I’d listened to his complaints for six years. It was part of the routine.
‘If I want to drive a tank I’ll join the army,’ I told him.
Shaughnessy gave me leery. ‘Just a normal car would be fine, Eddie! One where you don’t need to consult a yoga manual.’
‘It’s all just a matter of technique,’ I told him.
‘Sure, like with a straightjacket.’
‘Houdini could get out of a jacket in under sixty seconds with his hands chained,’ I pointed out.
‘Yeah, and look what happened to him. Dead in a fishtank! And I bet the bastard couldn’t have got out of this tin can if you greased him with warm lard.’
Shaughnessy had watched all the movies. History, Hollywood-style. I didn’t correct him on the Houdini thing.
‘Are you taking the first one out?’ Shaughnessy asked.
I said I would. ‘My guess is it will be Larry. I’ll leave Jean to you. If she stays home you can follow her up and down the hallway with the Yamaha.’
‘Got it. And if Larry drives past us before I can escape from this sardine tin you can just drop me off at the nearest motorway services.’
Shaughnessy and I had opened the agency when I came out of the Mets six years before. Shaughnessy was twenty years older than me and had seen a different side of life by way of the special services. He never talked about his old job and I never talked about mine. Shaughnessy also stayed fit. I knew he could beat me in and out of the Frogeye any day. It just made him feel good to gripe about it.
I flicked on the news and we listened in on the world for forty-five minutes. Just on eight Larry Slater came out of the house and climbed into the Lexus. Despite Shaughnessy’s words he was out of the Frogeye and had vanished before Slater had even pulled out of his drive.
I followed the Lexus towards the main road and into the rush hour. One detail Shaughnessy had forgotten to mention about the Sprite was how it eluded rear-view mirrors better than any motorcycle. When we merged into the traffic in Hampstead I was only three cars back and invisible. If Slater had been a professional the short tail wouldn’t have worked, but Slater was just a guy in the street. I could have sat in his back seat and he wouldn’t have noticed.
Slater drove down through Camden and we crawled through the log jam on the Euston Road. Looked like he was headed for the office. Maybe he’d put in a regular nine-to-five, but if he came out early I’d see where he went.
I was right about the destination. I parked on a meter a hundred yards from the Slater–Kline business and went to stand on my corner. I was there for three hours. I’d just reloaded the parking meter at noon and was walking back with a cup of coffee when Slater’s Lexus rolled out onto the main street. I poured the coffee down a drain and sprinted back to the car. I abandoned a two-hour load on the meter and turned across the traffic to catch up. Stayed on Slater’s tail and followed him home to Hampstead. By twelve thirty I was parked up by the substation, right back where I’d started. I swore and flicked the radio to Kiss, turned up the volume.
Two minutes later Shaughnessy slid into the car and asked what was happening. I told him. Gave him exact details of the wasted coffee and the two-hour load running in the meter. Petty stuff, but it helped. Shaughnessy confirmed that Jean Slater hadn’t budged.
Decision time. I told Shaughnessy to hang in a while longer and call me if anything happened. There was a call I had to make.
I crossed the river and worked over to Streatham, watching for street names. I found the one I was looking for in a run-down area wedged between converging railway lines. The address was a fifties council development, a flaking four-storey bunker with a facade of french windows and false balconies weeping rust stains. It was an architectural graffito, standing shoulder to shoulder with a Victorian terrace like a shady character in a bus queue. I squeezed the Frogeye into an empty slot and tried to ignore a queasy feeling as I locked it up.
The bunker’s communal door was open. Apparently security doors and house phones hadn’t reached this far down the council list. I went in. The stairwell inside smelt of something unpleasant. I trotted up to the third floor before my nose could figure out what it was and found a door with a number but no name. A couple of bare wires protruded from where the bell push should have been. Maybe you grabbed the wires and made your own noise. I played safe and knocked. Gave it an official crispness.
Nothing. I made a fist and beat on the wood in a way that suggested I was not going away.
I heard a voice inside. The inflexion said I’d better have a good reason to be there when the door opened. When the door did open, Russell Cohen appeared like a nightmare on dress-down day.
The suit and shades had gone. Black Levis crimped a Guns ‘n Roses t-shirt over a belly that was beginning to show curvature. Without the suit you could see he weighed twelve or thirteen stones max, but his demeanour was the one I’d seen the night before. He had the kind of stare to make people look the other way. Without the shades I could see the lifetime’s bad attitude that drove him. Cohen was twenty-six but he looked forty.
He clocked who I was and turned around to play out a little pantomime he’d perfected for dealing with idiots outside club doors. The act comprised staring at his own front door as if it shouldered the blame for whoever appeared outside it. The door kept quiet. Cohen turned back to me.
‘What’s your friggin’ game?’ he said. He pulled a face like he was looking at some kind of bad dream. He could have saved his act. If I’d wanted nightmare I’d have sent Shaughnessy.
There was a racing channel playing inside the flat and a bad smell that was a distant cousin of the one on the stairs. A cocktail of unwashed laundry, booze and TV dinners. A little spliff thrown in.
‘Remember me, Russell?’
‘Yeah. I remember you. Mr Friggin’ E.’
Memory Man. I gave him my Shit-Eater.
‘What are you?’ he asked. ‘Some kind of fruit?’
‘Just a guy needing some answers,’ I said.
Cohen stared at me. ‘I think,’ he said, ‘that you’re a guy who needs to piss off.’
I dropped the grin. ‘Russell,’ I said, ‘stay cool. I just need two minutes.’
Cohen gave me a couple of seconds then moved up close. The movement was slow, easy. One moment he was in his doorway, the next moment he was in my face. His eyes opened wide to emphasise a proposition.
‘I’ll count to ten, matey,’ Cohen said. ‘You need to be gone before I get there.’
This was bluff. There was no way Cohen could count to ten. ‘I need some answers about Rebecca Townsend. When I get them I’m out of your face.’
‘One,’ Cohen said.
Still bluff. Who can’t count to one?
‘Two.’
We were eyeball to eyeball while Cohen continued to show off. So maybe he could count to ten. While I marvelled at his mathematical skills the clock continued to tick. We got to six, then seven. The thing took me right back to the schoolyard. Cohen hit the eight mark and his head tilted back a fraction, just enough to tell me where this was going. A light came on in his eyes. He wanted me to still be there at ten.
The count didn’t make it that far.
At nine, his head moved back like a spring-loaded wrecking ball. He was focusing a headbutt on my nose whilst trying to figure the next number, which explained why he wasn’t paying attention. Before he hit double digits I’d stepped back and kicked his knee hard. His headbutt flailed thin air as the shock of the knee doubled him over. I palmed his neck, two-handed, and put my weight on it. Cohen’s head went down and his face met my own knee with a painful smack. He bounced up like he was on springs and I lifted my foot, sole out, and slammed him backwards into his flat. He crashed over a phone table down the hallway. The table collapsed. Glass shattered. Cohen sat down in the mess. He was up and ready to go in an instant but my foot caught h
im between his legs and finally something got through. He doubled over and yelled blue murder but he stopped coming at me. I took advantage of his momentary abeyance and closed the front door. When I turned back Cohen was leaning against the wall, gripping his thighs.
I walked through to his lounge. The room was sparsely furnished but what was there was expensive. A sixty-inch plasma screen on the wall showed a bunch of horses going neck and neck. A leather sofa was half covered by an open copy of the Racing Post and a WAP-enabled phone flickered atop it. Cohen busy investing his ill-earned dough. I picked up the remote and muted the TV, wondering how many month’s wages at Eagle Eye would buy me that kind of wall decoration.
Cohen came in cursing and I turned to face him.
I waited for his words to dry up then asked my questions.
‘You’ve been seeing Rebecca Townsend,’ I said. ‘The story is that you’ve been showing her the good life. Or what passes for you as the good life.’
Cohen was dripping blood onto his carpet. He gave me a look that said I’d better not turn my back anytime soon but he stayed his distance.
‘We’ve got a situation,’ I told him. ‘Rebecca has disappeared. No one knows where or why. We assume she’s in trouble. What I need to know is whether you’re involved.’
I tossed the TV remote between my hands to remind Cohen that there was more furniture to break. Intimidation was the only thing people like Cohen understood. ‘I need to know what’s going on between the two of you.’
‘Nonna your business,’ Cohen gasped.
I sighed.
Something inside Cohen’s skull held him back for the moment, but with his type enlightenment is a long way from fear. Retreads like Cohen don’t come with fear built in. They rely on stupidity. You could pound a nutter like that all day and all you’d get would be complaints from the neighbours.
I bent down and tipped the mess of empty cans and takeout cartons off his coffee table and lifted it. The thing weighed a ton, although it wasn’t in the same league as HP Logistics’ swivel chairs. I approached the plasma screen and hefted the table.
‘Stop,’ he yelled. ‘Calm down you shithead!’
Finally I had his attention. I lowered the table to the floor.
‘Fine, Russell,’ I said. ‘Let’s start again. How long have you been seeing Rebecca?’
Cohen shook his head. His face was crimped like he was sucking a lemon. ‘How should I know,’ he said. ‘Four or five weeks.’
‘That’s precise,’ I said. ‘Sounds like a meaningful relationship.’
‘Meaningful, shit,’ Cohen said. ‘She’s a stupid kid hanging around looking for action. She wants it she gets it. It’s all the same to me.’
‘What kind of action? Drugs? Sex? Or are we talking philosophy discussions.’
‘None of your business. If she comes to play we play. So what’s your gripe? I’ve not even seen the bitch for a couple of weeks.’
‘I’m trying to find out what’s going on with her,’ I said. ‘Starting with what’s happening between you and her.’
The head shake again, like an itching bull. ‘I told you,’ Cohen said, ‘we hang out. She likes a bit of rough. Know what I mean?’
‘No, Russell,’ I said. ‘I don’t know what you mean. Rough like tramping a little? Or rough like getting slapped around? Or do you just mean rough like hanging out with a turd?’
Cohen didn’t take the bait. ‘Rebecca never got a single smack off me,’ he said. ‘And she didn’t do nothing she didn’t want. The best thing you can do with that kind is grab what’s offered. Give it what it wants.’
It.
Cohen was going to have a problem if he decided to settle down. Getting those “it”s into the marriage vows would take finesse.
‘How often have you been seeing Rebecca?’
‘This day and that,’ he said. ‘Whenever she cuts class.’
‘Is she on anything?’
Cohen sneered.
‘That uptight bitch would be scared shitless if you showed her the real stuff,’ he said. ‘So maybe we have a little smoke sometimes. Maybe we don’t. What’s all this about? Why’s everyone pissing their pants?’
‘When did you last see her?’
Another head shake. An annoyed kind of shake, but he answered my question: ‘Dunno. Coupla weeks back,’ he decided.
‘Not since?’
‘Nah.’
‘Are you shitting me, Russell?’
Cohen let his sneer answer.
‘Have you done something to Rebecca?’
He continued staring me out, maybe getting brave again.
‘Have you or your slimy pals hurt her?’ I clarified. ‘Because if you have I’m going to find out and come after you.’
‘What are you going to find out?’ Cohen said. ‘You’re full of shit.’
Braver by the minute. I could understand Cohen forgetting the threat to his plasma screen but I had to wonder about a guy who could forget the ache between his legs.
I kept my voice even. ‘When precisely did you see Rebecca last?’
He stayed quiet. For a moment I thought he was not going to answer, but he eventually worked it out.
‘Middle of the week. Week last Tuesday.’
The day before Rebecca went missing.
‘Where?’ I asked.
‘At the club,’ he said. ‘She was in for a couple of hours. Went off around ten.’
‘With anyone?’
He strengthened the sneer. ‘She was with me,’ he said. ‘I thought you’d got it. The bitch was on heat for me. She comes round the club to get herself tipsy-topsy and thinks she’s living the wild life.’
‘Being with you doesn’t stop her walking out of there with some other guy,’ I said.
‘Yes it does,’ he said.
Possessive. For a guy who couldn’t care less.
‘So you’ve not seen her since that night?’
‘Nah.’
Whatever little credibility I gave to Cohen’s words I got the sense that he didn’t know anything. He was sticking to his story like chewing gum on angora.
‘Did Rebecca talk to you? Anything about trouble at home? Plans to leave town?’
‘Nah.’
‘Anything you hear about her? People talking?’
‘Nah.’
Cohen’s disinterest was getting emphatic. The shock had worn off and he was getting courage. Working himself up for a second round. It was time to quit. If the Slaters pointed at Cohen I’d be right back. Right now my stomach had absorbed as much of the atmosphere as was healthy.
I left Cohen to it and scuttled back down the stairs to get to breathable air. The Frogeye was still in one piece on the street. The sun was out and the day seemed momentarily good. I’d just got the engine fired up when my phone rang.
Shaughnessy.
Things were happening.
CHAPTER sixteen
Slater had left the house. Shaughnessy was following his Lexus south through the city. I drove west across London to intercept them. If Slater was headed out of town I’d take over.
Shaughnessy’s hands-free commentary guided me towards Hammersmith as he and Slater moved south-west onto the A402. We got a break when the Lexus got snarled in roadworks coming into Hammersmith. I closed the gap and by the time Shaughnessy reported Slater turning at the roundabout beneath the flyover I was already moving up the eastern ramp. I put my foot down across the flyover and spotted Slater merging into the traffic a couple of hundred yards ahead. Heading out towards the M4.
I called the hit and Shaughnessy broke off to resume his stakeout at the Slater house. I pushed an Eartha Kitt tape in and cranked the volume. I had a full tank and good music. Wherever Slater was headed I was with him.
The Lexus passed Heathrow and took the M25 south. I followed
into roadworks, taking the same lane between the cones. Five minutes later we were out of it and the Lexus moved into the slip for the M3. I didn’t see out-of-town trips being the norm in a stockbroker’s day. So maybe this excursion was part of whatever was shredding Slater’s diary.
The Lexus cruised south-west for forty minutes then continued onto the M27 towards Bournemouth. The sun flared bright in the Frogeye’s worn windscreen. Keeping Slater in sight took concentration. When the M27 quit we continued on the A-road in heavier traffic. A half-hour later Slater took the roundabout towards Bournemouth, skirted the town and drove into Poole. We went through the town and crossed the harbour bridge.
On the far side the Lexus turned inland again through residential streets and finally pulled into a marina called Cobb’s Quay. I held back in the parking area and watched Slater pull up nose to tail with a bright red Toyota SUV out on the jetties. I tucked in behind a beached cruiser fifty yards back and walked down. Enough hardware was bobbing out on the water to start a navy. Motor cruisers and yachts in all directions. This wasn’t billionaires’ row – there was nothing over fifty feet in sight – but it was serious hobby.
I watched from behind a skip as a man in a flannel sports jacket climbed out of the SUV to meet Slater. The two of them shook hands briefly as if this was routine business then walked down a jetty and skipped up onto the bow of a motor cruiser. They prowled the deck for a couple of minutes then disappeared below. I walked down the jetty, ready to about-turn if they came back up on deck. The vessel was named the Lode Star. A sleek forty-footer in brilliant white with a fully enclosed wheelhouse topped by a radar transmitter and a raked VHF. Just the place to do a little discreet business.
I went back to dry land and found a bollard with a view. The sun was warm on my face. A breeze off the Channel ruffled the water, setting masts dancing. As stakeouts went it beat lurking in the bushes outside the Slater house. As stakeouts went it was brief: ten minutes later the two men came out. They quit the boat and moved back up the jetty. I walked back to the Frogeye. By the time I got there they were at their cars. Another brief handshake and the meeting was over.
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