“Andrew, we've been through this before. Thank you, but I'm happy here.”
That story had cost her dear emotionally, but it had paid well, allowing her to buy a flat in Trinity Village, and rent her own offices in Bermondsey Street. She was comfortable on the South Side, with its riverside view of the casino opposite.
“I can think of a hundred other journos who would bite my hand off for this offer. I get five hundred letters a week begging for a job.”
“I know, and that humbles me. Honestly I’m genuinely grateful, but – ”
“You’ve always had a stubborn streak,” she could almost hear him smiling. Then his voice came closer to the phone. “Be careful Julia. Bull-headed isn't a good look. World's changing fast. I need to hire some sharp operators. Don't get burned.”
“That's a risk I'll have to take,” she replied, more cheerfully than she felt.
As a freelance, Julia knew she was only as good as her last by-line. The business was full of hungry upstarts who would eat her for breakfast.
CHAPTER TWO
West End London
TRAFFIC GRIDLOCKED, so Chief Inspector Pitcher pulled his car into an alley off Leicester Square. He pushed open the driver’s door, and stood to get out, catching his head on the corner of an old air-conditioning unit whirring on the wall.
Bugger, he rubbed the spot to ease the sharp pain. “Summer in the City,” he sang under his breath. “Hot town – sick bloody murder.”
Tourists swarmed along the pavements, spilling into the road. He fought his way across Shaftesbury Avenue to Gerrard Street. “Back of my neck getting dirty and gritty.”
Funny how you can remember words to songs you haven't heard in twenty years, he thought.
At the police cordon blocking the entrance to Chinatown, he elbowed his way through a mesh of bodies. No press yet. This would be big news when it finally broke. He stepped over the barricade and left the buzz behind. Wardour Street was deserted apart from a few figures bent beneath the Friendship Gate. Red and gold Chinese banners slapped in the breeze. He walked towards the pod of Scenes of Crimes officers, who had already bagged up the body.
Thank Christ for that.
A young PC stood by watching. “So much for peace and prosperity, eh, Sir?” he mis-quoted the motto blazoned at the top of the structure, as he walked towards the Chief Inspector.
“Don't be ghoulish. If peace and prosperity are your thing officer, you've picked the wrong profession.”
Pitcher lifted his eyes to survey the wider scene. It was tea-time but this gourmet paradise was deserted. Some restaurants had barred doors and security shutters. Lanterns and dragons burned brilliant at others, reminding him he hadn't eaten. Something told him, he wouldn't be eating much that evening. He turned back to the PC.
“Name?” Pitcher asked.
“PC Webb...”
“Not yours.”
“Of course. Well, his wallet, and yes it was still in his pocket, has credit cards and a driving licence belonging to an Adam Lee. We're checking him out now.”
“Anything else?”
“Apart from...”
“Apart from the obvious.”
One of the Scenes of Crime team, clad head to toe in white protective suit, stood to stretch his legs. “Slightly strange. An orchid in his top breast pocket. Cause of death, garroting – would've been quick.”
Pitcher turned back to the young officer. “Any witnesses? Do we know anything about what happened? Drugs-related? Gang feud? Mistaken identity?”
“Sorry Sir,” the PC shook his head.
“What do you mean No? We're in the heart of one of the busiest districts of London. Are you telling me no one saw anything? Speak to every single one of these restaurants. Where’ve the customers gone? Did you move them out?”
“They moved themselves out,” another Soco officer working on the ground chipped in. “Most disappeared before we arrived.”
“We can talk to the restaurant staff, Sir, but whether anyone saw anything, or will tell us about it –”
“I know, I know, it's Chinatown.”
“It's hard to get people to talk.”
“Well, try harder,” Pitcher swallowed, before crouching down to the body. “Any clues?”
“Jacket Armani. Dewitt watch. Pricey, some cost more than fifty grand,” said the Soco officer.
“Nationality?”
“Chinese probably...maybe Hong Kong...South East Asian I’d say.”
Pitcher stood as another uniform pushed through the cordon and came running down Wardour Street.
“PC Jed Day, Sir. This is my beat, as you liked to say in the old days. Was at a meeting with some tenants when the call came. Got here as soon as I could.”
“Good to see we still have men on the beat. How are things on your beat, as we oldies like to say?”
PC Day grinned, before straightening his face. “Well, this is a busy posting, Sir. Mostly petty crime. Pick-pocketing, the odd domestic.”
“And that's it?”
“Pretty much...”
“We have a body at our feet PC Day – brutally mutilated. A few months ago, there was a fire in that restaurant over there, the Golden Pagoda.” Pitcher pointed at a building, showing no trace of a torching. “Suspected arson, wasn't it? Nothing proved. Are we looking at something more organised here? This murder looks like one hell of a calling card to me.”
“It's possible,” PC Day hedged, before adding, “The young Chinese are different from their parents. Skilled, sophisticated. Their talents are in high demand all over the world.”
“Young man, are you trying to tell me the Triads have got an education, proper jobs and gone legit?”
“No, no, Sir,” PC Day bit his lip. “They never disappear completely. It’s complicated.”
“Crime changes – less red in tooth and claw. I know all that,” he moved closer to Day and dropped his voice to a low whisper.
“Officer we have a body at our feet with both eyes gouged out. I ask you again, could this be something more organized?”
PC Day cleared his throat.
“Since the Hong Kong handover the numbers of Chinese in this area... my guess would be – ”
Pitcher looked at the Chinese flags billowing in the wind, then back to the blood-red neon restaurant signs.
“Many are right here, right now,” Pitcher finished for him.
CHAPTER THREE
Evening Tuesday July 27
Southwark
“MY NAME'S CODY. I'm looking for a job.” Julia looked up from her desk to see a young Denzel Washington standing in the doorway.
“How did you get in here?”
“Deli downstairs. Very nice Italian...”
“I must speak to Aldo,” she laid her pen on the desk and leaned back, sizing up the intruder.
Strikingly attractive, she thought.
“No please don't. He was kind. I would never have taken “No” for an answer.” He lowered his voice. “I've wanted to be a journalist since the day I was born.”
“You and half the rest of the population,” despite harsh words, she never forgot the bitter taste of hunger for that first break.
“The rest of the population has a fighting chance. Look at me.”
Julia ran her eye over him and her heart thawed a little more. Made a huge effort. She guessed the smart suit was borrowed. The trousers hung above the top of his socks and the sleeves were short.
“And?”
“I'm black.”
Julia trilled the names of a dozen black broadcasters, fronting the news.
“The way I speak...”
Undoubtedly, his South London accent was not currently fashionable in the nation’s newsrooms. But there were plenty of offices where his face and accent would be welcomed.
“Southwark News, Lambeth Recorder. All fine places to start.”
“I didn't go to college. They aren't interested without an Oxford First.” He thrust a certificate on her desk. “I won th
e Sainsbury's writing competition at school. That proves I can write.”
Julia took a deep breath. He was a likeable lad. Unless her touch for spotting talent was off beam, she sensed he could have that quirky spark, the indefinable something that separated born journalists from the rest of the population. But she travelled light, valued her space and couldn't carry another member of staff.
“I'm sorry,” she softened her voice. “I wish you every success in your search for work, but I can't help you. There's no vacancy, nor likely to be one.”
Cody wasn't ready to give up. “I could help you.”
He's tenacious, Julia had to give him that. Another tick in his favour.
“I've been working as a City messenger,” Cody continued. “Got contacts all over the Square Mile.”
“What makes you think I need help?” Julia was intrigued. There were times you could learn more from the post room than the Boardroom. She scratched her temple with her pen.
“The word among the messengers says there's an almighty storm coming,” Cody shifted on his feet. “Big guns will throw armies of manpower at the story. How will you compete here on your own?”
Ludgate's exact prediction. Julia stemmed an urge to wince.
“I don't expect to be writing straight away. Happy as a bag carrier.”
“Bring me a story,” she shot him a rapier glance. “If and when you do, I'll consider your proposition.”
Julia watched Cody's face freeze, as if in shock. Then it broke into a joyous smile, stretching wide across his young face.
“You won't regret this, I promise.” He beamed.
JULIA THOUGHT BACK on that promise much later, when agonising between regret and wondering what any of them could have done differently. When her phone rang that evening, as she put her key into the front door of her flat, none of them could have guessed what lay ahead.
“You’re going to be very pleased with me,” Cody’s voice chuckled at the other end. “Big shot fund manager's gone missing. Hedge fund boss, Stephen Chandler. Tower Gate. “
“Who says?”
She knew Stephen Chandler. Not well. She'd met him at various functions. His cheeky smile was topped with a wedge of unwieldy honey-coloured hair, refreshing among so much grey.
“One of my contacts. All very hush-hush. My pal had to deliver some confidential papers to the Boardroom. Caught a snatch of a conversation. Messengers are invisibles. They can't see us, so they think we can't see or hear them. Chandler had full afternoon of meetings and an important board this evening. Didn’t show. No one can reach him.”
“OK,” Julia looked at her watch. It was 9.45pm, too late to start chasing wild geese.
“Be in the office by eight. We'll take it from there.”
CHAPTER FOUR
Wednesday July 28
Southwark
JULIA LEFT her apartment at 6.30am the following morning and headed for Chandler's riverside penthouse in Butlers Wharf. She wanted to catch Stephen before he left for the office. She had always rather liked him. They first met at an industry drinks gathering in the Court Room, at Barber-Surgeons’ Hall, off London Wall. Wavy unstructured hair seemed at odds with his tailored suits, as did the sassy smile. She liked the way he made time for people, not a common trait among masters of the universe, running the money machine.
Disappeared? It seems extremely unlikely, she thought, heading for his flat. She needed to speak to him to find out what was going on. They shared a love of Southwark and its history, so Julia knew exactly where he lived. Half-way there, the heavens opened. A freak summer storm drenched pedestrians making their way to work in light summer clothes. By the time she approached his building, she was saturated. Rivers of dirty London rain streamed down her face.
It was a gated block. She waited a further ten minutes in the torrential downpour for one of the residents to open the gate and leave, so she could slip inside. Progress was hindered afresh by the Concierge, who blocked her at the entrance, demanding to know who she was and why she was trespassing?
“I don't think they're here,” he offered, when he heard she was looking for the Chandlers. “Didn't see Mr Chandler come in last night.” He picked up a telephone receiver and dialled the number, holding on for some time.
He replaced the handset. “Nope, no reply.” Julia's heart sank.
“Can I go up and try?” she asked, flashing what she hoped was a sweet smile, but doubting the jobsworth would agree.
Yet something like sympathy flickered in his eye, as the Concierge gazed at her saturated jacket dripping onto his parquet. “Go on then. Top floor. Tower Suite. Take the lift up and turn right.”
“Thank you,” Julia nodded, heading for the lift. Bet he’s only letting me up because he’s sure there’s no one there, and wants to mop the floor before anyone slips and breaks a leg, she chuckled to herself.
HE WAS WRONG. The door was opened by a woman with rich brown shoulder-length hair. She wore a sleeveless, tailored navy dress, cut fashionably above the knees, exuding chic sophistication.
“I'm sorry, I was expecting someone else,” her face fell when she saw Julia, but quickly recovered. Charm taught at the best girls’ schools can usually be relied upon.
“Julia Lighthorn,” she held out her hand and smiled warmly. “I'm an acquaintance of your husband. There’s something I want to discuss with him.”
“Isn't the office the place for meetings?” the wife was not going to make this easy.
“Probably. Has he already left?”
“Julia Lighthorn, you’re the journalist aren't you?” Rumbled at the first post, Julia thought. Nice though it is to be recognised, can be a damned nuisance.
“You’d better come in.” Mrs Chandler opened the door wider, before exclaiming, “You’re soaked. Take that off. Let me get you a towel.”
Julia handed over her drenched jacket. She never failed to be surprised at how kind people can be to strangers who arrive unannounced at their door. The elegant figure reappeared with a baby-soft, brilliant white towel, which she handed to Julia. Then she led her through a forty-foot reception room, past oceans of glass and out onto a terrace. Black clouds had lifted. Brilliant post-storm sun streamed in. A vast rainbow circling the Tower of London distorted the light. Tower Bridge was so close you could almost touch it.
Huckleberry Finn! The monthly repayments alone for this place, must run into tens of thousands, Julia thought as she looked down at a table set for two.
“Habit.”
“Setting for two?” Julia said, noticing only one cup and plate had been used.
“It's our wedding anniversary today. Ten years. Stephen would never go off like this, disappear without saying anything. Today of all days.”
Julia's pulse missed a beat.
“Mrs Chandler,” Julia began.
“I've never been Mrs Chandler. Rebecca Withers is a good name. I didn't see any reason to change it, when I married.”
“Ms Withers...”
“Rebecca.”
Julia smiled at the gesture of friendship.
“D’you want to tell me what’s happened?” she softened her voice.
“I don't know what’s happened. That's the honest truth. My husband didn’t come home last night,” she started to pour coffee, but her hand shook so she put the pot back on the table. “He went for a normal early morning run along the river yesterday and I haven’t seen him since.”
“Have you notified the police?” Julia picked up the pot and topped up the cups.
“Stephen's PR director, Geoff Cummings, advised against it. He's worried about scaring investors. He's hoping Stevie just needs a few days away on his own to clear his mind and he'll turn up again.”
“And you?”
Rebecca shook her head, her immaculately groomed brown eyebrows crumbling like splinters of rotting oak.
“Completely out of character,” she said. “It doesn't make sense. His phone’s dead. He doesn't have any clothes. His bank account, credit cards h
aven't been touched. Where is he? What's he living on?”
Her eyes followed a flock of swifts swooping down river on their way to the Kent marshes.
Cummings is an idiot, Julia couldn't help thinking. This poor woman is beside herself with worry.
She spoke softly. “Has he been preoccupied lately? Anything on his mind? Anything that worried him?”
“He said something strange the night before he disappeared. I didn't know what he meant. He said, if you gaze long enough into an abyss, the abyss will gaze back into you.”
“Nietzsche?” Julia recognised the quote.
Rebecca nodded before completing it. “Whoever fights monsters should not himself become a monster.”
“Stephen could never be a monster,” Julia reassured her. “And he's a very experienced manager, isn't he?”
“Oh yes, a bit of trouble with the fund wouldn't worry him.” She bit her lip. “That sounds trite. Of course it would worry him. But he would never lose his sense of perspective. There's more to life than money, he used to say. We can always start again.” They sipped their coffee in silence for a few moments.
“Why did you say you came?” Rebecca returned her gaze to Julia.
“I'll put my cards on the table,” Julia crossed her fingers hidden in her lap. “I picked up a whisper something was amiss. I wanted to speak to Stephen privately. Didn't want to embarrass him. Honestly? I couldn't believe it was true.”
“And now I've confirmed it you’ll write about it?”
“It's my job.” The phone rang. Julia wasn't sure she heard her reply. Rebecca left the room to answer it.
Julia cursed under her breath. I’d nearly won her confidence.
Rebecca was more distant when she returned, carrying Julia's jacket. “I'm afraid you have to go. The directors are on their way up. Coming mob-handed to shut me up. They’re desperate this doesn't leak.”
“Could be damaging,” Julia said.
“Not as damaging as doing nothing if he's lying hurt somewhere. All they're worried about is their blasted investments. I have to think of him,” she paused, thinking fast and hard. “I suppose publicity might help,” she said mainly to herself. Then she raised her glance and looked Julia straight in the eyes.”You decide whether to write the story. I'll leave it up to you.”
Take A Thousand Cuts Page 2
