“Any connections, however small, between what’s in these files and on that screen,” he had barked. “Got it?”
“Absolutely, sir.”
“Right. Don’t skim-read either. Put your glasses on if you need them.”
The station canteen offered him nothing better than a corned beef and onion roll and stewed tea, but it would do. He checked his phone as he ate: two texts from Andrea, yet another email offer from Sky, and a notification that the phone wanted to update four apps which Cook never used, largely because he couldn’t access them and didn’t know what they did.
Nothing from Rathe.
Cook had wondered several times whether he had made an error of judgement in allowing Rathe to break the news of Alice Villiers’s murder to her parents alone. It was a gross abuse of duty and procedure but Cook wasn’t concerned about that so much. What went into his reports was down to him and what those above him didn’t know they could much worry about. What concerned Cook was that Rathe was so close to the tragedy this time that his judgement might be impaired. Cook could imagine Rathe’s interview with the Villiers descending into sentiment, shared memories, and mutual condolence. Although he would never admit it to anyone but his own spasmodic reflection in the shaving mirror, Cook could not deny that Rathe’s ideas and perspective had been of use to him recently, which was largely the reason he allowed Rathe so much latitude. But now, on this case, Cook feared that the same perspective he had come to value might be disorientated by personal grief and the lack of any communication from Rathe was doing little to assuage Cook’s anxieties.
Reaching for an apple as he left the canteen, then substituting a Bakewell tart for it, Cook made his way back to his office. The young DC was still in his chair as he walked in, kicking the door shut with his foot. He noticed she hadn’t put on any glasses and he could not help but sneer in envy.
“Found anything?” he asked, spitting pastry casing into the air.
She was still frowning at the screen as she replied. “Nothing much, sir. I’ve found a link but it’s pretty tenuous.”
“I can handle tenuous,” declared Cook, walking round his desk and leaning over her shoulder.
The Detective Constable pointed to two printed screenshots of the relevant files. “Holly Darwin, 23, vanished September 2014. Lisa Pemberton, 18, disappeared February 2016.”
Cook looked at the printed images of both girls. Both attractive, smiling, filled with hope. Holly Darwin had been described as vibrant, slim, intelligent; dark haired, olive skinned, almost Mediterranean in appearance. Lisa Pemberton had been classified by her peers and family as shy, generous, thoughtful, athletic. Red-haired, freckled, younger looking than her years.
“Tell me more than this,” murmured Cook.
“Holly Darwin was a bit of a party girl. Liked the high-life. Ambitions to marry a footballer, have her own fashion house, you know the sort of thing.”
“Right up my street,” snapped Cook.
“She’d go partying every weekend. From what I can gather hardly a barman or bouncer wasn’t used to seeing her at some point from Friday to Sunday.”
“Is there a point coming my way any time before this Friday or Sunday, or what?”
The girl smiled. “One of the places Holly Darwin liked to go more than most, sir, was the Devil’s Gate nightclub.”
The scowl on Cook’s face dissolved into eager anticipation and his fingers gripped the papers in his hands with increased intensity. “What about Lisa Pemberton?”
The DC shook her head. “Nothing to suggest she ever went there and, to be honest, the statements from her family suggest it wouldn’t have been her sort of place anyway.”
“But… ?” Cook was leaning further forward now, his elbows on the desk, so close to the detective that she could smell the onion from his sandwich when he spoke.
“Lisa Pemberton was a health freak, a talented athlete by all accounts,” she said, somehow not minding the smell of his breath. “She ran for a local club, had visions of being a professional.”
“Get to the point.”
The girl smiled. “As you might expect, she was a member of a gym. Went there every day, right up to the day she disappeared. Sometimes in the morning, sometimes in the evening, but every day, without fail.”
“You’re losing me,” cautioned Cook.
“The gym Lisa was a member of is owned by a company called Castle Leisure Facilities Ltd.” She switched screens on the computer and brought up a website. “Gyms all over London. But they take the term leisure in its broadest sense.”
“Meaning?”
“The company owns all sorts of places where you might spend your free time, sir. Gyms, casinos, bars… ”
Cook was smiling, but it was not a pretty sight. “Nightclubs?”
The detective smiled back at him. “Including Devil’s Gate.”
Cook pushed himself off the desk and stood upright. He was staring at the website for Castle Leisure Facilities Ltd. His shirt suddenly felt very close to his skin and he wondered whether the temperature of the room had increased or whether his instincts had just ignited within him. He looked at the young detective sitting in his chair, but he saw no sign of her finding the room suddenly too hot to accommodate them both. He nodded to her, the grim smile still lingering over his lips, and he motioned for her to get out of his chair.
“I was just about to try to find out who owns the company,” volunteered the DC. “If you want me to, I mean.”
Cook shook his head. “No, thanks. Can’t have you taking all the glory and getting yourself promoted above me just yet. Go back to your desk and do whatever it is you do all day.”
She stared at him in disbelieving anger, her cheeks flushed with sudden fury at his arrogant, belittling attitude. She let out an involuntary snort of air and threw open the door. Before she could slam it behind her, he whistled to her. She turned back, the crimson anger in her cheeks intensifying.
“Quality work,” he said, nodding, his eyes suddenly saying more than any of his words had done.
When the door closed, it was not with a slam but with an efficient snap, and Cook did not need to see the smile of pride on the face of the officer whose name he had noted not only in his head but also on his notepad for future reference.
* * *
Late evening.
Rathe sat in silence in his living room, the lights turned low, his only company the bottle of Shiraz which he had opened. He had considered some music but he knew that he would not hear any of the notes or melodies, so the idea seemed worthless. The wine had seemed like a much better idea but, even so, he had yet to touch any of it despite his lust for the drink as he had poured out that first glass. He had no idea how long he had been sitting there before the knock on the door. When a man is sitting alone in almost silent darkness, it seemed to Rathe, time loses its meaning; or, more accurately perhaps, the man loses his perception of it.
He was not surprised to find that his visitor was Cook. The inspector looked tired, more so than usual, and Rathe found himself wondering how much Cook had eaten in the last few hours. He said nothing about it, knowing that any recrimination he uttered would be hypocritical. Rathe himself had dismissed the idea of food several times that day. He invited Cook in, told him to help himself to a drink, and sat down in his armchair. Cook went into the kitchen and opened one of the bottled Italian lagers which he had expected to find in the fridge. With a shrug, he opened a second. Something told Cook that the first wouldn’t last too long.
“I think I know what happened,” said Rathe, once Cook had slumped on the settee. “To Kirsty, to Lyndsey. To Alice, to Gilchrist. I think I know.”
“So do I.” Cook half-drained the first bottle of beer. “At least, I think I know who made it happen.”
“Any proof?”
Cook held the cold bottle to his forehead. “Piss in the wind.”
Rathe picked up the wine and stared into its deep, red darkness. “What made you suspect him?”
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br /> “The companies. Gyms, nightclubs, casinos. We’ve found connections between several missing girls and leisure facilities owned or controlled by him in one way or another. Girls going to bars, to clubs, working in casinos, joining gyms, waitressing in restaurants.”
“Auditioning for talent agencies,” added Rathe.
Cook peered over at him. “New one on me.”
“It’s how he got Kirsty Villiers.”
“Right,” nodded Cook. Then, after a moment, he added, “Tell me in your own time. What put you on to him?”
“Chess.” Rathe sipped the wine. “Other stuff too, but mainly chess.”
Cook did not ask for further clarification. It did not seem to be the appropriate time and Rathe did not seem as though he wanted to demonstrate any clever twists of his ingenuity. He looked as though he wanted to get drunk but, from what Cook could see, he was doing nothing about it.
“We need proof, Rathe,” he said.
Rathe drank more. “I don’t. I know it was him.”
“That’s not enough.”
“We can make him confess.”
Cook snorted. “You don’t believe that any more than I do. You don’t think a man like that gets his hands dirty, do you? He won’t have stabbed Alice and he won’t have killed Gilchrist. Whoever did that will be far away now. If he’s still alive.”
Rathe was shaking his head. “It can’t be left like that, Cook. It can’t go unresolved, or… ”
Cook leaned forward, his voice hardened with danger. “Or what?”
“Unpunished.”
An unpleasant silence settled over them, a blanket of sin which gave neither of them any comfort from the horror of their thoughts. Cook stood up, finishing one beer and starting the next, suddenly wishing he had opted for something harder, something more controlling.
“Don’t talk to me like that, Rathe. Never.”
“We must do something,” hissed Rathe, banging his hand down on the table beside him. “We can’t let him walk away from it and if we can’t prove it then we have to… ”
Cook held out his arms. “What? Do what, Rathe? You tell me what you want to do to punish him.”
But the words would not come.
Rathe’s mouth moved but they breathed only futile silence. He raised his glass to his lips and by the dim light reflecting off it, Cook could see that Rathe’s cheeks were glistening. There were no tears now, but there had been, and not long before Cook had knocked on the door. Cook looked around for evidence of more alcohol consumption than the single bottle which stood on the table beside Rathe, but he found none. The man was sober. Cook tried not to think about what thoughts Rathe might have been having, or what tears he might have been shedding, if he had drunk more than he could hold.
Cook took a step towards Rathe and then paused. For a moment, neither of them moved. Then, Cook bent down onto one knee and rested his arm on his raised thigh, the bottle hanging loosely from his fingers. His eyes looked up to Rathe.
“I know this hurts, right, and I know why it does. But we’ve got to let it go until we find some proof. Got it?”
“It’s not all about Alice,” said Rathe, his teeth clamped together.
“Fair enough. But most of it’s about her.”
Rathe was shaking his head. “It’s as much to do with the ones we don’t know about, the ones we’ve never heard of but who have gone the same way as Kirsty and Lyndsey. It’s about all of them, Cook. How much has he got away with and for how long?”
“Too much and too long,” replied the inspector. “But without proof, we’ve got nothing, Rathe. You know that, as well as I do. And you know better than anyone that neither of us is going to manufacture any proof.”
Rathe scowled at the vague reference to the Marsden case, but he said nothing about it. He found that he was trembling, the tears forming in his eyes, but he knew that they were not the product of grief or guilt this time. It was frustration and anger which consumed him now, sitting there in his armchair, resisting the urge to tear his home to pieces in a useless rebellion against the injustice of it all.
“I made a promise,” he whispered. “To Alice’s parents. I promised I’d find out what had happened.”
Cook placed his hand on Rathe’s arm. It felt nothing near unnatural or misguided to either of them. Later, they might have reflected that at one time it would have been an unthinkable move for either of them to make or receive; but at that point in existence, no other gesture seemed appropriate.
“And you have,” said Cook, “but you can’t do anything else about it, not right now. He’s been allowed to walk away from his crimes for too long, no doubt about that. But before… right up until this moment in time, Rathe, that bastard could get away with it. Why? Because he didn’t have you and me chasing him. But now he has ‒ and God help him if he can’t run fast enough to get away from us. Yeah?”
Rathe held Cook’s glare for several seconds before he nodded his agreement. Cook held up his bottle of beer, inviting a toast to their agreement to continue to seek the evidence they needed, and Rathe accepted the gesture by gently knocking the rim of his glass against the neck of the bottle. To Cook, it sealed a pact between them and he drank in honour of the promise they had made.
Anthony Rathe drank too. But as he did so, in the back of that raging sea of a mind, a plan had formed which he hoped would bring justice for them all whilst still honouring that covenant he had made over beer and wine with a man whom he had come to consider a genuine friend.
* * *
Elliot Graham listened with patience, but Rathe knew that beneath the cold arrogance of his stare, an emotion far beyond mere contempt was at work. It had been a simple ruse to secure an interview with him alone. A telephone call to the house and the request to speak to Graham away from his wife; the minor lie that it was concerning his arrangements about picking up Lyndsey from the tube station on the day she disappeared; the further trivial untruth about Cook being indisposed on another line of enquiry; and Rathe’s suggestion that it be a private interview, to spare Eliza Graham any further and unnecessary upset. This last part at least, Rathe reflected, had been true.
And so they sat in the garden, on that raised patio where Rathe had first seen the man he now knew to be guilty of kidnapping and murder, drinking coffee in a warm, autumn breeze, like two old friends catching up after a period of absence from each other’s company. The juxtaposition, to Rathe’s mind, was almost perverse.
“What is it, precisely, which you are accusing me of, Mr Rathe?” Graham asked.
“I think you know.” Rathe was staring into his coffee, itself as black as his mood.
Graham shook his head. “No, no. I think you will have to make it clearer.”
Rathe fixed his eyes on Graham’s forcing himself not to let his eyes drift from the man’s own unctuous yet guilty stare. “You own a number of businesses, Mr Graham.”
“Indeed, I do.”
“Castle Leisure Facilities, for one?” Rathe raised an eyebrow. Graham nodded in reply. “And the Devil’s Gate nightclub for another?”
“Yes, but I don’t see the relevance of any of this.”
“And Trebuchet Talent Agency. That’s one of yours too?”
“You’re trying my patience, Mr Rathe,” cautioned Graham. “What have any of my business arrangements got to do with Lyndsey’s disappearance?”
“Everything.” Rathe sipped some of the coffee, its bitterness complimenting the tone of his voice. “I had a suspicion that you were the owner of all those business concerns even before the police confirmed it. You’re a chess player, you said as much yourself. The use of the term ‘castle’ might not be enough to suggest a link between a leisure group and a chess player, but the name ‘Trebuchet’ would only occur to an aficionado of the game. You know what ‘Trebuchet’ is, don’t you, Mr Graham?”
“It’s a type of reciprocal zugzwang occurring in pawn endgames,” explained Graham with a sneer.
Rathe had the feeling his
adversary might think Rathe was incapable of understanding the terminology. Rathe smiled at the petty tactic. “Exactly. Where whoever is next to move must lose the game.”
“And is the next move yours or mine, Mr Rathe?”
It was an unexpected question and it caught Rathe off guard because, in truth, he knew that it had to be his turn to play and that the endgame for him was not what he had wished or hoped for. But, he decided, it was not obligatory to lose the game without a fight. Similarly, he knew that there was more than one way of winning any type of game. It was all a question of perspective.
“From the outset, I had been convinced that there had to be a connection between Lyndsey’s disappearance and that of Kirsty Villiers,” Rathe said. “The murders of Alice Villiers and Roger Gilchrist showed there had to be a link. But the difference in ages between the two girls suggested that the connection had to be transient. The police have determined that Kirsty had been approached by your talent agency and had been going to the Devil’s Gate nightclub on the night she disappeared. They have found records of unsolved missing persons cases involving young girls, where the girls concerned have used your businesses for recreation or leisure purposes. And your step-daughter has vanished too. You see? You keep turning up in this investigation, first under one stone and then under another.”
“Coincidence.” Graham spat the word as though it were a hair in his mouth.
“At least four girls, all missing, all connected to you.”
Graham held up a finger. “Vicariously connected to me. Hundreds of girls go to my clubs and gyms, to my restaurants and bars, but they don’t all disappear.”
Rathe leaned forward across the table, his eyes never moving from Graham’s face. “Perhaps not all of them fit your requirements.”
Graham’s jaw clenched in anger and his lips curled in disdain. “Meaning what? Are you saying I’m some sort of paedophile? Because if you are, Mr Rathe, you’d better make sure one of your old colleagues is readily available on the end of a phone.”
When Anthony Rathe Investigates Page 21