Hold Still – Tim Adler #3: A Psychological Thriller

by Tim Adler

  Kate paused, bracing herself for what was coming. The staff seemed to sense a change in her mood, and the atmosphere in the room became more serious.

  "We've found it harder to get and maintain clients since the recession hit and the big fish moved in. We're just a tiny minnow that led the way. Now government has taken everything in-house. Those years of outsourcing are over. The company made a loss for the first time the year before last. That loss got deeper this year, which means rethinking." Here it comes, you could see them thinking, these kids who had put their faith in her husband. He loved this company. Goddammit, he should never have thrown in the towel so quickly – he should have fought on, she thought, anything to keep going – "but I want to assure you that your jobs are safe for now. By hook or by crook, the East London Hosting Company will keep trading. We're not going to let them push us out of business, I tell you that."

  Kate had no idea what she was saying. It just came out of her mouth. She simply couldn't do it, she couldn't let those kids down. Colin looked as surprised as she felt, while Jackie furrowed her brow. The meeting broke up and people drifted back to their desks. There were no questions. You could sense the relief, though. Colin watched the others leave before he turned to her.

  "That was unexpected. What made you change your mind?"

  "I looked at their faces. They were so trusting. Paul would have wanted me to fight on."

  "So what's Plan B?"

  "Go to the bank. Throw myself at their mercy. We've never borrowed a penny before. Nobody would lend to Paul when he started out. He always said that banks only give you an umbrella when it's not raining."

  Colin looked doubtful. "But we've made a thumping loss for two years running."

  "If you've got any better ideas, let me have them."

  "I mean, why would the bank lend to us now? It's not logical."

  "For God's sake, Colin, what do you want me to say? I'm trying to keep people's jobs here." She flung her hands wide.

  "You're right. I'm sorry."

  "I didn't mean to snap. Do you know the name of your bank manager?"

  "Our business relationship adviser, you mean. Funnily enough, he came to see us a few months ago. I think I've got his card in my desk."

  Only Colin and Paul had private offices, which were next to each other beside the meeting room. The glass was frosted so you couldn't see inside. Colin rolled into his office and pulled open a desk drawer. Kate dawdled for a moment outside Paul's room, summoning up the courage to go in.

  It was exactly how he had left it. Kate felt as if he had just popped out and was coming back at any moment. She trailed her fingers along his desk. There was their wedding photograph next to his keyboard. What a joke. Colin called out from next door.

  He handed her the business card with his better arm. "Umar Omar?" Kate queried, studying it. "Who calls their child Umar Omar?" Colin shrugged. Kate telephoned the bank from his office, asking to make an appointment. The call centre said that Mr Omar had a slot available that afternoon.

  Finally, she couldn't keep Paul's secret any longer. This was something she needed to get off her chest.

  "Colin, I need to talk to you about something. Paul's death wasn't as straightforward as I said."

  Colin swivelled round to face her. "What do you mean?"

  "Just before he jumped, somebody sent Paul a text message. It was a CCTV photo. Taken in the Savile Hotel on Park Lane. He'd met a Vietnamese prostitute there. They went upstairs and argued, and she took an overdose. The police wanted to question Paul over her death. I think that's why he jumped, that and the hole the company was in. He was frightened everything was falling apart."

  "Paul was wanted for murder?" Colin repeated.

  She nodded.

  "Do you believe he was capable of murder?"

  "Of course not."

  "What do the police say?"

  "Now that Paul is dead, there's nothing they can do."

  Colin thought for a moment. "Who had access to the CCTV footage?" He had put his finger on the one question she could not answer. Paul always said that Colin had a touch of Asperger's Syndrome, a mild form of autism. He would become fixated on a seemingly unimportant detail: useful when writing software, maddening most of the rest of the time.

  "Just the hotel security team. And the police, but they wouldn't have sent it."

  "Bizarre." Colin sighed and rubbed his forehead.

  "Oh wait, I forgot to tell you, I was burgled last night. They stole my laptop. I was hoping we could enlarge my iPhone photos on your computer."

  "You've been through the mill."

  "There's been a spate of burglaries locally. The police say it's junkies looking for quick cash."

  "Do you believe them?"

  "I don't know."

  Colin connected her phone and dragged her Albanian album onto his desktop, double clicking on the gallery of images. "There, that's the one," Kate told him, touching the screen. Patrons sat beneath space heaters in the far-corner café. "Can you do anything to magnify the image?"

  "This isn't CSI, you know. The more you zoom in, the more pixelated the image becomes. The government or MI5 might have kit like that, but it's not commercially available."

  "Just anything you can do to make it sharper."

  "I can put it through some rendering software. Might help a bit."

  They waited while the computer got to work, patiently filling in the dots. For the first time in years, Kate desperately wanted a cigarette. Instead, she sat down in the corner and flicked through Wired magazine, figuring out what she was going to say to the bank. Things can only get better wasn't much of an argument. If the bank turned them down, that was their last option. As Paul's executor, she would have no choice but to wind up the company.

  "There, it's done. You're not going to get it any clearer."

  There was Charles Lazenby, seated in the café with the waiter behind him. His bulky camera was on the small round table. Tourists braving the November cold were sitting all around him. It was exactly how she remembered, but the image was much sharper now.

  "What about the other photographs? Can you do the same for them?"

  "It'll take a few hours. I can leave the software running in the background if you want."

  "I haven't got anything else on. Just lunch with Jackie and the bank at two."

  People got up from their desks at lunchtime and drifted out of the office. Kate went to find Jackie, and together they walked to a sandwich bar in Bishopsgate. Kate occupied a table while Jackie queued for their order. Sitting there, she brooded about life and how things had turned out. "Cheer up, luv, it might never happen," said a jolly-looking builder at the next table. Oh, but it has happened, she thought, the very worst thing you can imagine has happened.

  Jackie set their food down, a sandwich for her and tomato soup for Kate. Soup was the only thing she could stomach.

  "So, how are you doing?" Jackie said.

  "How do you think I'm doing?" Kate gave a brave little smile. "Paul killed himself four days ago because he was having an affair with a teenage prostitute who, by the way, was pregnant. Probably with his baby."

  "Colin told me what'd happened. He didn't tell me that."

  "Meanwhile, he left me in charge of a failing company. You know the books. Unless we get this bank loan, we might as well close the doors." She felt herself going again and made a face to stop herself from crying. "I'm sorry, it's not your fault," she said, recovering.

  "You really had no idea?"

  "You know that we'd been arguing, mostly about money. What I don't understand is the cruelty. Who does that to another human being?"

  "What you mustn't do is blame yourself. This had nothing to do with you."

  "It would be nice to think that, wouldn't it? Anger, disappointment, resignation: I feel them all at the same time."

  "The kaleidoscope will shift." The bookkeeper reached across and held Kate's hand. "You've got to hang on in there. Every moment, every hour, every day is
a fresh start, you have to believe that."

  Their local bank was further down Bishopsgate. She had an appointment with Umar Omar, Kate said when she got to the teller window. The teller said he would be with her shortly.

  Umar Omar looked as if he'd just left school. His hair was almost shaved bald at the sides and that reminded Kate with a pang of the Balkans. He also had a surprisingly chunky paste-diamond stud in his ear.

  They sat down in a bland side office and he put his hands together.

  "So how can I help you?"

  "I'm a director of my husband's business, the East London Hosting Company. We've banked with you since we started. My husband died last week when we were abroad."

  "I am sorry for your loss."

  "I've come here because I need a loan. We've never asked anything from you before. We've regularly made a profit since we opened our doors. Except for the past couple of years, that is. Here, I've brought the accounts." Kate dug into her bag and pulled out a profit-and-loss statement. "We made a loss two years running, and that loss is only going to get bigger this year. We need to cut costs."

  Omar studied the paper. "Let's see what it says on the computer."

  He frowned and tapped a few keys. "Everything's all right today, though. Look, see for yourself. Five hundred grand went in this morning."

  He turned the screen towards Kate and there, right at the top, the cursor blinked beside "500,000".

  "It must be a mistake. I've got no idea where that money came from. Can you see who sent it?"

  "I can put a trace on a BACS transfer. You're sure nobody owes you money?"

  "I'm certain of it. All our invoices have been paid."

  Kate's mind was reeling as she trudged back to the office. It was raining and the water exploded on the pavement, splattering her tights. It really was pestilent. Half a million pounds paid into their business account. The bank must have made a mistake. She stepped into the road without looking first, and a taxi driver shouted at her. Kate glimpsed a face contorted with rage as the cab shot past.

  Colin was still hunched over his computer when she knocked on his door.

  "Somebody paid five hundred thousand into our bank account this morning. Does that make any sense to you?"

  Colin looked askance. "None whatsoever."

  "Do any clients still owe you money?"

  He shook his head. "Does the bank know who sent it?"

  "They'll phone when they've completed the trace. It could be the middle of next week though."

  Leaning over his shoulder, she could see another photograph was up on his screen. It was the photo she'd taken of the roofs of buildings facing the hotel. There was the man she'd spotted in shadow standing on his balcony, watching the fireworks. Colin had cleaned up the image so you could see what he really looked like. Her scalp crawled. It seemed that Charles Lazenby was not the only person Kate knew who was in the square that night.

  John Priest stared back at her.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Kitchener Road in Streatham was a rundown parade consisting of a bookies', a nail parlour and an Afro-Caribbean hairdresser. The nail parlour where her dead husband's pregnant lover had worked – until she, too, had killed herself. Or had she?

  The police suggested that Paul had at least witnessed her taking an overdose and had done nothing except watch her die. He hadn't phoned for help or an ambulance, and that touched on manslaughter, if not murder. Kate's thoughts flicked to the dead woman herself: had Tran An Na's parents even been told that she was dead? Did they know how their daughter made a living? Or that they were going to be grandparents? She blipped the car locked and walked towards the row of shops, taking care to sidestep a gnawed rubbish bag spilling out what looked like chicken bones.

  Her heels clacked on the pavement and she thought about what a liar John Priest had been. If that was even his real name. Kate had been coming out of the Tube station earlier when she'd spotted the car dealership he supposedly worked for across the road. Something said to her, find out if this John Priest really is who he says he is.

  The showroom had brand-new models on display. All cars look pretty much the same, Kate thought, gazing around. Earnest salesmen were going through finance arrangements with anxious-looking couples as a salesman zeroed in on her. "Can I help you?" he asked. The way he pronounced "you" as "yow" in a Birmingham accent was reassuring. Maybe Priest had been telling the truth about working for a Midlands car dealership.

  "I'm looking for John Priest. I think he works here."

  The salesman thought for a moment. "There's nobody of that name here."

  "I know that he covers the south-east. Perhaps he works at a different office."

  The salesman called out over his shoulder, and Kate noticed the tiny diagonal writing on his dealership tie for the first time. "Hey, Raj, do you know if a John Priest works in Romford?"

  His Indian colleague looked blank and shrugged. "There's just us and Romford covering the London area," the first salesman said. He segued smoothly into his sales patter. "Perhaps I could help you instead. Now, when were you looking to change your car?"

  So why had Priest made up this story about where he worked? What had he been doing watching their hotel room?

  Kate waited until she was outside the showroom before rummaging in her bag for her mobile phone. Priest answered on the fifth ring. She tried to keep the anger out of her voice.

  "John, it's Kate. Kate Julia. I wanted to apologise for last night."

  "It were nothing. Forget about it."

  "Grief's a strange thing. Your mind plays tricks…"

  "Look, I understand. You're still in shock."

  "I was wondering if you wanted to meet tonight. For dinner."

  There was silence on the other end of the phone. Then, "We could do that. I've got some food at home, if you like. I enjoy cooking."

  "Okay. I'll bring a bottle of wine. Would that be all right?"

  They rang off, and she was amazed at her own temerity. Who did she think she was, Jane effing Bond? Did she really think that John Priest was going to give up his secrets that easily? The police were not going to be interested in yet another wild accusation: this time, Kate needed proof to back things up. She pictured her dress whispering to the floor as she stood before him, Priest watching from the bed. Then making an excuse while he waited, discovering his office, the laptop on his desk that would give up his secret.

  The question was, just how far was she prepared to go?

  Wind chimes jangled as she pushed her way in to the nail parlour. The first thing she noticed was the overpoweringly sharp smell of nail polish. It was a finger-marked, down-at-heel place with ugly pink walls and MTV playing on a wall-mounted TV. Even the fish nibbling a customer's feet seemed listless, having gorged themselves on so much dead flesh. A large black woman was having her nails done by a young Vietnamese girl wearing a face mask. Two other girls sat behind white plastic desks fiddling with their iPhones. An older woman, clearly the manager, asked Kate if she had an appointment. No, she said, looking round the mostly empty salon.

  "What you want?" asked the manager.

  "A manicure. I'd like a pedicure as well."

  "One hour, okay? Sixty pound, okay? She do you now."

  The manager said something in Vietnamese and one of the girls stood up. With her baseball cap on back to front, she looked barely more than a child.

  "This is Phuong. She take good care of you. Any problem, you see me, okay?"

  Kate sat down beneath the Anglepoise lamp while Phuong inspected her hands. She glanced at the woman next to her, whose nails were being buffed by what looked like an electric toothbrush. Kate breathed in the acrid smell of acetone. Phuong's touch was so tentative and featherlight, the thought of men raping this girl – and that's what it really was, rape – was too horrifying. As Phuong turned over her hands, Kate saw a crude homemade tattoo on the underside of her wrist. A single letter Z.

  The same tattoo Paul told her he'd done as a teenage b
et on a night out.

  "You put hand here." Phuong pulled a plastic bowl of warm water towards Kate, who dunked her hand in it while the manicurist gently started filing her nails.

  "How long have you worked here?" Kate asked.

  There was a flutter of panic above the blue face mask. "One month. New."

  "Where do you come from? Vietnam?"

  The girl next to her twittered something and Phuong didn't reply. The tangle of wind chimes above the door sounded and a young, tough-looking man walked in. He walked straight into the back through a beaded curtain.

  "What's through there?" Kate persisted.

  "Sunbed."

  Phuong snipped the nails on her left hand and dabbed her right hand dry. Kate reached into her bag with her free hand, pulling out her iPhone.

  "I knew somebody who used to work here," Kate said. "She was a friend of my husband's."

  Phuong pretended not to hear. Kate felt the woman tense as she concentrated even harder on doing her nails. "Perhaps you knew her," Kate continued, putting the iPhone on the table, sliding to the CCTV snapshot with her forefinger and pushing the phone across.

  Phuong shook her head slightly. You could tell she was pleading with her to stop.

  "Oh come on, you must have known her. Tran An Na. She worked here."

  Phuong became so flustered that she knocked over a bottle of nail polish. The red liquid spattered the floor tiles, and the young woman stood up abruptly. Sensing a disturbance, the manageress walked over. "Everything okay?"

  "Everything's fine," Kate said brightly. "We were just chatting."

  The manageress said something and Phuong replied, keeping her eyes down. The older woman regarded Kate suspiciously and dismissed the girl.

  "She no good. I get someone else."

  "It's not a problem. Really."

  The woman barked in Vietnamese and the tough-looking youth came out.

  "He my son. He the best."

  Her son, who looked like a surly lout, sat down on Phuong's stool while she excused herself. He pulled up his face mask and gripped Kate's hand, inspecting it before picking up a fearsome-looking implement and jabbing at the fleshy ridge around the nail. This time Kate winced as the manageress's son dug harder.