‘Let’s give them a call,’ Cox said thoughtfully. ‘I want to meet this Dr Midnight.’
They pulled up in the car park of a McDonald’s on the edge of Battersea for Cox to make the call.
‘I’m bloody starving,’ Wilson grumbled. ‘You speak to this agent – I’ll go and grab some hamburgers and coffee, okay?’
Cox, already tapping in the agency’s number, nodded distractedly; she watched Wilson jog across the wet car park, pulling his jacket up over his head to keep off the rain.
‘Good afternoon, Jeremy Ronson Associates.’
A woman’s voice, clipped, well spoken.
‘I’d like to speak to whoever represents Dr Euan Merritt, please.’
The receptionist didn’t even pause before issuing the smooth rebuff: ‘I’m afraid Mr Cornwallis is in a client meeting. Perhaps I could take a message?’
‘Perhaps you could tell him that this is Detective Inspector Cox, with the Metropolitan Police CID. And yes, it is urgent.’
The line went quiet; there were a few seconds of light-classical ‘hold’ music, and then the phone was snatched up, and a man’s voice, tight with anxiety, said: ‘Yes?’
Cox smiled to herself. Sometimes, the power a police rank could give you frightened her, made her uncomfortable; at other times – like now – it was a blessing.
She explained to Mr Cornwallis that she wasn’t after him; she was simply keen to speak to Dr Merritt in connection with an ongoing police investigation.
‘I see.’ Oily professionalism replaced anxiety in the agent’s tone. ‘Is there a fee?’
Christ.
‘No.’
‘Ah, well. I’m afraid Dr Merritt is currently exceedingly busy with television work – in fact, he’s filming a new series of Conflict at the prestigious Portland Studios as we speak. I do feel that unless a fee is available he won’t really be able to consider your proposal, though of course I’m sure he’s grateful for your interest. Is it for Crimewatch?’
Cox bit her lip. Forced herself to remember: this is serious.
‘I’m afraid you’ve misunderstood me, Mr Cornwallis. This won’t be a public appearance. We have reason to believe that your client may be able to help us with our inquiries.’
A pause, as the agent shifted mental gears.
‘Do you indeed?’
‘We do, yes, sir. Perhaps you could ask him to give me a call?’
‘Inspector, unless you have a very good reason –’
‘I do, believe me.’
‘I, we …’ Cornwallis faltered. ‘I think you would do better to contact Dr Merritt’s solicitor. I really don’t feel that it is appropriate for you to pursue Dr Merrit through my agency in this connection.’
Cox grinned, so that Cornwallis could hear the grin in her voice.
‘That’s no problem,’ she said brightly. ‘We’ll contact him direct. You’ve been very helpful. Good afternoon to you, Mr Cornwallis.’
She was still chuckling to herself when Wilson reappeared with a rain-spotted paper bag and two cardboard cups of coffee.
‘What’s tickled you?’ he grunted as he climbed in. His jacket was dark with wet, and his hair was plastered across his forehead. Passed her a cup. ‘Here. It’ll be foul, but you’re a copper, you’re used to it.’
‘Thanks.’
He wiped a hand across his eyes, blinking away rainwater. ‘This weather. It’s getting worse. How’d it go?’
‘You might want to do something with your hair,’ Cox said. ‘We’re going to call on a celebrity.’
Prestigious, Cornwallis had said. It sure as hell didn’t look it. Portland Studios was a big place, sure, a stretch of warehouse-like redbricks set into the tunnels of the overground line a little way north-west of Baker Street. But its grand sign, decked out in white lightbulbs, was missing two letters (PO TLAND S UDIOS), and the façade had a run-down, out-of-date feel.
They’d googled it on the way over. It was a busy operation, run-down or not. Quiz shows, cookery shows, shopping channel broadcasts, they all came here to shoot; everyone who worked here, Cox gathered, was on their way up, or on their way down.
‘This is the national capital,’ Wilson said as they crossed the road towards the showily canopied entrance, ‘of shit TV.’
Glass swing-doors led through to a spacious atrium with a tiled floor and an L-shaped sofa. A coffee table was covered with fashionable magazines, carefully arranged; clocks on the wall showed the time in London, New York and Los Angeles.
A bored-looking young man in a badly knotted tie was reading the Metro at the reception desk.
‘Good afternoon,’ he said as they approached, hefting a visitors’ book on to the counter. ‘Who are you here to see?’
‘Dr Euan Merritt,’ said Wilson confidently. ‘He’s with Kid Conflict.’
‘Oh-kay. That’s Studio 2.’ The receptionist was already filling out security passes. ‘If you could just pop your names and where you’re from in the book. Thanks.’
Cox scribbled two names in the relevant column, making them carefully illegible. The receptionist took back the book without looking, tossed a pair of laminated passes on green lanyards on to the counter.
‘Know where you’re going?’
‘Oh, sure,’ smiled Wilson.
They moved off purposefully towards a set of double-doors marked ‘Two’. No one gave them even a passing glance.
‘Not exactly Fort Knox, is it?’ Cox muttered as the doors swung closed behind them.
Wilson gave her a look that took in the unpainted walls, the cracked floor-tiles, the loose wiring in the ceiling and suggested that maybe Portland Studios didn’t have anything of any value to protect.
The corridors ran on for what felt like miles. Staff in branded black T-shirts passed back and forth, yammering urgently into their headsets.
Wilson stopped one, a young guy with a clipboard and an afro, couldn’t have been more than eighteen.
‘Kid Conflict green room,’ he said sharply. ‘Which way?’
‘Down there, on the left.’ The guy jerked a thumb over his shoulder. ‘Not sure they’re out of studio yet, though. Who do you need?’
‘Dr Merritt – we need to go through some script changes for the next run.’
‘Uh-huh.’ The guy nodded. ‘Well, if he’s not out yet you can wait.’
As he moved off, and they walked on in the direction he’d indicated, Cox looked at Wilson thoughtfully. It was useful, she thought, Wilson being such an accomplished liar – but it worried her, too.
The green room wasn’t exactly movie-star standard. They had to squeeze by a trolley of mops and buckets to get down the corridor; a hand-scrawled sign – ‘Kid Conflict’ – was Sellotaped to the door. They went inside, Cox leading the way.
A trestle-table of curly-edged sandwiches and foil-wrapped biscuits. Jugs of juice and iced water. An instant-coffee machine. There were posters on the wall, dull promo-prints of gameshow hosts from decades past.
Two sofas faced each other from opposite sides of the room. On one, a stringy-looking woman in a vest-top and trainers was trying to keep control of three young kids – a boy, maybe six or seven, noticeably overweight, and a pair of yelling toddlers who were surely twins.
On the other sofa, legs crossed rather daintily, was Dr Euan Merritt. He was holding a plastic cup of coffee, reading a paperback book and trying to pretend that the unruly family opposite didn’t exist. He was a small man, with a thin neck and boyish hands; his suit, in bold blue, contrasted with his white shirt and the terracotta tone of his skin.
‘Dr Merritt. I wondered if I might have a word?’
He looked up. Unzipped a bright TV grin. The whiteness of his teeth made Cox blink.
‘Of course, my dear.’ He set down his book, stood, extending his hand. ‘What can I do for you?’
‘I’m Detective Inspector Cox. I was hoping to speak to you in private.’
The smile shrank into a crinkled grimace. ‘And how did you get in?
’
‘Through the front door,’ Wilson put in.
‘I’m a very busy man, inspectors,’ Merritt said. ‘I don’t have time for –’
‘It’s in connection with the death of William Radley,’ said Cox.
Merritt opened and shut his mouth. Frowned.
‘Should I know the name?’
‘I couldn’t say, Doctor. All I know is that he’s dead, and we want to know why.’
‘Well, that’s very sad, I’m sure, but I don’t see –’
‘Do you know the name Reginald Allis?’
This time there was a reaction, minimal, well-contained, but it was there: a flicker in Merritt’s expression, a pinkening of the tan skin over his delicate cheekbones.
‘Allis? The child psychology fellow?’ A note of bluster had entered his tone. ‘Goodness me, I worked with him donkey’s years ago.’
Wilson – in his best copper’s monotone – put in: ‘At Hampton Hall for Underprivileged Children. And at the Children’s Aid and Rehabilitation Enterprise.’
Merritt looked at him, obviously taken aback. Another direct hit.
‘Well, possibly, possibly … But, as I said, inspector, I really am very busy here, and …’
‘If you preferred,’ Cox said, raising her voice a little, ‘we could do this down at the local police station.’
In the corner of her eye she saw the woman on the other sofa look up interestedly. Merritt saw her too. He swallowed awkwardly.
Then he turned, guiltily, as the door opened. A young woman in a headset poked her head around the doorframe.
‘Guys? We’re going to call it a day, okay?’ She smiled wearily at the woman with the children. ‘You get off back to your hotel, Mrs Flanshaw. We’ll see if these little monkeys are any more cooperative after a good night’s sleep,’ she said.
One of the twins was hitting the other one repeatedly over the head with a plastic Disney princess. The older boy was singing a pop song loudly to himself as he pulled the stuffing out piece by piece from a rip in the sofa.
Their mother shrugged listlessly.
‘Can’t make any promises,’ she said.
The young woman turned to Merritt.
‘Thanks for today, Doctor. Some great takes. We’ll see you tomorrow.’
She vanished; the door banged shut.
Into the uncomfortable silence that followed, Cox said: ‘So maybe you can just give us five minutes of your time, then, Doctor?’
They waited till Mrs Flanshaw and her children had left – trailing wet-wipes and drinks cartons – and then they sat, Merritt and Wilson at angles on the sofa, Cox on a metal chair she’d pulled from under the sandwich table.
Merritt reached into his jacket, took out a slim silver flask. Unscrewed the cap and poured a large measure of whisky into his emptied coffee cup.
Took a long drink. Grimaced. Topped up the cup.
‘Tell us about your relationship with Reginald Allis,’ Cox said.
Merritt spread his hands.
‘I’m not sure what to tell you,’ he said.
The truth would be nice, Cox thought.
Wilson: ‘You worked with him.’
‘Years ago. Back in the eighties. I was a consultant paediatrician, he was a child psychologist. We crossed paths, naturally.’
‘Heard from him lately?’
‘No.’ Merritt eyed Cox suspiciously. ‘Has he been talking about me? What’s he been saying?’
‘Not a lot,’ Cox said flatly. ‘He’s dead.’
Merritt gulped.
‘Dead?’
‘Murdered. It was made to look like a botched mugging, but we have good reason to believe it was personal.’
Merritt knocked back the rest of his whisky. That was fine by Cox: a suspect who’d had a drink was liable to get brave, and brave meant stupid. Keep drinking, doctor. And keep talking.
‘You’ve got a bloody nerve suggesting I had anything to do with this,’ Merritt said belligerently.
‘Nobody’s suggesting that. We’re just hoping you could fill us in on some of the background to the case.’
‘Helping you with your inquiries, eh? Oh, I know what that means. And so will everyone else,’ he added bitterly, ‘when they read it in tomorrow’s tabloids.’
Greg, Kerry noted, didn’t even flinch.
‘Hopefully it won’t come to that, Dr Merritt. But going back to Reginald Allis –’
‘I told you, I haven’t seen hide or hair of Reggie Allis in decades. Now, I don’t know what nasty lies Butcher has been spreading about me, but I can tell you it’s absolute bullshit.’ He glared at them. ‘Bullshit,’ he repeated, venomously.
Butcher? Cox kept her expression impassive, but made a mental note of the name.
‘Do you remember a young boy named Colin Carter?’ Wilson asked.
He wanted to keep up the pressure, Cox guessed; wanted to keep Merritt from getting comfortable. But bringing up Carter was a big move. Too big? Too much? She watched the doctor closely.
‘No,’ he said.
‘Because he remembers you.’
Merritt gave him a look of fierce dislike and squinted at the name-tag.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said, ‘I saw this lady’s badge, but who the hell are you?’
‘Name’s Wilson,’ said Greg with false easiness.
‘Constable Wilson? Inspector Wilson? Wing-commander Wilson? Where’s your ID?’
‘You’re in no position, Dr Merritt, to be demanding –’
‘Oh, I beg to differ, Mr Wilson.’ He looked sideways at Cox. ‘There’s something funny going on here,’ he said.
‘Three people are dead,’ Cox said, getting to her feet. ‘I wouldn’t call it funny.’
Merritt was pink-faced and goggle-eyed.
‘Get out,’ he snapped. ‘Get out, both of you, now, or I’ll call security.’
‘Is that the gormless kid with the afro?’ said Wilson.
‘Okay,’ said Kerry, soothingly. ‘We’re going.’ She pulled a business card from her pocket, and dropped it on the sandwich table. ‘This has my private mobile number and my email on it. Please do get in touch, Dr Merritt, if you remember anything that you think might be helpful to us.’
Merritt wasn’t looking at her. He was refilling his plastic coffee cup with whisky from his flask.
‘Fuck off out of my sight,’ he said.
15
Cox drove Wilson back to his place in Kilburn. Pulled up by the kerb – the car sounding as knackered and cranky as she felt – on the road adjoining his.
‘I’ll tell you what,’ Wilson said, unbuckling his seatbelt and stretching in his seat, ‘I feel like I need a hot shower after the people we’ve been mixing with today. Or at least a big drink.’ He looked across at Cox. ‘Fancy a quick one?’
Cox shook her head shortly.
‘I don’t think that’s a good idea.’
‘I meant a drink, you know. Not a shower.’
She managed a smile.
‘Same applies.’ She pinched the bridge of her nose. ‘I need to get hold of Allis’s phone records. I’ll get on to Chalmers in the morning.’
‘I reckon it’s that greasy bastard Carter you want to be checking up on,’ Wilson said seriously. ‘I don’t think he was lying, but he was holding out on us.’
Cox nodded. He had been chatty. And that in itself was suspicious. She knew how it worked sometimes. They talked and talked, and gave you every bit of information bar the one they were keeping hidden.
‘We got something for nothing there,’ she said. ‘That stuff about Merritt, he coughed it right up.’
‘Wanted to get rid of us. The guy’s hiding something.’
Kerry nodded. ‘Well, look at his record. That pretty much goes without saying.’
‘So can’t you, I dunno, seize his computer, search his house?’
She shook her head.
‘Carter is low-level,’ she said. ‘He’s not a priority in this case.’
She’d sai
d it without thinking. But she looked up when she realized that Wilson was staring at her.
‘Low-level?’ he said, incredulous. ‘Jesus, I thought I was hard-nosed.’
That stung. She went on the defensive.
‘It’s not my job to –’
‘For God’s sake, Kerry.’ Wilson shook his head. He didn’t seem angry, exactly; more bewildered, blindsided. ‘You’re a mum,’ he said. ‘How can you think that way?’
She turned the question over in her head, over and over, looking at it from every angle, on the dark, rainy drive back to Acton and the nick. It was a good question.
First port of call was Robin Chalmers. He had his feet up on his desk and was chewing his pen over a broadsheet crossword puzzle. Hadn’t made much progress, Cox noted.
He swung his feet down and tossed aside his paper when he saw her approaching.
‘Ah, Cox. Been expecting to hear from you. Gloria said you’d been sniffing around, wanting a piece of the high-octane action on the Allis case.’ His tone was heavy with irony.
‘Been all go, has it?’
‘Oh, God, yes. If poring over hours of CCTV footage is your idea of heady action, anyway.’
‘Anything?’
‘Something.’ He sighed, stood up. ‘I’ll show you. What are you after, anyway?’ It was a making-conversation question; nothing more behind it than the mildest curiosity.
‘Bit of background on another case,’ she said evasively. Chalmers let her leave it at that.
They walked over to the CCTV unit. Chalmers cued up a fragment of footage.
‘This is from the off-licence near the park where we found Allis,’ he explained. ‘Not a lot to go on. Anything catch your eye?’
She grabbed a seat, watched the grainy footage spool by. The timestamp read 19.45. Chalmers pointed out Allis, a spare figure with a rapid, short-paced walk. He wore a knee-length mac and a tweed cap.
‘Now watch.’ Chalmers jabbed a finger at the screen. ‘This feller. This is the guy we need to talk to.’
He passed the camera perhaps two minutes after Allis: a man of heavy build, big-shouldered, muscular, maybe six-one, six-two, in a short, dark coat over a pulled-up hoodie. Jeans, trainers, hands in pockets. Rucksack over one shoulder. Nothing to single him out. Nothing to go on.
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