Garvey glanced over as Vince Beresford came into the room. Thomas was appealing for information: ‘. . . anyone who is concerned about an older man associating with younger boys . . .’
‘He should ask Vince,’ Garvey said. ‘Get him to put out a few feelers.’
‘Get stuffed, Garvey,’ Vince said, cutting off the laughter before it really got started.
Garvey turned, his arm stretched across the back of the chair. ‘Sorry, Vince, didn’t see you there. I was just saying you’d be best placed to get inside information on the gay scene.’
‘Yeah? All I heard was a cheap joke made to raise a cheap laugh.’
Garvey smiled. ‘What’s up, Vince, not getting enough?’
Vince lunged at him, and Garvey jumped to his feet, but Mayhew got between them. ‘Come on, Sarge,’ he said. ‘We’ve got overtime to earn.’ He may have had his differences with Beresford, but when it came to a ruck between uniform and CID, he knew where his loyalties lay.
Vince stood for a moment or two, breathing hard, staring at Garvey, wondering if the satisfaction of punching his fat mouth would be worth the resulting fallout.
Mayhew looked embarrassed and a little nervous.
‘I’ll meet you downstairs — five minutes,’ Vince said.
Mayhew hesitated, but Vince glared at him until he gave way. Garvey sat down again, and the remaining CID officers settled to listen to the rest of the news. As Vince turned to leave, something on the noticeboard near the door caught his eye: a picture of Julian Clary in sequinned pink. A photograph of Vince had been pasted over his face. Vince tore down the picture and took a few steps towards Garvey. He was apparently absorbed in the TV news. Vince changed his mind and went instead to a stack of videos piled on a table near the whiteboards. The railway-station tapes. They were clearly labelled by time and date. He chose one and slipped it inside his tunic.
37
He waited outside the library until five twenty. The woman he had spoken to on Thursday said that Lauren finished at five on Saturday. Where the hell was she? Thirty-five minutes freezing his balls off in the worst downpour since the pigging flood!
He was drenched and in a foul temper. He should be checking on his girls: he liked them to think he could turn up any time, and he didn’t want them skiving off into pubs and caffs just because of a shower of rain.
A steady stream of people had left the building from five until a quarter past, but Lauren was not among them. He waited, standing in the shadow of the stone gate into the gardens opposite the library until the main lights went out and a small, balding man in a belted overcoat came out. He pulled the great wooden door closed, locked it and, dropping his keys into his briefcase, put up his umbrella and trotted off towards the bus station.
He felt cheated. Betrayed. She should have been here. For a few minutes he continued standing in the gateway. How could one stupid bitch prove so elusive when the lads had been so easy?
* * *
It was dark. Headlamps froze the raindrops in their glare and dazzled off the wet tarmac. A changeable wind goaded the rain in icy bursts, spattering pavements and pedestrians, driving even the more determined shoppers indoors.
Lauren seized Geri’s arm and pulled her inside Dixons. ‘Look!’ she exclaimed.
Ryan’s photograph smiled out at them from a TV screen. They huddled close to the set, listening to the muted commentary. ‘. . . treating the two deaths as murder . . .’ They heard. The news item went on to DCI Thomas’s appeal for help from the public, and he asked again for the woman who bought the gas canister at Great Outdoors to come forward.
Geri stood in front of the TV set staring stupidly at it, even though the presenter had gone on to the sports news.
A salesman approached them. ‘Can I help you at all?’ he asked.
‘No,’ Geri said, with a finality that was more than a simple answer to his question.
‘Only we’re about to close . . .’
They stepped back onto the pavement. The possibility had always been there, but Geri had held it at arm’s-length, listening to the arguments of those around her, trying to convince herself, at least in part, that it was a vicious prank that had gone wrong. Now she had to face the fact that both Ryan and Frank had been murdered.
‘Murder,’ Geri said.
‘And Adèle probably disappeared because she saw what happened to Frank,’ Lauren said. ‘Maybe it’s time to go to the police — tell them about her. If she is the woman who bought the gas canister, she might’ve seen—’
‘I’ll go to the police when I find her,’ Geri interrupted. ‘She’s frightened, terrified, and I won’t have them hunting her down like a criminal.’
‘Witness. They didn’t imply she was involved, they’re asking her to come forward as a witness.’
‘It’s all the same to Adèle.’
They left the store and walked on. They had been looking for hours, asking street people, trying the theatres, shops, the arcades, even the library. No one had seen Adèle since Thursday, when someone had seen her selling magazines outside Marks & Spencer. They arrived outside the storefront in another burst of heavy rain. The security staff were guarding the doors, preventing any last-minute hopefuls from gate-crashing, shepherding the few remaining shoppers out into the rain and wind. There was no sign of Adèle.
‘I give up,’ Geri said. ‘Let’s go home.’ She ducked under the umbrella and they began the climb up the hill towards her car. Fifteen yards ahead, a man stood with his back to them, hair flattened, his overcoat streaked by the rain. He seemed to be looking for someone. Geri steered Lauren towards him.
‘Joe?’
He turned and for a fraction of a second it seemed he didn’t recognize her, then his face lit up.
‘Geri!’
‘You look lost,’ Geri commented, smiling despite the cold, despite their absolute failure in their search for Adèle, despite everything, simply because Joe looked so pleased to see her.
Joe waved a hand in front of his face. ‘Got stood up, didn’t I? How about you? Out shopping?’ He glanced down at their hands.
‘No, we’re . . .’ She hesitated, unsure how to explain. Joe gave Lauren a curious look and Geri realized she hadn’t introduced them. ‘Oh, sorry,’ she said. This is Lauren — Lauren, Joe. He—’
‘Helps out at the youth club. I know.’ Lauren offered her hand. ‘She’s told me all about you.’
He took her hand, smiling slowly.
The rain was getting heavier, buffeting the umbrella, threatening to turn it inside-out, but Joe seemed reluctant to leave them and Geri asked, ‘Are you going to wait for your friend, or can I offer you a lift anywhere?’
He checked his watch. ‘Might as well give up on her,’ he said. ‘I’m working later and I’ll be wanting me tea soon.’
‘You’re a security guard, aren’t you? Lauren asked.
‘Aye.’
‘And you patrol warehouses and such around the city centre.’
‘So?’ She had put him on the defensive.
Lauren squeezed Geri’s arm. ‘Tell him, Geri.’
Geri balked at the idea.
‘You said yourself we can’t go around these places on our own, not after what happened last time.’
‘What places?’ Joe asked.
‘Derelict places,’ Geri said.
He shot her a pained look. ‘You were lucky it was me found you last time, and not some druggy or drunk.’
Geri shrugged. She felt uncomfortable talking to Joe about it — after all, he was supposed to kick people out if he found them dossing on premises protected by his firm. But if Adèle was in trouble, if she had seen something in the warehouse where Frank was killed, they had to find her, persuade her to go to the police.
‘Have you seen the news today?’ Geri asked.
‘Aye.’ He searched her face. ‘Is it something to do with the killings? Is that it? You know they’re saying it’s murder, now?’
Geri shivered as an icy raindrop
fell from the umbrella onto the back of her neck. ‘Look,’ she said. ‘Can we go somewhere where we can talk?’
He led the way, showing them to a dingy pub frontage in a narrow street around the corner. Geri must have walked past it a thousand times and never noticed it. The interior was cosy and warm and the atmosphere friendly. By the time they had got the second round in, the story was told.
Joe sipped his beer, pinched the froth off his upper lip and thought for a moment. ‘Why don’t you two go home, get yourselves warm and dry and let me do a bit of poking about?’ he suggested. ‘If I can’t find her, there’s people I know who can.’
Geri felt a surge of excitement. Joe would find Adèle, she was sure of it. ‘I would be glad of a hot shower and a change of clothing . . .’
‘Go home and get some rest,’ Joe advised. ‘It might take a while, mind. If she did see the bloke, she won’t want to be found. And she’ll know all the places to hide.’
‘But she’s our best chance of finding the bastard who killed Ryan and Frank.’ Geri said. ‘And anyway, the longer she stays out there, the greater the danger.’
‘You’re right there,’ Joe said, with feeling.
‘He’s bound to find out about Adèle sooner or later, and when he does, he’ll go looking for her.’
Joe took a breath and exhaled explosively; he seemed to be struggling with himself. Geri gave him a questioning look and he shrugged. ‘I think you should be careful who you talk to,’ he said, with apparent reluctance. ‘I don’t want to be overdramatic, but this bloke must be someone the kids trust. Ryan was no fool. He wouldn’t go with just anyone.’
Geri digested the full implications of the statement: if the kids trusted him, so did she, which meant it was someone close to her — someone she dealt with on a day-to-day basis.
‘What about Barry?’ Lauren asked. Geri and Joe looked at her blankly. ‘I mean, is it just coincidence he got beaten up around the time Adèle disappeared?’
Joe took another swallow of beer and shot a glance at Geri. ‘Baz Mandel’s so full of shite, he was bound to have it kicked out of him sooner or later.’
Geri was shocked: it sounded callous, cruel. She was about to reply, but checked herself — hadn’t her first reaction been to think that he’d had it coming? People like Barry wrecked lives. He didn’t care who he sold to, and he revelled in the power it gave him, revelled in his ability to sell drugs right under their noses knowing they couldn’t catch him. But an unsettling idea kept needling away at her: whoever attacked Barry must be worse than him, and if he started supplying kids, where would it end?
38
‘The police are saying it’s murder,’ Agnes said. It was after closing time and she was snipping and trimming a new girl’s hair. Pearl had left a pile of sweepings in the corner by the back room; she really would have to talk to that little slattern.
She assessed the new girl in the mirror — a pale redhead, gorgeous rich auburn hair, and no make-up. Barely sixteen. Another ‘special order’ no doubt. ‘I’ll layer it to give it a bit of lift — it’s a bit heavy in the fringe the way she’s got it now.’
He shrugged. ‘Whatever. Only get a move on — I’m in a hurry.’ He sat down and watched her work. ‘What makes them think it’s murder?’
‘You tell me.’ She was angry, but there was still time for him to redeem himself.
He turned down the corners of his mouth. ‘I give up.’
‘I’ve been telling that poor woman it was a terrible accident,’ she said. ‘But it was murder all along.’
‘Which are you worried about — her feelings, or missing the chance of some amateur dramatics?’
‘I’ve been misleading her.’
He raised his eyebrows. ‘You said it.’
She gestured with the scissors. ‘I feel such a fool! You’re supposed to know that sort of thing — you’re supposed to have contacts.’
‘I thought you were the one with the hot-line to God.’
‘The spirit world,’ she corrected him. ‘What am I going to say to her?’
‘You’ll think of something.’
‘I shouldn’t have to,’ she snapped, already thinking how she would frame her excuse to Mrs Connelly: Ryan had been protecting his mother, hiding things from her, not wanting to upset her.
‘You’ve had some good intelligence from me.’
She snorted derisively. ‘Thirty quid’s worth? That’s what this cut and style’d cost you anywhere else. And what about the make-over I did on the blonde lass?’
‘How many sessions have you done with the grieving mother?’ he shot back. ‘What is it, twenty-five quid a throw? I’d say you’ve had your money’s worth.’
She missed the threat in his voice, or she wouldn’t have carried on. ‘Bits and bobs, I’ve had. About as much use as all this dead hair.’ She snipped away at the girl’s head.
‘Don’t take it out on me,’ the girl protested, pulling away from her.
Agnes took a handful of hair and gave it a tug. ‘Hold still,’ she warned. ‘I know what I’m about.’
‘Meaning I don’t?’ He had settled into his chair, adopting a lazy, almost sleepy pose. Agnes had seen it before, and it usually meant trouble, but she’d been embarrassed, professionally, and she felt for Mrs Connelly.
‘What happened to those boys?’ she demanded. ‘Surely you can find out?’
‘Maybe they got too lippy,’ he said quietly.
He leaned forward in his chair, a slow, sinuous movement — Agnes got the impression he was uncoiling, and she sensed the true danger of her situation.
Agnes busied herself, feeling his gaze on her face, trying to avoid looking at the girl in the mirror, because the redhead had sensed it too — her eyes were wide and filled with dark fear.
She finished the job in silence, drying and primping until the girl looked the right side of presentable.
‘So,’ she said, brightly. ‘What do you think?’
He took a long time to answer. Standing the girl up and turning her around, pinching her chin between his thumb and forefinger and tilting her head this way and that while Agnes looked on with a nervous smile.
‘She’ll do,’ he said at last.
Agnes’s smile broadened and she patted the girl on the shoulder. ‘Off you go, chick, and get your coat.’ The girl went obediently to the coat rail and Agnes turned back to the Taxman.
Two rabbit punches, one to her eye, the other to her mouth as she dropped. The girl shrieked in dismay as Agnes fell. He bent over her, hauled her up by the front of her dress.
‘Not the face!’ she pleaded.
He grinned — or rather he bared his teeth, and Agnes quailed.
‘I only wanted a bit of inside information,’ she wailed.
He dropped her and she banged her head on the floor. She saw him take the girl by the elbow and steer her out of the shop, but as the door swung to, he stopped it with his hand and turned back to her. She cowered, and he laughed.
‘Your spirit messengers didn’t see that coming, did they?’
* * *
Fucking Agnes! Talking to him like that in front of one of his girls. Talking him down. He slipped the car into first and screamed away from the kerb, enjoying the slight hiss of alarm from his passenger. One word — just one word of complaint, anything to justify giving her a slap. But she kept her head down and avoided his eye.
‘She should be grateful,’ he said. ‘Gems I’ve fed her.’
‘I know.’
This was enough. ‘You know? What the fuck do you know?’
The girl gulped audibly. If she could’ve bitten her tongue off, she would have. ‘I’m agreeing with you.’
He tapped her across the mouth with the back of his hand. He didn’t even need to look to gauge the distance; it was a reflex. Her teeth scraped his knuckles and he had to suppress an urge to slap her again for the discomfort.
‘I’ll tell you what you’d better know,’ he said. ‘You’d better know when to open
your legs and when to shut your mouth.’ He glanced across at her. She was staring at her hands.
‘Don’t you dare fuck up your face with crying. You’ve got twenty minutes. Mr Alman asked for a pretty, freckled redhead, not a frog-faced cunt with a fat lip and red blotches all over her face.’
She sniffed, swallowed, blinked, stared hard at her fingernails.
He pulled up outside the hotel and looked at her properly. ‘You’d better not be sulking.’
Her eyes flew wide. ‘No! I swear — I’m . . . I’m just keeping my mouth shut, like you said.’
Was she throwing his words back at him? He was about to give her a dig, just in case, when he saw the punter go in. It would have to wait.
‘Know who you’re looking for?’ he asked.
She nodded and got out, moving slowly towards the revolving doors of the hotel. Dozy bitch! He got as far as opening the window to shout after her to shift her arse but managed to stop himself in time. He’d give himself away if he wasn’t careful. He ran a hand over his face and took some calming breaths.
Looking for your special place, Agnes called it. If she knew where his special place was, maybe she wouldn’t be so keen to encourage him to go there.
Images of Ryan flashed through his mind, and he moaned softly. He was beginning to realize that this need in him, now awakened, would never be satisfied. He wanted to experience more, to do more. That phrase, next time, had rattled around in his head until it became a background noise, like city traffic.
He thought he had found someone. Purely by chance: he was getting out of his car after work, and almost bumped into him. About sixteen, smooth skin, with that healthy blush of colour you only ever see on middle-class kids. He was delivering newspapers.
When he’d sorted Lauren, he would find out the lad’s name, his school, where he lived. Snatch him on neutral territory. He had already given some thought to finding a suitable place. Somewhere with a few home comforts this time; if he couldn’t find an empty place, he would maybe go for rental. Somewhere nice, but private, where they wouldn’t be disturbed.
DYING EMBERS an unputdownable psychological thriller full of breathtaking twists Page 28