by Stav Sherez
Carrigan moved his chair a little closer. ‘And, what? You’re going to stop cutting your hair because it’ll only grow back? You think we don’t make a difference?’ It was something every good detective struggled with. It was what kept Carrigan up at night, lost in folders and data, inputting facts into a machine that didn’t care. ‘I don’t have to remind you what happened when we took our eye off the ball a few summers ago – the riots?’
Jennings nodded mutely.
‘You want me to justify the job? I can’t do that but I do know that without us the cities will descend into blood and chaos that much sooner. Every time we turn on the news we see what happens if we’re not there to stop it. We have to do what we do and we have to keep doing it in the face of diminishing returns.’ It was as close to a mission statement as Carrigan had. ‘Everything is sliding towards chaos. Given enough time, everything falls apart. That’s a fundamental law of the universe. That’s physics. We can’t change it and there’s no use moaning about it. It’s like your desk.’ Carrigan pointed towards the outer office. ‘Are you going to let things pile up on your desk until you can’t find anything? Or do you try and keep a balance, tidying up regularly even though you know it’s only going to get messy again?’
‘I know you’re right,’ Jennings replied, the soles of his shoes pressing against the floor. ‘I know it’s logical and rational but that doesn’t stop me thinking about it all the time, fucking dreaming about it. I’ve had to move into the spare room so I don’t wake Rose up with my screams.’
‘I don’t know what to tell you.’ Carrigan understood he had to tread carefully. Jennings had been bottling this up for a long time and was close to snapping. It wasn’t the first time Carrigan had had this conversation in his role as DI and he knew it wouldn’t be the last. ‘This job takes away much more than it gives. You’ll lose family, friends, lovers, children – if you stay, you have to accept you’re no longer like everyone else, that there’s a different weight on your shoulders. You need to decide if this is something you want to keep doing.’
Jennings didn’t reply, his eyes vacant and soft as he stared out into the rain.
Carrigan placed a hand on his shoulder, aware that no one ever listened to advice. Everyone had to come to their own unique and slippery accommodation with the world. ‘Whatever you decide, you’ve got my support, you know that. But there’s nothing else you can do about it today so go and watch a movie, eat a nice meal and try to remember it’s not always like this.’
Carrigan waited until Jennings was gone then reached across to Katrina Eliot’s file and dialled the number for DI Tony Forsyth.
He introduced himself but the only reply was Forsyth shouting at one of his officers.
‘I wanted to talk about a case of yours.’
There was nothing but static on the other end of the line and Carrigan thought Forsyth had hung up when the man’s deep burr came bouncing through the handset. ‘I’ve got a lot on at the moment. This isn’t a good time.’
‘I was just about to have lunch,’ Carrigan continued as if he hadn’t heard. ‘I thought Chinese food might be nice, what with this weather, some hot soup maybe? You need to eat too, right?’
The DI didn’t reply.
‘And while we enjoy our food you can tell me about Katrina Eliot.’
‘Katrina Eliot?’
Carrigan waited. He counted off the seconds.
‘Where do you want to meet?’
23
Sparta Employment Agency was located on Queensway above an old sign for a Vietnamese restaurant. Geneva remembered dark drunken nights in its cloistered interior with Lee, her ex-boyfriend, slow strong cocktails and the endless rounds of bizarre and delicious dishes – but the restaurant had closed down and in its place was a charity shop totally devoid of stock.
She felt that familiar prickle at the back of her neck as she finished her cigarette and waited for Singh. Anna had worked part-time as a cleaner. One of her clients had become abusive and she’d had to quit. But those kind of men never quit. Geneva hadn’t been that surprised when Carrigan told them about Katrina Eliot at the morning briefing. The nature of Anna’s abduction, the Twitter trolling – everything they’d learned about their killer suggested he’d had plenty of practice to hone his skills. She flashed back to the abusive tweets. Her hunter was proving to be as adept at virtual stalking as he was at the real thing. The Twitter trolling and Anna’s murder were too close together to be unrelated. The abuse was too well orchestrated, too detailed, personal and persistent for him to have stopped when Anna deleted her account. Ironically, it could have been that very action which had caused him to escalate.
Geneva checked her watch, took out her phone and called Madison. She hadn’t heard back from her and feared the worst but when she punched in the number it began to ring, the languid stutter of foreign interchanges immediately making Geneva feel a lot better. She tried to do the maths in her head, a twenty-four-hour flight to Australia, time spent in security lines and layovers, and realised Madison was probably somewhere over the vast Pacific right now.
Singh’s fingernails clicked against her BlackBerry as they made their way upstairs and entered a small waiting room crowded with young men and women, standing, sitting, texting or chatting among themselves. A receptionist sat behind a table at the far end, head bobbing to unheard music, eyes fixed on the screen in front of her. Geneva headed for the desk and was about to snag the receptionist’s attention when someone grabbed her arm. She turned around to see a tiny woman, not an inch over four feet, her hair the bright orange of cheap fizzy drink.
‘What the fuck d’you think you’re doing?’ The woman sneered to reveal pink gums and three tongue piercings. ‘Some of us have been waiting hours.’
Geneva shook her off. ‘Do I look like I need a job?’
The woman backed away, her eyes small and narrow. ‘You bitch,’ she said. ‘You think I dreamed of cleaning English toilets?’
‘Please. Can you all just settle down?’ The receptionist had taken off her headphones and was staring at them like a stern and unforgiving headmistress.
Geneva pulled her arm free. ‘We need to talk to your boss.’
The receptionist studied Geneva, a private assessment and pursing of lips. ‘I’m afraid that would be impossible.’
‘Really?’ Geneva gestured to the room. ‘All these people? They’re not waiting to see him?’
The receptionist smiled. ‘You’d probably be better off coming back tomorrow.’
‘Thank you,’ Geneva said, walking straight past her and into the main office.
A woman was sitting behind a large, oval table. She was tapping something on the screen in front of her. A young man with a ponytail was leaning over and staring at the screen. The woman’s eyes shot up the moment Geneva and Singh entered.
‘What on earth do you think you’re doing?’ Her accent was sharp and crisp as broken glass.
‘I’m sorry for bursting in like this,’ Geneva explained, surprised to find herself cowed by the woman’s unwavering stare. ‘But your secretary was less than helpful.’
‘I should hope so. That’s what I pay her for.’ The woman ran an elegantly manicured finger down the right column of a large appointments book. ‘You’re certainly not making the best impression if you’ve come for a job.’
Geneva bit down the insult and took a couple of steps forward. ‘That’s lucky, because I’m not here for a job.’ She took out her warrant card and flicked it open. The woman’s expression didn’t change as she stood up, took the wallet and examined it. Finally satisfied, she handed it back and sat down. She turned to the ponytailed young man. ‘Come back in ten minutes.’ The boy nodded and left.
‘Sorry about that,’ the woman said. ‘Eleanor Harper. How can I help you?’
‘We need information about someone who worked for you.’
‘We’re a brokerage for temporary cleaning staff. People work for us on a freelance basis. We don’t directly emplo
y anyone.’
Geneva sat down. The room was tasteful, elegant and soulless. There were no family portraits, knick-knacks or personal items. Framed prints of Mediterranean scenes lined the walls; small rocky bays, dismal towns, the rushing urgency of the sea.
‘We’re investigating the disappearance of Anna Becker, a woman who might have got work through you.’ Geneva took out Anna’s photo and placed it on the table. ‘Please have a look and tell us if you remember her.’
Eleanor examined the photo with the same scrutiny she had given to Geneva’s warrant card, then shook her head. ‘Afraid not.’ She pushed the photo away. ‘I see about three hundred people a week. Even if she came through here, I very much doubt I’d remember.’
‘We’d like to take a look at your appointments book,’ Singh said, her forceful tone a surprise to Geneva. ‘See where she was in the weeks leading up to her disappearance. We heard there was some trouble.’
Eleanor nodded almost imperceptibly. She pivoted towards the screen and keyed in a string of commands. ‘Becker, you said?’
‘Yes.’
Eleanor scanned the screen. ‘She worked nineteen jobs for us, starting just over eight weeks ago. She handed in her notice two weeks ago. There’s no reason stated.’
‘One of the clients made a pass at her. When Anna said no, he took it further. That’s why she quit.’
‘She should have reported it.’
‘Perhaps she didn’t think you’d take it seriously enough?’ Singh suggested.
‘I take it very seriously. This kind of thing should never be allowed to happen.’ She tapped her nails against the table as if to underline the point. ‘I’ve reported many clients over the years to your lot but you’re the ones not taking it seriously. You go and speak to the client but how long do you think that lasts?’
‘Things are different now,’ Geneva said, knowing Eleanor was partly right.
‘Good. I’m glad to hear it. Women have suffered in silence long enough. We encourage the girls to report even the tiniest infraction.’ She reached into her drawer and took out a folded leaflet. ‘We produce a guide so they know what’s not acceptable in this country. It tells them their rights and how to deal with any given situation.’
She handed over the leaflet and Geneva flicked through it, impressed.
‘Which client was it?’
‘We don’t know,’ Geneva admitted. ‘We need a list of all the residences she worked at.’
‘Of course.’ Eleanor slid her mouse across the trackpad and clicked. The printer roared to life and ejected a single page. She took the page from the tray and handed it to Geneva.
‘Can you also check for a Katrina Eliot?’
Eleanor’s black-painted fingernails tapped the keyboard. It was her only affectation. Otherwise, she was one of those women, like Geneva’s mum, who’d abrogated their futile battle against the onslaughts of time. She’d let herself grow old, not bothering to dye her hair or hide her blemishes, and she looked all the better for it. ‘I have no one by that name registered here.’
‘How does it work?’ Geneva skimmed the report. Anna had done shifts at St Mary’s Hospital, local schools and several private residences. They would need to interview and eliminate them one by one. ‘Do they come here every morning to see what’s available?’
Eleanor clicked her fingernails. ‘Of course not. That would simply be a mess. After the initial interview, it’s all done by phone. Once we’ve found them work, they’re in our system. They get a text in the morning and they have fifteen minutes to accept or decline the job.’
Geneva flicked through her notes. ‘Do you tend to get a lot of backpackers?’
‘About a third of our clients. They’ve run out of money and don’t want to go home yet. London’s a very expensive city if you’re young and like the nightlife, but backpackers are terribly unreliable. One day they’re clamouring for work and the next day they’re in Sydney or Lima.’ She studied her nails and shook her head. ‘They haven’t yet realised how quickly the world falls away.’
Geneva noted the undertow of sadness to Eleanor’s words, her outward poise arrayed like a shield around her. ‘You said a third of your clients? Who are the others?’
‘As you’d expect we have a lot of Poles and other new EU member states, all of them hideously overqualified but, often, this is the only work they can get in the UK. We also have a lot of students who do a few shifts here and there to pay off loans or save for a holiday. Recently, we’ve had quite a number of housewives supplementing the family income with part-time work. There’s not the stigma to cleaning there was a few years back.’
Geneva thought about her own mother who’d worked as a cleaner when she first came to this country and how ashamed she’d been, almost as if she were selling her body, not her time. ‘How much do they earn?’
‘It’s minimum wage, I’m afraid. But they can work whatever hours they want, as little or as much as they like.’ Eleanor looked up. ‘You ever need any spare income, you know where to come.’ She smiled and stood, announcing the interview was over. She led them to the door and was already ushering in the next interviewee before Geneva and Singh had left the room.
24
Carrigan arrived five minutes early, but the restaurant had closed down. He tried to remember the last time he’d been here. No more than a week ago. There’d been no sign of any imminent change. The waiter had been his usual rude self, the food good as it always was. But this was London. Rain dripped and smudged the notice of administration posted by Westminster Council. Carrigan was halfway through reading it when he noticed a man’s reflection coming towards him, one hand slowly emerging from a jacket pocket. Carrigan spun around, legs tensed, quickly realising he was trapped, his back up against the door.
‘He’s done it again, hasn’t he?’
Carrigan blinked the rain from his brow. ‘What did you say?’
‘He’s taken someone again. The man who took Katrina Eliot.’ This time it wasn’t a question.
‘Why do you think that?’
The repeated click of DI Forsyth’s lighter sizzled against the rain. ‘Because it was only a matter of time.’
‘Before he killed again?’
The cigarette sparked and Forsyth let out a small strangled chuckle. ‘No.’ He took three hard pulls on the already damp cigarette, the end briefly flowering into life then sputtering out. ‘Before we stumbled on him again.’
They turned away from the restaurant and crossed the street, their bodies braced against the rain. There weren’t many options. Half the shops on Queensway had closed down and the other half sold things you could never afford.
Carrigan led Forsyth to a small cafe snuggled between a bank and a currency exchange. The manager, an overweight, middle-aged Greek named Nikos, greeted Carrigan effusively the moment he stepped in, pumping his palm and clapping him on the shoulder. He greeted Forsyth in the same manner and Carrigan saw the DI stiffen as Nikos shook his hand.
‘Please. Take a seat, anywhere you like.’
The place was empty. Carrigan followed Forsyth to a square marble-topped table in the back. The chairs were modern, cheap and uncomfortable. The marble was cracked and dull. The menus were white and uninspiring – paninis, pizzas or variations on an English breakfast. The unpainted walls held ripped and curled tourist posters for a Greek island named Palassos.
‘I assume it’s the food and not the ambience we’re here for.’ Forsyth shook his head as he went to the toilet.
‘Katrina Eliot.’
He hadn’t heard Forsyth come back but there he was, shaking his hands dry, his face animated and slightly red as if he’d just had a swig of some raw and ready booze. ‘Haven’t heard that name for ages.’
‘But you’ve thought about her, haven’t you?’ Carrigan saw something narrow in Forsyth’s eyes and knew he’d been right.
‘Why are you interested in Katrina?’ Forsyth spread his forearms across the table, a fierce grey moustache hiding his t
op lip. The owner reappeared with the food they’d ordered.
‘I have a case that’s similar,’ Carrigan said when they were alone again.
‘Similar how?’
‘Same type of victim. Same hostel. Same MO.’
Forsyth pushed his plate away. ‘When?’
‘Couple of days ago,’ Carrigan said. ‘She was abducted from a local bar and dumped in a derelict house.’ He told Forsyth what they knew about Anna. Forsyth didn’t take notes and he didn’t take his eyes off Carrigan.
‘Any leads?’
‘Nothing from either the abduction scene or the dump site. He’s very good at counter-forensic measures.’ Carrigan paused. ‘We found her passport . . .’
‘Photo carefully snipped out, right?’
Carrigan nodded. He’d hoped that the two cases, despite appearances, would prove to be unconnected. If Anna was the only victim then the motive and killer would be found in the unravelling of her life, but another victim from the same location suggested a territorial serial killer.
‘We didn’t get anything either,’ Forsyth said. ‘I worked that case four months. Found out everything there was to know about Katrina Eliot. Spoke to everyone. Went through the files three or four times, even brought in a review board to check I hadn’t missed anything, and in all that time I learned absolutely nothing about him.’
‘You kept at it, though? Even with so little to go on. Four months is a lot for a missing persons case. Was it the parents?’
Forsyth examined his plate. ‘At first, yes. That’s why I looked into it, and as I did, you know how it is – you start to feel there’s something there, you can’t name it or place it but you know something’s not right and the more I looked into it, the more certain I was he’d do it again.’ Forsyth pulled out a cigarette and rolled it between his fingers. ‘We interviewed everyone. The hostel staff, residents, members of her band, people she met only once.’