclusion,’ Niven responded quickly, holding up his hands, palms out. ‘I’m not a fetish freak and I’m not into BDSM. I just happen to have heard about it, that’s all.’

  Walker raised his brow and tutted. ‘You shouldn’t be ashamed of what turns you on, mate,’ he said, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. ‘I read somewhere that one in five couples is into painful sex. And it’s no longer taboo to talk about it. So relax, Tom. We’re not judging.’

  ‘Oh, for fuck’s sake, I wish I hadn’t opened my gob,’ Niven said, and Walker responded with a chuckle.

  ‘Stop winding him up, Max,’ Anna said. ‘This is serious. I’m assuming that when Holly told her mum that she was going to reveal a bunch of sordid secrets this is what she meant. I can see the headlines now – “Top Tory MP and his spanking sessions”.’

  ‘Looks to me as though spanking would have been one of the least painful activities they got up to in here,’ Walker said.

  Anna stepped further into the room to look around. There were no cupboards, drawers or wardrobes, and nothing filled the space under the bed. So everything was on display, and the more Anna looked the more she found.

  There were bottles of massage oil, several pairs of rubber gloves, a roll of plastic cling-film, a bright red latex catsuit, no fewer than five vibrators, a blindfold and a scary-looking mouth ball gag.

  ‘It’s enough to make your eyes water and your skin prickle,’ Walker said.

  One of the shelf units was filled with books, magazines and DVDs. The titles sent a shudder along Anna’s spine. Mistress of Torment, How to be Kinky, Erotic Fantasies, Diary of a Submissive, Bound to Cum, Domination and Submission, Hogtied.

  ‘I’m reminded of the time I went into an Ann Summers store in search of a birthday gift for the wife,’ Walker said.

  ‘And did you buy anything?’ Niven asked him.

  Walker rolled his eyes. ‘You don’t really expect me to answer that question in front of the boss, do you?’

  Anna decided they had seen enough of the playroom and that the contents were becoming a distraction. She was also concerned about contaminating forensic evidence.

  Turning back towards the door, she said, ‘This room is off limits until the SOCOs get here. And it’s time to dispense with the inappropriate repartee, guys. OK?’

  Back in the living room, Anna told Prescott and Niven about Nathan Wolf and said he was no doubt the regular visitor the landlord had mentioned.

  ‘So it means he has to be a suspect in Holly’s murder,’ she added.

  ‘It seems he’s not the only one,’ Prescott said.

  Anna frowned. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Well, according to the landlord her ex-boyfriend, a bloke named Ross, came here last week and started a row with her. She accused him of stalking her and was very upset. The landlord also thinks he saw him hanging around outside on Tuesday night.’

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Jason Lattimer was a short, overweight individual in his late fifties. He described himself as the son of an immigrant couple from Barbados.

  He had the same dark skin as Anna’s partner Tom, who had lived on another Caribbean island, Antigua, before moving to the UK with his family at the age of five.

  Lattimer had been told only that Holly Blake was missing and her parents were becoming increasingly worried, hence the need to gain access to her flat.

  Anna and Walker spoke to him in his sparsely furnished living room while detectives Prescott and Niven went knocking on the other flats in the block. The first few questions to the landlord were aimed at eliciting information about the man himself, partly to determine whether he should be treated as a suspect.

  But it took Anna less than a minute to weigh him up and rule him out, although they would still subject him to the usual checks.

  Lattimer told them that he owned a total of five properties in and around Camden and that he had inherited them from his parents. Holly’s flat had been let unfurnished and was on a rolling lease
.

  ‘She viewed the flat with an older man who’s been a frequent visitor this past year,’ Lattimer said, his voice quiet, nervous. ‘All the furniture was delivered before she moved in and she’s been an ideal tenant. In fact I’ve come to regard her as a friend. She’s such a pleasant girl and the rent’s always paid on time.’

  ‘Have you been inside the flat?’ Anna asked.

  ‘A couple of times, but not recently. I only ever went into the lounge and kitchen and I was very impressed with the way it had been decorated.’

  ‘Is the rent paid by direct debit?’

  He nodded. ‘Fifteen hundred pounds a month transferred directly from her bank account into mine.’

  ‘What do you know about the man who helped her set up home here?’

  He shrugged. ‘Nothing at all except that he usually arrives and leaves by taxi and that he rarely stays overnight. He’s in his forties, I reckon, and I’ve always suspected that he’s some kind of sugar daddy.’

  ‘Why is that?’

  ‘Well, the age difference for one thing, and the fact that he doesn’t live with her. She described him once as her boyfriend and let slip that he had paid for all the furniture.’

  ‘Have you spoken to him much?’

  He shook his head. ‘The longest conversation I had with him was when they viewed the flat, and that was over a year ago. He’s quite posh and polite, but he also comes across as very shy. He always wears dark glasses and sometimes a baseball cap pulled low over his forehead. It’s as though he doesn’t like people seeing his face, which is another reason I figured he was more a benefactor than a boyfriend.’

  ‘Do you know his name?’

  ‘Not his full name. Holly refers to him as Nate, which I’m certain is short for Nathan.’

  Anna fished her phone from her pocket and opened up a photo she’d saved of Nathan Wolf.

  ‘Is this Nate?’ she said.

  Lattimer leaned forward and picked up a pair of glasses from the coffee table between them. He slipped them on, looked at the picture and nodded without hesitation.