by Maynard Sims
Her smile widened. “I never reveal my sources,” she said. “But I find it useful to discover how you’re being perceived by the people you work with. It gives me a clearer impression of the progress you’re making.”
“So are you ready to sign off on these sessions and let me get back to work?”
“These sessions are mandatory in cases where an operative’s life has been on the line,” Julia said.
“I know,” Crozier said. “It was me who instigated them five years ago.”
“Then you should appreciate the benefits of them.”
“I introduced them for my operatives, who often find themselves risking their lives during the course of their work. Not for me, who, for most of the time, sits behind a desk and directs the operations.”
“Then I would have thought these sessions would be even more important for someone in your position. Why are you so eager to bring them to a close? Don’t you enjoy them?”
“I don’t think enjoy is the appropriate term. I’ve found them enlightening, and they’ve helped me reassess my life since the attack, to help me realize what is important and what is trivial.”
“Then not such a waste of time?”
Crozier smiled and shook his head. “No, I suppose not. And you’re cheaper than Harley Street.”
Julia scribbled something down on her pad. “Right then, shall we begin?”
“Very well,” Crozier said, settled back in his chair and crossed his legs.
The music was loud enough to make the floorboards throb in the Abyss.
Bartlett and Witherspoon moved through the gyrating bodies on the dance floor, flashing Kerry Green’s picture to little or no response. They rendezvoused at the bar. Bartlett ordered a whiskey, Witherspoon lemonade.
“Ever felt out of place?” Witherspoon said.
“Like a nun in a monastery,” Bartlett agreed.
Witherspoon sipped his lemonade. “Do you see who’s down the bar from us? Three o’clock.”
Bartlett turned his head and looked along the length of the bar “Terry Butler,” he said quietly. “Did you know he was into this scene?”
“I thought mugging old ladies was more his form of entertainment.”
There was a girl hanging on to Butler’s arm. Too young to be drinking, bleached blonde hair and smudged eye makeup. “Who’s that with him?”
“Never seen her before,” Bartlett said. “Come on, let’s go and have a chat with them.”
They moved along the bar and pulled in next to Butler and the girl.
“Hello, Terry. You into this death rock scene?”
Butler picked up his glass and tried his best to ignore them. Witherspoon grabbed his arm and forced it back to the bar before Butler could take a sip. “Don’t be rude, Terry. I said hello.”
“’Lo,” Butler said.
Bartlett pulled the photograph from his pocket and held it out for them both to see. Butler looked at it blankly, but the girl pulled the photograph from Bartlett’s fingers and looked at it closely. “That’s Kezza.”
“Kezza?”
“Kezza. Kerry Green. She was in here the other night. Left with a friend of yours, Terry. Fin whatever-his-name-is. Is she all right? I haven’t seen her since then. Has she been in an accident?”
“She’s dead,” Witherspoon said.
The girl’s face blanched.
“Dead? How?”
“Murdered.”
“Shit.”
“We’d like both of you to come back to Waterloo Road station with us, to give a statement.”
Butler was poised, ready to run. Witherspoon tightened his grip on his arm. “Don’t even think about it, Terry.”
Butler looked to the girl and mouthed, “Stupid bitch.”
Witherspoon saw that the girl was confused, as much by Terry’s anger at her as by the presence of the two policemen and their request. She’d probably never been in trouble with the police before.
“I’ll miss my train,” she said weakly.
“We’ll get someone to take you home afterwards,” Bartlett said. “Come on. Our car’s outside.”
The Wellington public house in Bridge Street was a relic of a bygone age. Resisting all efforts to modernize and turn it into a gastro-pub, or worse, the landlord had retained most of his regular patrons and added to their number by attracting those looking for an adult evening, free of bland, piped music and families with unruly preteens whose idea of going to the pub was to run from table to table and annoy as many people as possible.
Harry ordered tonic water from the bar and found a corner booth from where he could watch the door. Susan walked in before he had drunk halfway down the glass.
He stepped out of the booth, caught her eye and beckoned her over to the bar. “Glad you could make it,” he said. “What can I get you?”
“White wine spritzer, please.”
Harry attracted the barman’s attention and ordered her drink.
“Not drinking, Harry?”
He pointed to the glass of tonic water sitting on the table in the booth. “I’m good.”
The barman set the glass down in front of Susan. She picked it up, took a sip and followed Harry back to the booth.
“I’ve walked past this place lots of times but never come inside. I thought it was an old man’s pub.”
“It is,” Harry said. “I’m an old man.”
“I wouldn’t have said so. What are you? Mid fifties?”
“Round about.”
“That’s not old.”
“Kind, but I think I’ve aged ten years after today.”
“It was pretty gruesome,” she said, and started to take her electronic cigarette out of her bag.
He moved and covered her hand with his own. “Sorry,” he said. “They don’t allow them in here.”
She sighed and let the cigarette drop back in the bag.
“That’s what makes these bloody things so pointless. You can’t use them on planes, in pubs and restaurants. What are we quitters supposed to do?”
“Go outside with the regular smokers and freeze your tits off while you suck.”
“Is that progress?”
“No, but it’s much better for you.”
“If you say so.” She smiled. “Were you as shocked as you seemed, finding Markos like that?”
“It wasn’t what I expected to find. I thought it was going to be Alice Logan under that sheet.”
“I must admit, that was what I feared,” Susan said.
“She’s still missing.”
“Yes, I realize that. Do you still want my help trying to find her, or have you brought it all in under Department 18 business?”
Harry didn’t answer. He took a swig of his tonic water and shuddered slightly.
“Are you okay?” she said.
“This stuff is not the same when it’s not diluted with vodka.”
Someone chose a song on the jukebox menu and Elvis started to croon.
“God,” Susan said. “This takes me back. I never got into the Vegas Elvis, but he was a hunk before he started wearing white jumpsuits.”
“I’m surprised you’re old enough to remember.”
“You’re not Irish, are you?”
Harry shook his head.
“Only you’re full of the old blarney.”
“I lived out there for a while. Maybe it rubbed off on me.”
She laughed.
Off duty, Susan was much easier to be with. He had thought twice before asking her to come for a drink, but he had a feeling that beneath the no-nonsense, prickly persona, there was a much softer side to her.
“How long did you live in Ireland?”
“A few years, after I quit the department.”
“You quit?”
“Oh y
es, I quit.”
“May I ask why?”
He shook his head. “Do you like being in the police?”
“It’s a job and I’m good at it. I’m not much good at anything else. My house looks like a bomb’s hit it, and I’m a lousy cook. I live on TV dinners and takeouts most of the time.”
“Yes, well, I’m guilty of that too. You’ll have to let me buy you dinner sometime.”
“Are you asking me out on a date, Harry?”
“I thought I already had.”
“And I thought you had some things to discuss about the cases we’re working on.”
“That too,” Harry said with a smile.
“Where do you think Alice could be?”
The smile was wiped from his face and his eyes clouded. “I really haven’t got a clue.”
“You should start with Markos’s apartment in Clerkenwell and his house in the Cotswolds. You might find pointers there to where she’s gone.”
“Yes,” he said. “You’re right. Do you think Markos was responsible for Kerry Green’s murder?”
“That was what I was thinking, which is why I trekked over to Barking.”
“And now?”
“Now, I’m not so sure. There’s definitely a connection. Someone painted a crescent in blood on the wall of the warehouse, and a crescent was carved on Kerry’s body. It could be a coincidence, but it’s a bit of a stretch. At the same time, traffic cameras on Waterloo Bridge filmed someone dropping Kerry’s body into the Thames at three fifteen the night before last. I couldn’t see the face, but it was a much smaller figure than Anton Markos. From the photo in the file you gave me and from what I saw today, I would put him at a bit more than six feet. The person on the bridge I would estimate a good six inches shorter.”
“How did you arrive at that?”
“The person was driving a Peugeot 207. I judged his height by comparing him to the height of the car when he was dragging Kerry’s body from the trunk.”
Harry nodded slowly. “Fair enough. But if not Markos, who?”
“And that, Harry, is the 64,000-dollar question. I’ve got my guys out tonight showing her picture around at the Abyss. It’s a Goth nightclub. She had the club’s reentry stamp on the back of her hand, so we know she was there. If anyone saw her there, we might find out who was the last person to see her.”
“Clever,” Harry said.
“It’s called police work. Can I get you another drink?”
“Same again, please.”
“Tonic water? Don’t you drink?”
“Not anymore.”
Susan gave him a look that said, I know what you mean, but I’m not going there. He appreciated that. He found himself beginning to like Susan Tyler—like her very much.
“Tracy…may I call you Tracy?”
The girl from the nightclub nodded. She looked very young sitting in the interview room—young and frightened.
“Tracy, let me say that you’re not in any trouble,” Witherspoon said. “You are here voluntarily as a witness. You’re free to walk out that door at any time, but we would appreciate any help you can give us with our inquiries.”
“Okay,” she said in a very small voice.
“You say you saw Kerry Green, Kezza, at the club the night before last.”
“That’s right.”
“And she was with someone called Fin. Did they seem okay to you? Were they arguing? Did she seem distressed in any way?”
“She didn’t. Nah, she seemed happy, really made up to be with him.”
“And this Fin, you don’t remember his name?”
“Nah. I’ve seen him at the club before and I know Terry knows him.” Her gaze drifted to the ceiling as if she was looking there for the answer to Witherspoon’s question. “It was something Irish. Clancy, something like that.”
A light went on in Witherspoon’s brain. “Clusky? Was it Clusky? Fin Clusky?”
“Could be…yeah…that sounds right.”
“Good girl,” Witherspoon said.
Tracy smiled wanly.
Chapter Nineteen
“Fin Clusky,” Witherspoon said out in the hall. “Finbar bloody Clusky.”
“You sound as if you know him,” Bartlett said.
“Oh, I know him,” Witherspoon said. “Nasty little shit. He glues the wings on flies, just to have the pleasure of ripping them off again. Claims his dad was a soldier in the IRA, but according to his mother, his real father was a merchant seaman from Bradford, and Fin was the product of a one-night stand. What’s Terry saying?”
“Not a lot. Says he didn’t see Kerry with anyone at the club that night. Swears blind he doesn’t know anybody called Fin.”
“He’s lying,” Witherspoon said.
“Of course he is, but proving it isn’t vital to the investigation at the moment. If the girl says Kerry Green left the club with Clusky that night, then that’s enough to be going on with,” Jake Bartlett said.
“Shall we send them home?”
“Might as well. Organize a car to take them.”
Jason West sat at a table in Gallo’s bistro for most of the evening, admiring the minimalist decor, with its zebra stripes and mosaics, and enjoying a well-cooked steak. But he ate alone. Karin didn’t show. At eleven he went back to the hotel. He’d call Harry in the morning and give him the bad news.
At the desk, he asked for his key. It was a different receptionist from yesterday, a younger woman wearing modern attire. She handed him a key and said, “Your ski lesson is booked for eleven, Herr West. The same as today.”
“But I didn’t book a lesson,” he said. “ I was going to wait to see how it went.”
The receptionist pulled out the appointment book and ran her finger down the page. She looked up at him with a smile. “Here it is. Eleven a.m. Herr West. Two hours instruction with Karin.”
He shook his head. “Thank you. It must have slipped my mind.”
The woman looked at him oddly, then shrugged and placed the appointment book back under the desk. “Sleep well, Herr West.”
“Thank you,” Jason said and took the elevator back to his room, his spirits lifting as he ascended.
“Where have you parked your car?” Harry said as they left the pub.
“Back at the station. You?”
“I walked.”
“Far?”
“Just over a mile.”
“Do you want a ride home?”
Harry looked up at the sky. A thin drift of rain dampened his face. “Would you mind?”
“I wouldn’t have offered if I did,” she said. “Come on, the station’s just around the corner.”
They reached the car park just in time to see Jake Bartlett emerge from the station and walk towards his car. He stopped when he saw them.
“Hi, Jake,” Susan said. “How did it go at the club?”
Jake walked across to them. “Got a witness who saw Kerry Green leave the pub with a lowlife called Finbar Clusky at about ten that evening.”
“Clusky, that worm?”
“You know him then?” Harry said.
“Oh, I know him. He’d sell his grandmother’s dentures if he thought he could make enough money from them to buy drugs. He lives in a council flat over on the Peabody Estate.”
“Should I take Brian and go and question him?” Bartlett said.
“Leave it till the morning, Jake. The day’s been long enough already.”
Bartlett looked at Harry and then at Susan, his mind whirring and making the connection. “You two been somewhere nice?”
“The Wellington,” Harry said.
“I’m just going to drive Mr. Bailey home.”
“The Wellington. I know it. My old man used to go there to play dominos with his mates.”
Susan suppressed a smile.
“Good night, Jake.”
“Good night, guv. See you in the morning.”
“Bright and early.”
“Guv?” Harry said as Bartlett climbed into his Mondeo and drove from the car park.
“If they called me ma’am, they’d have to tug their forelocks and bow as well. I couldn’t handle that.” Susan stopped beside a dark green Skoda and clicked the lock button her key fob. “Come on, get in. Let’s get you home.”
“Would you like to come in for coffee?” Harry said as they reached his apartment block.
“What do the Yanks say? I’ll take a rain check, if that’s okay.”
“Fine,” Harry said, hiding his disappointment behind an easy smile. “Another time.”
He opened the door and made to move out, but she stopped him with a hand on his arm. “I mean it, Harry. Another time, and soon. I’ve had a really nice evening.”
“Sorry we didn’t get to play dominos.”
She smiled. “We’ve got the rest of our lives to play dominos,” she said and leaned towards him.
He kissed her on the cheek. “Good night, Sue,”
“Good night, Harry, and thanks. I don’t do the social thing nearly as much as I should.”
He got out of the car and turned up the collar of his coat against the steadily increasing rain. She pulled out onto the road, and he watched until her taillights were just a red blur in the rain, and then he went inside.
“Claws.”
“What?”
“You wanted to know what made the wounds on Markos’s body.”
“Christ, Duncan,” Harry said. “What time is it?” He squinted at the green LCD figures on his radio alarm clock.
“A little after eight,” McBride said before Harry could bring them into focus.
“Don’t you sleep?”
“Not when I’ve got something as interesting as this to work on.”
“Claws you say?”
“Yes. It was some kind of animal. A dog, I thought at first, but now I doubt it. It would have to be something like a Rottweiler, but bigger, judging by the spacing between each claw. And there’s something else.”
“I’m listening.”
“Hair. Well, I say hair, but it’s more like fur. Some of it’s embedded in the wounds. I’ve taken a sample and couriered it over to London Zoo. Their people may be able to tell us what it is.”