by DC Brockwell
“Why wouldn’t I need to speak to my boss?”
“People will just think he’s died in an accident, so there’s no problem.” Rothstein shrugged. “People will cry, but the world carries on spinning and we’ll have a new Director General in our pocket.”
They spoke for a while longer.
Franks still couldn’t believe he was planning the assassination of a high-ranking law enforcement official with a known drugs importer and murderer. This was not how he’d intended his day to go, not at all… How had it come to this…?
31
“Please come visit me tonight,” Danny begged. “Come after everyone’s gone?”
Kimiko shook her head. “I tell you before, I want to, but can’t,” she whispered back, as she dusted his chest of drawers. “I sorry, Danny, but no. Too dangerous. Mrs Harrison kill me. She kill us both.”
In case Mrs Harrison was watching, Kimiko made sure to face away from the camera when she spoke. Her employer was so smart, she could probably read lips. It was infuriating how smart Mrs Harrison was, as it meant she couldn’t get away with anything. What had ever made her think she could get away with sneaking into Danny’s room and making love to him?
“I want to be with you,” he whispered. “You’re amazing, I want you… please come.”
“No, Danny!” Her whisper sounded angry.
Kimiko watched as he splayed his arms out in surrender, saying, “Okay,” before lying back on his bed in a sulk. If he wasn’t careful, Mrs Harrison would know what was going on; she always knew.
Having finished her cleaning duties, Kimiko said goodnight to Danny and closed the door, locking it behind her. She carried the cleaning supplies to the store area and placed everything in their designated spaces. On her way back out, she stopped outside the office.
The door was open and there was no one inside. Looking around, she saw that the guards had all left for the evening. Mrs Harrison was nowhere to be seen. Kimiko looked up at the clock on the wall and saw it was half past seven.
Stepping inside the office, she stood looking at the phone on Mrs Harrison’s desk. How easy would it be to call the police right now? There was no one around, and the phone was right there. She could pick it up, dial nine-nine-nine, and say she’d been kidnapped, please help. Even though she didn’t know where she was, the police would be able to trace the phone number, wouldn’t they?
She stepped closer to the desk.
It could all be over in less than a minute. She could phone the police now, and they could burst through the hatch and down those steps in less than an hour.
She could save all these people with one simple phone call.
She could help put Mrs Harrison in prison, where she belonged.
Kimiko reached the desk and stared down at the phone.
Silence.
There were no guards, no Mrs Harrison, no Mr Harrison.
Her lips tightened as her hand reached out for the life-saving communication device. It felt like her arm was elongating, or the phone was getting further away, she wasn’t sure which.
One phone call, that was all it would take.
Pick it up! she told herself. Dial the number and say you’ve been kidnapped!
She heard voices in the distance.
With haste, she stepped into the hallway, stopping when she saw two guards.
Kimiko closed her eyes and breathed a sigh of relief as she leaned against the wall.
“Hey, Kimiko, make us drinks.”
Obediently, she hurried behind the bar and made the two Croatians vodka rocks, their favourite tipple. The guards – she didn’t know or want to know their names – stood at the bar, talking and laughing in their own language, while she finished cleaning up after them…
Nasreen had called her next eyewitness and asked him if it was okay to meet at half eight. He’d agreed and suggested meeting up in a local pub called the Squid and Rabbit.
The office was quiet, with just a couple of detectives still at their desks. Adams’ office door was still open, which meant he was milling around; he had a literal open-door policy in his office, which she admired. She’d worked a couple of jobs in her younger days and the owners/managers would sooner spit at you than talk to a mere mortal member of staff. No, Adams was good like that – whatever you needed, he was there to help.
Adams had briefed them on their new case earlier that morning, and they’d travelled to a shopping high street, where the body of a woman had been dumped behind some wheelie bins. They’d had to walk down an alleyway between two department stores to see what they were dealing with. The woman had looked to be early- to mid-thirties with long brown hair, and she’d been dumped face down, naked.
After the crime scene unit had carried out their role, Nasreen and Terrence had turned the poor woman over, identifying the cause of death immediately: her throat was slashed, with what looked like a serrated knife – the flesh was torn, rather than cleanly sliced. Because the victim had been dumped naked, they had no means of identification. Fingerprints might help them, but only if she was in the system.
They certainly had their work cut out for them. They’d managed to identify her, which was a start. As it turned out the victim was a nurse, they’d spent a good few hours that afternoon interviewing colleagues and friends of Phoebe Lockhart at the hospital she worked at.
Glancing at the clock, Nasreen saw it was quarter to eight. So she grabbed her jacket from her chair, put it over her white blouse, and picked up her black bag.
As she was running late for meeting Ian Rowbotham in the Squid and Rabbit, she quickly shut off her PC, poured her paperwork into the drawer, remembering to lock it, and rolled her chair under the desk, all neat and tidy. No one was going to call her slovenly.
Once she’d walked through the double doors to the landing area, she had to decide whether to take the lift or walk it down four flights of stairs. Deciding the stairs would be faster than the lift, she opened the emergency exit doors and trotted down two steps before hearing a voice. It was an angry voice.
She looked over the railing. Adams was on his mobile; his back was to her. To be safe, she crept back up the steps and loitered, listening to Adams’ conversation.
“And you’re telling me this now?”
She’d never heard Adams talk like this.
“And you think this is a good idea?
Pause.
“The man’s a menace; he represents everything we despise.”
Pause.
“I don’t think it’s worth the price. Having to deal with him isn’t what I signed up for.”
Nasreen frowned. What was he talking about? Who was he talking about? She only wished she could hear the other side of the call. Whatever they were arguing over, it sounded serious, and dodgy.
“So, you’re pulling rank on me?”
Pause.
“And what if I quit?”
Nasreen audibly gasped, but not loud enough to interrupt her boss.
“I know what’s at stake, sir.”
Pause.
“Okay, but I want it on the record that I don’t agree with this choice.”
Pause.
“Jesus, another thing? Wasn’t that enough?”
Pause.
“No way. You’re wrong. She’s a great investigator, a great officer. Nasreen wouldn’t do that.”
Upon hearing her name mentioned, Nasreen gasped again. Was this about Danny? It was just too creepy; she wished she knew who Adams was talking to.
“If she’s been investigating Rose’s disappearance under the radar, I’d know about it.”
Nasreen’s stomach lurched.
“I can’t argue with that. I’ll talk to her in the morning, size her up. If she has, she won’t be going anywhere near it anymore, I promise.”
Pause.
“Okay, I’ll speak to you soon. And please, no more surprises?”
When Nasreen heard Adams start to walk up the stairs, she crept up and around the next flight of st
eps, then watched as he walked back through the double doors and into the office. She sat on the top step, leaning on her knees, her mind racing.
What was Adams thinking? From that conversation, it sounded like he was involved in something shady. And how did the mystery caller know she was investigating Danny’s disappearance? The respect she’d had for Adams not five minutes earlier was now gone, evaporated. Was her super corrupt?
When she was positive he had gone, she rushed down the five flights to the ground floor and flew out of the rear fire exit. Her car was parked two spaces down, and she jumped in and accelerated away.
Once on the road, she thought some more about what she’d heard. Could she be reading too much into this? Could there be a simple and rational explanation? She shook her head when she realised that her gut had, up to that point, always been the best judge of any given circumstance, and it usually proved to be correct.
Her gut was telling her that Adams was on the make…
32
Beattie had taken ages getting ready for Lennox’s visit. She’d showered, shaved her legs and armpits, and carried out the usual hygiene musts, but choosing her outfit had been the tough part. She thought that Lennox would probably prefer her buck naked, as most men did.
She’d decided on a maxi dress, mid-grey, which went down to the floor on her. She could almost be mistaken for floating when she walked. She’d meant to have it taken up a bit; unfortunately, she’d not found the time. She looked amazing in it, though, even if she did say so herself. The shop assistant’s jaw had all but dropped on the floor when she’d tried it on.
Looking up at the clock, Beattie saw it was two minutes past nine.
All day she had waited to see him, and for just thirty minutes. She had to find a way of getting more time with him – ask her father if he could work here, maybe? No, that wouldn’t work. She could tell her father about Alan’s long absences, though, maybe request some kind of help in here, at least temporarily? There must be something she could do.
“Hey, Bea.”
Standing, she greeted Lennox with their newly customary kiss on both cheeks. She could hear her heartbeat; it was so strong. “Hi!”
“You look nice,” commented Lennox. “That colour suits you.”
“Thanks. It’s just an old dress I haven’t worn in a while. Laundry day.”
There was no way that was going to fool him – she could tell by the way he raised his dark eyebrows and nodded slowly. Her dress practically screamed “brand new”.
“Old or new, it looks good on you.”
She sat, watching him open the safe and transport the cash to the other desk. He looked great, too. “It’s warm in here, isn’t it? Do you want me to take your coat?”
“Take it where?” He turned to her with a grin, before taking it off. “Just put it in the corner, Bea. I’m not going to take long with this.”
“Oh? Do you have plans tonight?” she asked, trying to sound casual. “A hot date, perhaps?”
“Nope. Your dad has another job for me. He wants to go through it with me tonight.”
Damn her father! He was always getting in her way. “Drink before you go? Cup of tea?”
“Yeah, that would be great, thanks,” Lennox replied, sorting the cash into three denominations.
Beattie walked through to the bar and made two cups of tea, using the professional coffee machine she’d had installed two years earlier. She was more of a tea drinker, whereas her clients generally appreciated a decent cup of coffee when they visited.
She placed one cup on the desk in front of him – almost spilling some on the fifties he was busy counting – and stood watching him, holding her drink and occasionally sipping.
He was so cute, she thought, observing how muscular he was. She could see the muscles on his back through his white T-shirt. His biceps were rock hard too; she could tell how firm they’d be to the touch. She could imagine how safe she’d feel in his arms, and…
“Bea, everything all right?”
“Huh?”
“You’ve been standing behind me for a while. You okay?”
With her daydreaming, she hadn’t noticed that he’d finished counting the fifties and was halfway through counting the twenties. Embarrassed, she turned and cursed under her breath, not loud enough for him to hear.
“Alan still away, is he?”
“He’s never in these days,” she replied, sitting back down at her desk. “Not that I mind. We’ve grown apart, is all. Happens to lots of couples, I guess.”
She noticed he was counting the tens – soon he would be finished, and she’d have to wait another twenty-four hours for his company. What was wrong with her? She was a strong woman, independent, self-assured. So why was she pining after a man like some love-struck teenager? No! This wouldn’t do!
“Right, that’s me done.”
She rose up to say goodbye too quickly, and before she knew it she had tripped and fallen into him. His strong arms steadied her, and then she looked up, into his beautiful brown eyes.
She heard him say, “Ah, why not,” a moment before their lips met…
Nasreen arrived late to the Squid and Rabbit. When she looked at her watch, she saw it was twenty-five past nine. She hoped he was still here.
Walking up to the bar of the gastro pub, she ordered a soda and lime, or as she called it, a slime. There were lots of tables filled with groups of people at various stages of eating; some on starters, some on mains, some on desserts. It was busy.
At the far end of the pub was an area with seating, a pool table, and a darts board. A man in blue jeans, white trainers, and a mid-brown jumper stood up and caught her eye, before waving her over. He was fat – she estimated him to be about twenty, maybe twenty-one stone – and most of the flab fell over his belt. He had a tiny little moustache, topping off the ensemble.
“Are you the detective?” he asked.
She reached into her jacket pocket and pulled out her badge, showing it to him for confirmation. “Detective Constable Nasreen Maqsood,” she affirmed. “Ian Rowbotham?”
“Take a seat,” Rowbotham said, pulling out a chair. “My mate was just here, but he’s got to get home to the missus.”
Nasreen placed her drink on the table and sat down next to him, not opposite. She figured he wouldn’t want anyone knowing he was talking to a police officer.
“So, what can I do for you, Detective Maqsood? Maqsood… where’s that from?”
“Pakistan,” she answered, with a fake smile. She hoped he couldn’t tell. “My family’s from Pakistan.”
“Whereabouts? I visited a few years back. Lovely country, really friendly people.”
“A small town near Lahore. You won’t have heard of it.”
“So, what’re you doing in this shithole then? I mean, don’t get me wrong, England’s all right, but it’s nothing compared to your country.”
“I was born here; this is home,” she answered, hoping this wasn’t going to end up being a racism-laced interview. Why couldn’t people understand that just because her extended family lived in Pakistan, it didn’t mean she had to as well? She had as much right to live in “Engerlaaand” as anyone else born here. She tried to keep her temper in check.
He nodded and said, “Right,” but in a weird way, like he didn’t quite understand.
“Sorry I was late getting here; traffic was a nightmare,” she said, changing the subject. “Are you still all right to talk now?”
“I’m not going to tell you anything I haven’t said to your lot already.”
“My lot?” she repeated, her temper rising slightly.
“Detectives.”
“Oh, right, from before, you mean?” She knew she was being super-sensitive, but it was only because he’d put her on edge with his demeanour.
“You have to understand this was eight years ago, and my memory’s not great.”
“I understand, Mr Rowbotham,” she replied. “If you can just talk me through what you saw on May ni
neteenth, I’d appreciate it.”
Nasreen listened as the witness described seeing two men carrying what looked like a body across a road from a park, before dumping it in a white or cream-coloured van. Rowbotham had been out driving his lorry in the early hours that day and estimated the time to be about half three in the morning. It mirrored the testimony of Valerie Chapman, right down to the colour of the van. Her gut told her that these two cases had been committed by the same abductors; she had no doubt in her mind. She bet that if she scoured the PNC she’d find that a white van had been torched near that abduction site too.
“I have a photo in my bag of the two men we suspect abducted Daniel Rose,” she explained, reaching into her handbag. “Do you mind taking a look at it for me, and seeing if you think these are the two men you saw?”
Rowbotham nodded and she passed the photograph across the table, turning it the right way for him to see.
Nasreen waited while he picked his glasses up and put them on, which made his face look even rounder. “Take your time.”
“It was eight years ago, so I can’t be a hundred per cent certain.” He picked up the photo and stared hard. “I don’t know, maybe.”
“Your best guess?”
“One was butch and the other skinnier. I’d say… yeah, it’s probably them.”
She could feel the excitement building up inside her, and although there was no way he could be certain, it was a start. “Thank you, Mr Rowbotham. You’ve been a big help,” she replied, taking the photo from him and sliding it back in her handbag.
When she said her goodbyes to the witness – after asking him several more questions – she left the pub and walked back to her car. There was no way these two cases could be separate. Both abductees were male escorts, and they’d both been abducted in parks near to their homes. The MO was identical in both investigations. She believed wholeheartedly that the other missing persons cases had been due to the same two suspects as well, but to what end? What could these perpetrators want with male escorts?