by S J Grey
“Good idea.” There were plenty of buildings around, from an expensive apartment block to bars and cafés. “Get him to check the others in this area, too.” Caleb continued walking, while Devin talked on the phone beside him.
They crossed the main road, and then another, and then had to decide on a direction.
“Let’s split up,” said Caleb. “We can cover more ground that way. We’re looking for a skip near the back of a nightclub.”
They studied their maps, agreed directions, and separated. Caleb kept a lookout for more security cameras. Any that could have caught sight of Kaali. Anything to pinpoint where she might be. And this was always assuming she’d been taken back to the brothel, and not somewhere else.
His phone buzzed with a text from Jonathan.
Jonathan: We have a name for the courier / Merc driver. Identifying his location. Will update you soon.
Chapter Twenty-Six
The streets in this part of town were short and straight, in a grid pattern, and quick to check out on foot. Caleb searched for renovations in progress or evidence of a basement window. He found neither. Frustrated, he called Devin for an update.
“I’m next to the Ten Denier club, in Peter Street,” said Devin. “They’re shut for a refit, but judging by the flyer in the window, their closing night was two weeks ago. Possible, do you think?”
“Worth a look. On my way.” Caleb hurried to join him.
Devin peered through the windows into the building. “Nobody’s here,” he said. “Must have knocked off early.”
“The chance of a skip being out back is high,” said Caleb, “but if it’s been closed for the last fortnight, it doesn’t match what Kaali said about it being noisy at night. Let’s check around the back.”
A narrow yard on Fowlers Lane held a skip filled with plasterboard, pipes, and bathroom fittings.
“Bingo,” murmured Caleb and turned his attention to the back door.
Could this be the place? He checked the yard for cameras and couldn’t see any, but that didn’t mean he was safe. He didn’t want to get nailed by the cops, for breaking and entering. That would be a direct violation of his parole.
On the assumption he was being watched—the worst-case scenario—he rapped on the door and called through the wood. “Hey. Anybody home?”
No answer.
He shrugged, turned on his heel, and sauntered away with Devin. “How much further did you have left to check?”
“The next street after this.”
Caleb nodded. “Let’s walk together. See if anywhere else matches the profile.”
There were no more skips visible, and Caleb’s spirits lifted. “We might be close,” he said. “If Nat can locate her in the area on CCTV, we can narrow it down to the venues in this area. We’ll make a record of what’s here, in case the map information is out of date. It might be somewhere new.”
Devin captured images of the surrounding buildings with what was left of the natural light, and they made notes. There was one other nightclub, the Triple-X Girls, three restaurants, several varied cafés, and some small shops. There was also an immigration advice office—one of the many private businesses that claimed to offer visa assistance to foreign nationals. The city was filled with them.
All the same, this one caught Caleb’s attention. It was a narrow slice of building, sandwiched between a vegan café and a pre-loved lingerie shop. Second-hand knickers? That was a thing?
The doorway was grubby, the paintwork peeling, and the proprietor’s name fading. It looked like a business struggling for survival, apart from the shiny new lock on the door and the gleaming black security camera focused on the doorstep. A tiny red light blinked on the device when Caleb moved closer. He peered at the opening hours. Nine until five, every day except Saturday. He checked his phone. It wasn’t even four yet. Was it open?
He craned his neck, to look up at the next level. It was in darkness. Maybe they closed early today? The place was supposed to be open, and Caleb might want to be a customer. He returned to the door and pressed the aging bell. A buzzing sounded from inside the building.
Ignoring the camera, he shoved his hands in his pockets and waited. And waited some more.
No footsteps. No doors opening. No tinny voice through a cheap speaker.
Either it was closed, or they were picky about who they responded to.
“Let’s keep going,” he said to Devin in a low voice. Just in case they could be overheard. “And ask Nat to see if there’s any CCTV on these buildings that we can hook into.”
“To see who’s going in and out of there?”
“Yep.” Caleb’s instincts told him this was more than it seemed. He called Jonathan as they walked away. “Hey,” he said when Jonathan picked up. “Can you check out a business for me? A supposed visa place? The address is 8, Browning Street. There’s something dodgy about it.”
“Dodgy?” Jonathan sounded amused. “Is that a technical term? What kind of check do you want running?”
“Dunno. Anything you can find. It looks shabby, but I think it’s a front. I’ve asked Devin to look for cameras in the street, so we see who uses the place.”
“Got it.”
They carried on walking up the street, and then came down again on the other side of the road. Directly opposite the visa office was a Greek restaurant. Apollo’s Taverna. A delicious, garlicky fragrance drifted from an open window, and Caleb paused. He was hungry. The day had been too long, and he’d barely eaten. He peeked at the brightly coloured menu in the window. They did takeaway.
“I’m starving,” he told Devin, “Let’s get some food while we’re here.”
A bell over the door jingled when they walked in, and a pretty, young girl trotted up to them. Her apron was sparkling white and freshly pressed.
“Good evening, gentlemen,” she said, her voice lightly accented. “Table for two?”
“We’re looking for takeaways, thanks.” Caleb took the offered menu and ran his finger down the options. “I’ll have a mixed souvlaki, please, with hot chilli and yoghurt.”
“Same, thanks,” said Devin.
“No problem,” said the girl. “If you come with me to the counter, I’ll put in your order.”
They followed her into the restaurant. It was much bigger inside than it appeared. Tables and chairs were arranged around the outside of the huge open space, with a raised dais in the centre.
Caleb swiped his debit card to pay for the food, while the girl handed their order to the kitchen staff.
“Big place,” he said. “I’ve not been here before.”
“We opened a few months ago. We specialise in traditional Greek entertainment, with live music, dancing, and of course, plate smashing.”
“Plate smashing?” Devin laughed. “You really do that?”
“Of course.” She looked offended. “It’s a very popular routine. We also cater for a lot of private parties, weddings, and so on. We’ll be busy later.”
“On second thought,” said Caleb, “could we eat in? No sense in our souvlaki getting cold.”
“Of course,” she repeated. “Can I show you to a table?”
“We’d love one in the window,” he told her. The perfect place to watch the visa office from.
When the waitress was out of earshot, Caleb said, “What do you reckon about the other club? Triple-X-Girls? A possibility?” The single best description for its appearance was seedy.
Devin nodded. “It backs onto the same area as the Ten Denier club. According to its website, they do private dancing. It’s not regulated as a brothel, though. There’s only one in Courtenay Place, and that’s the Mermaid. Most of the others are in Dixon Street. Granted, that’s only a short walk away, but it’s bustling late at night. She’d have been seen.”
“I suppose you checked if anyone called the cops about a naked girl, walking around?”
“Yeah. Nothing reported.”
“We need to go take a look tonight. Check it out for ourse
lves.”
Devin nodded. “I’ll tell the others. We should all go. Get as many eyes inside as we can.”
The food was delivered, and Caleb dug into his souvlaki. It was good. The grilled meat was tender and bursting with flavour, and the sauce was hot. Just the way he liked it. “I’ll come here again,” he said, pausing to wipe some yoghurt from his chin.
Movement outside the window caught his eye.
Across the road, two smartly dressed men stood on the doorstep of the visa office. They were shielded by an umbrella, but Caleb saw them lift their faces to the camera, as he had. This time, the door opened. The men went inside, and the door closed promptly behind them.
“Open Sesame,” said Caleb. “Maybe we need Jonathan here.”
As though Jonathan heard his name mentioned, Caleb’s phone jangled with an incoming call from him.
“Hey,” said Caleb.
“We’ve got the courier. We picked him up at home. Erich Morgen, a German engineer with EnZed residency. I’m going to talk to him now. Do you want to come back and watch?”
It’d be hours until the club opened, and there was nowhere else for Caleb and Devin to check here. “Yep. Where are you taking him?”
“My head office. I’ll leave your name at the desk, and Devin can sign you in.”
“We’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”
At long fucking last, they had a solid lead.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
The rain had eased up by the time Caleb and Devin arrived at an unassuming office near the Beehive.
Caleb had been there often enough to be used to the entry process. As a visitor, he had to surrender his phone and wallet, be patted down by a security guard, be swept by the same guard for electronic devices, and then walk through a metal detector. He was impatient to get in. Jonathan wouldn’t let him be a part of the interview, but he could watch through a two-way mirror, and confer with Jonathan when he took a break.
Caleb settled into a chair and gazed at the windowless room on the other side of the two-way mirror. It could have been a standard police interview room, except that the table was wooden and polished, and the chairs were better quality.
The guy lounging in a seat was familiar—the Mercedes-driving motorcycle courier.
The door clicked open behind Caleb, and in came Jonathan with a similarly suited stranger, and Devin following behind.
“Hey,” said Jonathan. “This is Mitch. We’re about to go and talk to Erich. Do you have anything to add before we start?”
“I want to know if he’s one of the guys in the video,” said Caleb. “And what the connection is with Freddie.”
“Yeah. Me too,” said Jonathan. “By the way, Devin will give you any updates from the team while you don’t have your phone.”
Caleb nodded. “Go on then. Do your stuff.”
Jonathan and Mitch left to enter the room holding Erich. The guy straightened up and rested his forearms on the table. Unlike the agents sitting opposite him, he was dressed casually, in jeans and a hoodie. His wristwatch looked expensive, but it could be fake. Caleb wouldn’t know the difference.
“Mr. Morgen,” opened Jonathan. “May I call you Erich?”
“Sure. And you are?” His voice was clear and cultured. No hint of an accent.
“My name is Jonathan, and this is my colleague, Mitch. We’d like to talk to you about your recent visit to 121a Thorndon Quay.”
“Where?”
“121a Thorndon Quay. We know you visited on Tuesday the second of April, and again the day after, dressed as a motorcycle courier for Corona Courier Services. Is that who you work for?”
Erich looked bored, rather than anything else. “No. I’m a businessman.”
“We have clear camera footage of you entering the building on at least two occasions. Why were you there, Erich? Who did you visit?”
“Like I said, I’m a businessman. I have many deals on the go in this city. I may have been there on those dates. What of it?”
Mitch opened a paper folder and removed a sheet of paper. He slid it across the desk to Erich. “This is you, right?”
Erich glanced at it. “Looks like me.”
This reminded Caleb too strongly of being interviewed by the cops. He blew out a calming breath and dug his hands into the arms of his chair. Was he going to get PTSD flashbacks or something? He needed to focus on the exchange in front of him. This was no time for freaking out.
“So, tell me,” said Jonathan. “Who were you visiting in 121a Thorndon Quay, on the second and third of April? It’s a really simple question.”
Erich shrugged. “I’d need access to my personal schedule, but you confiscated my phone.”
Jonathan glanced at Mitch, and then sat back in his seat.
Mitch spoke next. “Nice Merc you drive. Is it yours?”
“It’s a company car.”
“Pretty flash, for a company car. What business are you in, again?”
“I didn’t say.”
“Tell us now. What do you do, Erich? Because it sure as shit isn’t delivering courier packages.”
This time, Erich smirked. “No comment.”
“Your house is worth a couple of million. Who financed that?”
“No comment.”
Mitch looked inside the file, then closed it again. “According to our records, you’re the director of a business called EM Holdings. I’m guessing that’s short for Erich Morgen Holdings. Am I right?”
“No comment.”
“And EM Holdings has its fingers in a lot of pies. Everything from dry cleaning to wine bars, import and export of paper goods, and digital technology.” Mitch paused. “I talked to the people at the Inland Revenue Department before I came in here. Have you been declaring all your taxable income? They were a little surprised at your assets—the car; the house in Lowry Bay; the second house in Parnell, up in Auckland.”
“No comment.”
Mitch sat back and spoke to Jonathan. “Lowry Bay and Parnell, eh?”
“Not cheap,” said Jonathan. “Aren’t they both on the list of New Zealand’s top ten most expensive suburbs to live in?”
“By a strange coincidence, Jonathan, they are.” Mitch turned back to Erich. “And yet IRD say your declared income last year was only two hundred thousand dollars.”
“No comment.” Erich sat back, smirk locked in place and arms folded.
“You sure about that?” Mitch asked. “Sure you don’t want your lawyer?”
“Hmm,” said Erich. “You’re not the police, and I’m not under arrest, right?”
“Correct.”
“I’ve come here as a willing participant, to help you with your enquiries, right?”
“Correct,” repeated Mitch.
“In that case, I’ll leave now. Sorry I couldn’t help you.”
Caleb didn’t know how Jonathan and Mitch stayed so calm. It was weird, being on the other side of the desk, so to speak. How far could they push this guy? Would he give up anything at all?
“I don’t think so,” Jonathan said. “We haven’t even started yet. Tell me about Nicole.”
“Nicole who?”
“Nicole Golden.”
“Who?”
Mitch slammed his hand on the desk. The move was quick and loud. It made Caleb jump, and it startled Erich. “Not good enough, Erich. You were one of the men who enticed Nicole Golden to your hotel room, and then filmed her having sex with you and another man. Oh wait. That makes it sound consensual. You drugged her, Erich, and then raped her, while filming it. You then edited the video and published it on Pornhub. Did you think we wouldn’t find any evidence?”
“You’re right,” said Jonathan. “We’re not the police. We have access to more information than they do.” He smiled. It reminded Caleb of a shark. “We also have different powers.”
“We can hold you for longer,” said Mitch.
“That’s right,” said Jonathan. “We can. And I’m happy to keep you here until you tell us som
ething useful.”
Erich quirked his eyebrows. “No comment.”
“We know your car was parked in the Metropole car park on Saturday the twenty-third of February. We know the room was booked in your name. Why Nicole? Is this something you do often, and she was the latest victim?” Mitch flicked back and forth through his dossier, as though searching for something. “Or was it something to do with Edmund Collier, the Minister of Immigration?”
“No comment.”
“The Minister of Immigration?” said Jonathan, mock-surprised. “Nicole’s father?” He levelled his stare at Erich. “The same Edmund Collier that’s being blackmailed. By you.”
“No comment.” There was a tiny hesitation this time before Erich spoke. Was he about to crack?
“Really,” said Mitch. “Someone made threats against Collier’s daughter—Nicole—and then sent him a link to a Pornhub vid in which she’s raped by two men. That was you, wasn’t it, Erich? You’re blackmailing a government minister. That takes balls.”
“Big balls,” agreed Jonathan. “For a big payoff.”
Erich’s gaze pinged between the two agents, but he said nothing.
Come on, willed Caleb. Ask him about Freddie.
“While we sit here talking to you,” said Jonathan, “a warrant is being arranged, to give us access to your house.”
Mitch coughed. “Both houses.”
“And your registered office.”
“All four of them,” added Mitch.
“And your lovely Mercedes. Do you know what we’re going to do then?”
“No comment.”
“We’re going to get our forensic teams to go over everything with the finest–tooth comb,” said Mitch. “You know what they’re looking for.”
Erich shifted his feet. “No comment.”
“Why, Mitch, what are they looking for?” Jonathan asked, his eyes wide.
“The evidence to prove that Erich transported Freddie Sparks out to a remote house in Peka Peka, where he shot him, and then set the house on fire. He also called the fire in to the emergency services, which was a nice touch, I thought.”