by Ali Gunn
There was something about the victim that simply didn’t make sense. On the one hand, the notebooks and papers that they had found in her home gave the impression of a young woman struggling with anorexia, presumably grief-ridden at the loss of her parents and spending vast quantities of inherited cash. That side of Layla was impulsive, out of control, and on a downward spiral.
On the other hand, her life was on an upward trajectory in the months before her death. The most recent bank statements showed that she had reined in her spending to almost normal levels. The way she portrayed herself on social media was carefully curated to be on-brand. Surely that mask, that perfect varnish, had to slip every now and then.
As the Met’s standard Trace, Interview, Eliminate strategy had been a total bust, Knox had to think outside the box. The usual approach to these sorts of inquiries – and Knox had deputised for Fairbanks in hundreds of them – was to get every possible suspect in the pool, prioritise the suspects and then go and talk to them. Take out the obviously innocent, pursue whatever leads arose. With a dearth of witnesses and suspects, Knox fell back on an even older technique – retracing her victim’s steps. It was an extension of the map-plotting work that she’d done days earlier. By putting every transaction on the map, Knox could reconstruct where Layla had gone, which routes she’d taken, which streets she’d walked. If she used that information, she could retrace her steps and see what Layla had seen, go where Layla had been. It was slow, laborious, methodical work.
The very last transaction ever recorded on the victim’s debit card was at a nail salon. There wasn’t a similarly timestamped charge from Uber or Addison Lee so it was safe to assume that, for once, Layla had travelled by Shanks’ pony.
It took her just eight minutes to get to the salon from the station walking at a brisk clip in light of the winter chill ripping through the street. The neighbourhood was upmarket, full of young mums pushing babies in designer pushchairs. Katz Klawz felt oddly out of place. It was part of an older mixed-use block with flats above the retail unit. There was a stark contrast between the shabby chic exterior and the glossy white interior that would have been at home in a Tesla showroom. Knox made her way inside, a bell above the door jingling as she entered, and looked around. On her right, the barstool-height nail bar was white-on-white, obnoxiously bright and faultlessly cleaned to showroom perfection. Chandeliers sparkled overhead, the light reflecting off the marble underfoot. Along one wall, six rows of identical bottles of nail varnishes showed off a rainbow of possible colours. There was a harsh smell of acetone in the air masked by an overpowering grapefruit diffuser which was on the far end of the nail bar.
There appeared to be just one technician on duty, an elegantly dressed young Asian woman who spoke with a Thai accent. Knox could hear someone else moving around beyond the door marked “Staff Only”.
‘Do you got appointment?’
‘No, ’fraid not—’
‘No walk-in, we very busy.’
Knox looked around at the half-dozen empty seats. ‘I’m with the Metropolitan Police.’
The woman paled, her eyes flitting towards the Staff Only sign and then back to Knox. ‘Sorry. Me no speak English.’
The poor girl looked terrified the moment she heard the word “police”. She didn’t seem scared of Knox, not in the way that a criminal might when hiding their wrongdoing. The girl’s demeanour was that of a victim. Up close, Knox could see that the elegant clothing was frayed around the edges as if it had been worn for too long.
Behind the bar, a large sign read “50% off for Cash”.
It was never a good sign. Any predominantly cash-based business that had little trade was a dead giveaway that something was afoot. From Knox’s cursory Googling, Katz Klawz had been in business for several years. The place ought to be heaving with regular customers.
Knox mulled over the explanations. The simplest was that Katz Klawz was a front, a money laundering operation that washed drug income so the tax man didn’t get suspicious. That didn’t fit with the Companies House accounts that Knox had pulled. Katz Klawz only declared a modest profit, barely six figures gross.
Forced labour. Trafficking. That was more likely.
She looked around for any sign of a handler. Then she noticed a tiny blinking red light up in the corner. A nondescript, high-end, security camera was watching their every move.
Knox raised her voice in case anyone was listening and spoke in the posh voice she reserved for the telephone and press conferences. ‘I have a big date tonight. Are you sure you can’t fit me in?’
The Staff Only door opened to reveal a heavy-set Asian lady who had to be at least Knox’s age.
‘Hello, Sister,’ the young woman said.
The older woman ignored her and homed in on Knox. ‘What you want?’
If it hadn’t been so serious, it would have been comical. Knox was standing in a nail bar which was open to the public and the woman’s tone made it sound like Knox had knocked on her front door at half past midnight.
‘I need my nails done,’ Knox said. She showed the woman her damaged cuticles.
‘Here, here, price list.’
The cheapest option was the first, a fifteen minute “Quick Fix” for fifty quid, or twenty-five after the discount for cash. Knox pointed at it. Seemingly satisfied that Knox was a genuine customer, the older woman turned away to polish the end of the nail bar.
Mindful of both “the Sister” and the camera, Knox took a seat with her back to both. The nail technician pointed at the row of nail varnishes.
‘You pick colour.’
Knox perused for a moment, acutely aware that her haggard old hands and nicotine-stained nails made her incongruous in a place like this. Having her nails done was not one of her pastimes.
‘Do you think the red will cover up the damage?’ Again, she spoke loudly for the benefit of the Sister.
‘Manicure first,’ the manicurist said. ‘Then we see.’ The technician began to file the edges of her nails in silence, the Sister glancing over every now and again. Once the bar had been polished to perfection, the Sister disappeared into the backroom once more.
Knox leant in, ever mindful of the camera, and spoke in a hushed voice. ‘Are you okay? If you’re here against your will, tell me that I need a follow-up treatment next week – doesn’t matter what for.’
The hand holding hers began to tremble.
‘I can’t fit you in next week,’ she said and looked towards the door at the back of the property. The Sister terrified her.
‘Right,’ Knox said. ‘That’s a shame. I’m sure we can work something out, my schedule is always up in the air. I’m Knox by the way. What’s your name?’
‘Sumiko. It mean “smart girl”.’
‘Nice to meet you, Sumiko. I’m wondering if you know a friend of mine. She came here last week. Can I show you a photo?’
‘No photo. No photo.’
Even the thought of being seen looking at a photo was enough to terrify Sumiko. ‘Okay, her name was Layla Morgan. She might have been a regular.’
‘What she look like?’
‘Short, very slim, pale white skin, wavy brunette hair.’ Perhaps Layla had dyed it. Knox wasn’t getting a reaction so she strained to think of something more helpful and her mind flashed upon one of Layla’s most popular Instagram posts. ‘She had little lotus flowers on her fingers in pink against red.’
‘Oh!’ Sumiko said. ‘I know her. She very famous, no?’
‘Do you think?’
‘Oh yes, she come in here, always in black cab, always talking about flying here, flying there. I see her Jimmy Choo bags, a different one for every day of the week.’
‘You sure they weren’t fake?’
As Sumiko moved onto the base coat, she shook her head vehemently. ‘No, no. Not fake like ones some of my clients go buy in Camden. They break at seam, look awful under spotlight. This real deal. And miss tip very well. Sometimes fifty pounds for nails.’
Eve
n in a place like Katz Klawz, it seemed that Layla Morgan was desperate to keep up appearances. Matthews was right. Layla lived her life according to the mantra she had scrawled on her bathroom mirror – fake it until you make it.
The Sister reappeared again and Sumiko recoiled under her gaze.
In a nervous voice, Sumiko said, ‘Now, you want this just scarlet red or something different?’
‘Just plain red is fine,’ Knox said. She looked around once more. In the twenty minutes she’d been in Katz Klawz, there had been no other customers. There certainly wasn’t any need for two members of staff. The telephone hadn’t even rung.
‘You guys do custom nail painting too, right? I’ve got to go back to work after this but I’d love to have some flowers added. Could you sort that out before my big date tonight? I’m free after work.’
‘Tonight, I go to other job,’ Sumiko said. Her voice wavered as if this were something she dreaded. Then she added in a whisper, ‘In Soho. Could you come back? Before six?’
‘Is that when your shift ends?’ The Quick Fix treatment was nearly up. If she had to get a team from SOCO back here before then, she’d need to get a shift on.
Sumiko nodded.
‘Then I’ll see if I can shift my calendar around. How’s five-ish work for you?’
‘I can do that. You pay now. Twenty-five pounds.’
Knox proffered thirty pounds in crumpled notes.
‘No, you pay Sister.’
The big woman ambled over and snatched Knox’s money wordlessly. She didn’t offer change. A thin-lipped smile said that Knox was no longer welcome.
Outside, Knox fumbled for her phone. The Sister was clearly suspicious. Were her suspicions enough to go back and watch the CCTV? Would she know that Knox had identified herself as a policewoman? If so, Sumiko was in danger. Traffickers were known for shuffling their victims around – or worse. If Knox let Sumiko leave for her evening shift in Soho – no doubt a prostitution gig – and didn’t follow up tonight then Sumiko would almost certainly disappear for good and it would be because of Knox’s visit.
The man she dialled as she walked away answered after just four rings.
‘Ozzy? It’s me. I need a favour right now.’
Chapter 30: Better Future Media Limited
Vito had clammed up the moment he had arrived in the custody suite so Elsie had left Stryker to babysit while Vito’s solicitor was summoned, and headed to the Old Street Roundabout instead. This was London’s answer to Silicon Valley, the so-called Silicon Roundabout where tech firms and start-ups operated out of shared offices and incubator programmes. They offered everything from financial services to online games. The office she had come to see was much larger than most start-ups, occupying an entire building just north of the tube station.
Elsie arrived to find an explosion of primary colours on the outside of the building that belonged to Better Future Media Limited. They were the company behind the now-infamous Review My Ex app which had been responsible for Elsie going on a string of awful dates. Elsie had arrived solo. The team was stretched thin and she couldn’t afford to use two people when one would suffice, a logic which applied to her as much as it did to the rest of the team. The weirdness continued inside the building. It was as if the office had been plucked from a child’s imagination, everything soft and colourful. Where the reception desk ought to have been, a man lay in a hammock, his eyes closed as if asleep. Behind him was a wall of fabric in a rainbow of colours. Two empty hammocks were strung up on either side of the lobby, unoccupied but for a scattering of throw pillows that made Elsie long to lie down and have a good nap.
At the sound of Elsie’s approaching footsteps, the man stretched, yawned and then swung around to sit bow-legged in the hammock in the most awkward fashion.
‘Welcome to BFM. What can we do for you today?’
She flashed her warrant card. ‘DCI Elsie Mabey. May I speak with whoever is in charge?’
He sucked in a breath of air as if she had asked to borrow the crown jewels. ‘Hmm... let me go see for you, ’kay? Take a hammock while you wait.’
Behind the hammock, a gap in the curtains that Elsie hadn’t noticed opened up to admit him. She caught a glimpse of two suited men standing in the corridor just inside, their arms crossed, and little white earpieces in. There was security after all.
Elsie settled into the hammock and closed her eyes. It was the perfect spot to take a break. Pop music wafted in from an air vent well above her as the soft supportive hammock cradled her so well that she nearly dropped off to sleep. A simple chair would have been a safer choice. Two songs later, there was still no sign of the receptionist. She idly picked up her mobile, intending only to take it out of Airplane Mode long enough to ask the team for a status update. Almost immediately a succession of messages from Raj came in.
Hey, what you up to?
Then:
I’m busy too. I’ll try you later.
Before she could even flick away the notification, another message appeared:
As long as ur not wasting my time.
How abt drinks tonight?
ANSWER ME!
Stop ignoring me. BITCH.
I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that. Dinner?
I can see ur online. What did I do wrong?
Whatevs, you’re not worth my time anyway slut.
God, men could be crazy. In just a few hours of being offline, he’d gone from the perfect gentleman to budding psychopath. It was just so illogical. Didn’t normal people keep normal business hours? She was about to reply telling Raj just what he could do with his offer of dinner when the receptionist reappeared.
‘Oh, you use our app too? Having much luck?’
The receptionist was a nosy so-and-so. Elsie cocked her head to one side. ‘See for yourself.’
His face paled. It was obvious he’d seen behaviour like Raj’s before. ‘Just hit the block button. He’s not worth your time, ’kay?’
Solid advice, albeit a week too late. The Review My Ex app was crawling with self-entitled narcissists.
‘Anyway, Mr Melrose will see you now. Follow me.’
Elsie pushed her way through the curtains to find herself in a narrow corridor that seemed to wrap around the entire perimeter of the building. She passed the two heavies who nodded curtly. The reception was on the southeastern corner of the building and her internal compass said she was heading clockwise towards the back of the building. After the third corner, the corridor opened out into a huge atrium with glass and yet more splashes of bright colour everywhere.
A massive slide dominated the centre of the atrium running down from a balcony around a bullring of glass-fronted offices that encircled the atrium. A skinny, grungy man slid down it as Elsie watched. He leapt to his feet and strode in her direction.
‘You must be the fuzz!’ he called out as he approached. He was loud enough that everyone in sight turned to watch the spectacle. ‘To what do I owe the dishonour today?’
He was cocky, brash, and American. Elsie disliked him immediately.
‘Mr Melrose, I presume?’
‘That’s me, the one and only Adelrick Melrose. My parents were particularly sadistic, you see. Mom was a Scot which is why I got Melrose. Pop, bless his dead cotton socks, was a German with a grandiose sense of entitlement for his son. Adelrick means “noble and regal ruler” which, it turns out, is dead on the money. Welcome to my domain, Detective Mabey. I took the liberty of Googling you while you waited. What brings the Homicide and Major Crime Command to the Silicon Roundabout?’
‘We’re investigating the death of Layla Morgan. We believe she may have been a client of yours.’
‘Almost certainly she was if she were single,’ Adelrick said. ‘And even if she wasn’t, who doesn’t love a good shag on the side as you Brits like to say? You’re randier than goats around here and I’ve got the data to prove it.’
‘Your data is why I’m here—’
‘Thought it might be. Do you have a warr
ant?’
‘No, but—’
‘Then I’m afraid we’re done here. Legal wouldn’t have it any other way and quite right they are too. We store a lot of sensitive data and we take that our clients’ privacy seriously. Thanks for swinging by. Do grab a complimentary smoothie from the juice bar on your way out. The lime and chia seed blend is quite delightful.’
Elsie snatched his arm as he turned to go.
‘Really?’ Elsie mocked him. ‘You thought you could give me a smoothie and send me on my way. I can see you’re as unhinged as this office is.’ She looked up to see the audience in the bullring above had grown markedly. The staff watching from the balcony appeared to be uniformly young, mostly men, and all casually dressed. She raised her voice so they could hear her. ‘Let’s try this again. I’m investigating the deaths of two women, both of whom used your app.’
‘Shh, you’ll disturb the ambience. Can’t you see people are working here?’
Elsie felt her nostrils flare. Anger surged within her. What was with this guy?
‘Then I suggest,’ she said through gritted teeth, ‘you show me to a nice private office where we can have this discussion in peace.’
He relented, beckoning her to follow him. They marched in lockstep towards a lift at the back of the atrium which soared upwards with remarkable speed. Adelrick’s office was at the very top of the building above the atrium. Glass abounded in every direction giving panoramic views out over the rooftops. In the middle of the room stood a low coffee table and two chintzy armchairs. It was not a room designed for work.
