Or maybe I’d been so consumed in fear lately that it took more to rattle me than a purposely ominous greeting at the back door to a hell.
“A little light, please?” I said.
“Of course,” came a voice from deep within the darkness.
A softly glowing light flicked on, showcasing a small table and lamp, with a red velvet covered chair to the side. A man sat in it. Late thirties, or a well maintained early forties. Dark hair, firm jawline, long legs crossed at the knees, superbly tailored suit open and displaying trim hips, a thick chest, and expensive silk shirt and tie. The tie was loose, the collar undone, dark hair peeked out at the hollow of his neck. Shadows made any more facial features harder to discern, but the overall image was one of indulgence.
He reeked of sexual prowess.
Jones cleared his throat.
“Detectives Jones and Keen. Auckland CIB,” he announced. “You might have seen us across the road.”
“Across the road,” the gentleman repeated. “I have not seen anything of across the road.”
He spoke with an accent I recognised. I took a step closer to the threshold and the darkness beyond. Head tilted, eyes narrowed, a gut clenching foreknowledge settling its claws in and leaving deep grooves behind.
“Detective Lara Keen,” the man said, voice soft and familiar. “How long has it been since you last came home?”
Jones turned his head, body still facing forward, hand still resting by his gun, and looked at me.
“Trevor Jones,” I said, somehow keeping the reluctance I felt from my voice. I flicked a hand out towards the man still reigning supreme on his velvet chair, more like a king than Jones could ever be. “Kyan Marcroft. My neighbour while I was growing up.”
Silence for a beat. No cop likes having a connection to anything that might involve a crime.
The law is there to protect us, Lara-Marie. Stay on the right side of it, and it will always be your guiding light. Cross it, and it becomes a laser beam.
I’d spent more time across that divide recently than I cared to acknowledge. Having my father’s words reverberating inside my head the moment I walk back out into the guiding light was not at all welcome.
Having a connection to Sweet Hell felt just as gut-twistingly bad.
The look in my old neighbour’s eyes when he stepped forward spoke volumes. His words had told me even more.
Although the Marcrofts had shifted to much greener pastures than my father’s somewhat modest house in Redoubt Road, they’d clearly remained in contact with him.
Otherwise, Kyan wouldn’t have known I’d not been home for six long years.
Chapter Three
“Keep pushing and pushing and pushing, Sport. But the moment you hear them snap back, shut the fuck up and watch them unravel.”
“There’s been a murder,” I announced, not exactly with the finesse of a seasoned detective, but both men had remained silent too long, forcing my hand.
“Across the street?” Marcroft offered, amusement at my discomfort apparent on his too cool facade.
But his indifference, to a dead person no more than twenty metres away, was what really set the alarm bells clanging inside my mind.
“Yes. Right across the road from Sweet Hell’s front doors.”
“And you’d like to know if anyone saw anything?”
Too smooth. Too peremptory.
“Did you?” I asked.
“No.”
Jones shifted on his feet, finally coming to my aid and asked, “Are you the owner here, Mr Marcroft?”
“Part owner. It’s a family business.”
“Were you here between four and six this mornin’?” Jones added.
“Yes. Why do you ask?”
“It would help in our investigation,” I provided, stepping in with the whole cohesive concerned-cop/professional-cop front we’d been going for, “to have access to any security camera footage you may have for that time. Or any staff who would have been working near the front door.”
“Of course,” Marcroft replied. “Anything to help our boys in blue.” He chuckled, flicked eyes over my clearly not boyish frame and then waved us inside. “You’ll have to excuse the route we take. There are still members inside the venue that have paid good money not to have their identities disclosed to the general public.”
“We’re not the general public,” Jones countered.
“Ah but, Detective, you are not a member either.”
I raised my eyebrows at Trevor, who rolled his in reply behind Marcroft’s back.
“You had an open night, last night, I believe,” I said, taking in the hidden access Marcroft led us through and the barren, perfunctory, thin hallway he took us down. There were no windows, showing what had to be the club proper on the other side of the plainly painted walls. No plush carpet or decor to soften the harsh glow of the overhead lights. This was purely for staff only. And the fact Sweet Hell had it at all made me wonder just who made up the members of this esteemed establishment.
“Yes, quite a novelty, I assure you,” Marcroft replied, throwing a charming smile over his shoulder at me. Mine was not quite as practised in return. “All sorts attended. We were quite inundated.”
“How many bouncers on the front door?” Jones asked.
“We ran a security team of twelve last night. Two on the doors at any one time.”
“Are they still here?” I asked.
“Some have left already. We are closed,” he reminded us.
“But you still have members attending?” I pressed.
“We are not so inclined to rush them from the building.”
He paused in front of a closed white door. There was no label to identify it, and it was the first door we’d come to. If I’d had any hope of seeing further inside the building I was now quite sure our access would be limited to only this far.
Marcroft’s words confirmed that notion when he next spoke.
“If you would wait here, Detectives, I’ll check to make sure none of our private areas are on display before you enter.”
“This is your security room?” Jones queried.
“One of them.” Then Marcroft turned on his heel and swiped a card against a security pad to the side, pushing the door open when it clicked.
The door was shut behind him before we could even glance in the room.
“Why no guards at the back door?” Jones mused.
“Why have the owner meet us and not one of their security team?” I added.
We both fell silent. Whether for Jones because he felt like me, that there were possibly ears in the walls, or simply because he had nothing else to say, I couldn’t tell. But silence is often the better course of action and he matched me echoing breath to echoing breath, standing perfectly still.
He was a detective I could work with easily, I decided. Already we’d established a joint approach in firing the questions, and I had a feeling he was on the same page as me. Something felt off about Sweet Hell. Initially, I’d put it down to my tenuous connection to Kyan Marcroft and the surprise in meeting him after such a long time right here. But now I was finding my feet again, slipping into a tag-team detective work-up, I wasn’t so sure.
My gut was telling me this clandestine hallway and careful protection of their members was overkill.
The door clicked open and Marcroft motioned us inside a brightly lit room. Banks of monitors lined one whole wall, two black suited men, large framed, intimidating stares, earpieces in situ, and no doubt weapons of some description hidden under their fine suits, sat in front of the screens. Other than a quick once over, their riveted attention returned to the footage playing.
“Do these show all of your camera angles out onto Karangahape Road?” Jones asked.
“Yes.”
“And inside?” my gut had me ask.
“We’ve diverted sensitive view angles to our second security room for now.”
“To protect your members?” I pushed.
“Of course
. They pay us well.”
“Well enough to cover for them?” Jones asked. A stillness settled on the air.
“Just what are you implying, Detective?” Marcroft enquired, his tone pleasant, his calculating eyes anything but.
The security guards became statues. Their hands visible, resting on the bench beside their keyboards, but had they been otherwise, I think I might have pulled my gun. So threatening their stillness seemed.
“No one is implying anything, Mr Marcroft,” I announced, receiving a raised eyebrow from him for the use of such formal language. “We’re just getting a feel for you, that’s all.”
“And do you always do this so overtly?” he queried.
“I find transparency often a worthwhile approach,” I lied, stepping toward one of the screens and pointing to it over the shoulder of the rock-like guard. “This one. Can you show us from about four-fifteen this morning onward?”
The guard flicked his eyes to Marcroft, who nodded in return. Well trained.
It took only a moment to know the video footage had been tampered with. The others running on various screens to the side were crystal clear, HD quality. This one, however, was blurred to such a degree that although shapes were identifiable, such as the sign for The Whiskey Lounge above the street, features were not. Such as the face of the man making out with the woman up against the glass frontage of the nightclub where she was later found dead.
It was her. I could tell from the slinky black dress she wore and the cherry red shoes on her feet. It was her, even though I couldn’t see her made-up face, nor tell the colour of her eyes when she opened them and looked directly across the street.
“Can you make this clearer?” Jones asked, leaning forward with me.
“I don’t understand why it’s not,” Marcroft murmured, pushing a guard out of the way and starting to play with switches and dials beneath the screens.
“That camera’s been playing up for a while, sir,” one of the security men said. “We’ve had to have it fixed three times now.”
“How long?” I asked.
“How long what?” the guard replied.
“How long has it been playing up?”
He looked to Marcroft.
“It’s a simple question,” I pressed.
“How long?” Marcroft finally repeated.
“Three weeks.”
“When did it last work clearly?” Jones asked. He was definitely on the same page as me.
The guards shared a look. Purely clueless rather than nefarious in nature.
“Yesterday?” one of them said.
“Yeah, I’m sure it worked yesterday afternoon,” the other agreed.
Marcroft stood up slowly from his lean above the keyboard and took a step back.
“I apologise, Detectives. But it appears we are no help to your investigation.”
“If we could speak with the bouncers who were on the door durin’ that time?” Jones asked.
“I’m afraid they have all gone home for the day. Perhaps this evening?”
“Are we able to have a copy of that footage, please?” I asked, not giving him time to further thwart us.
“That won’t be possible,” Marcroft offered smoothly. “We cannot allow recordings to leave the premises. For the privacy…”
“Of your members,” I finished for him.
He nodded. “Besides, as you saw, the video is hardly conclusive.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Jones added in a semi-drawl. “It’s remarkable what can be done with digital images now days.”
Like me, Jones was watching Marcroft like a hawk. But the smooth operator’s reaction was well practised.
“Then I suggest you obtain a warrant for it, Detectives.”
And that marked the end of his cooperation, it seemed.
“Thank you for your time, Mr Marcroft,” I said. He smiled. It could have been natural. But considering the turn the conversation had just taken, I was thinking it was another of those go-to charming smiles the man seemed to be able to pull out of a hat. I couldn’t remember if he’d had that ability when he was younger. “We’ll return this evening,” I added.
His smile dropped.
“For the bouncers’ statements,” I explained.
“Ah, yes. Very good. I’ll have them ready for your questions by then.” Indeed.
He headed to the door and pressed a button to unlock it, then held it open for us to walk through. The guards didn’t once turn away from the screens.
We walked in silence down the utilitarian hallway. No one said a word as we came out into the dark vestibule with the velvet chair and small side table. The locks disengaging on the door echoed in the stillness of the room.
“Do you play music here?” I asked. Jones didn’t bat an eyelash, but the unexpectedness of my question jolted Marcroft.
“Music?”
“I can’t hear anything,” I added as explanation.
“Oh. Yes, we have excellent soundproofing.”
“And excellent security,” I offered with my version of a charming smile.
“Yes,” Marcroft said much slower, wariness flitting across his blue eyes and then vanishing. Replaced with cool indifference.
I remembered those eyes from my childhood. Just like I remembered his accent. But this was not the Kyan Marcroft I remembered living next door to my home while growing up. This man was hiding something. Whether it was his members’ secrets or secrets of another kind, I didn’t yet know. But Sweet Hell had just made it onto the suspects’ list.
“Thank you for your time, Mr Marcroft,” I repeated, holding out my hand to shake.
He relaxed into the familiar gesture, grasping my hand and shaking enthusiastically back.
His palm was dry. I was momentarily surprised. Everything told me Marcroft was walking on a high wire right now. He should have been exhibiting more signs of stress.
“Please, Lara. You can call me Kyan,” he said with that smile I was beginning to dislike. “After all, we did date once upon a time.”
Jones didn’t move a muscle, but I knew he hadn’t missed the precise timing of that little snippet.
I let out a small purposeful laugh. “I think the correct phrasing is, we went on a date, once. Singular.”
“Not for want of my trying,” he quipped, turning his attention to Jones and offering a hand. “Detective.”
“Mr Marcroft.”
In silence, again, we both turned away, taking one last look at the expensive cars behind the chain-link fence and the pretentious topiary trees around the back entrance; it wasn’t until we’d rounded the corner of the building that we heard the back door clicking closed. I glanced up and tried to locate the security cameras along the roof-line of the two storey building, there’d been one filming from this angle. But if it was there, it was beyond discreet.
“Can’t see ‘em, either,” Jones murmured, eyes on the still tented scene across the street.
By some silent agreement we came to stop in front of Sweet Hell. Not moving to cross K Road just yet. We were being watched, I’d stake my badge on it. We were being watched and recorded in crystal clear high resolution clarity.
Neither of us said a word. But when a few minutes had passed of us staring disinterestingly around the frontage of the club, along the building’s facade and those on either side, and then across the street, we started walking toward Pierce and Cawfield. Who had watched our show with mild intrigue and astute understanding.
Pierce held my gaze as we approached.
“Well?” he said. “Here or back at CIB?”
The invitation had been delivered. Hart had approved me coming back to base.
“CIB,” Jones replied, unaware of the deeper meaning of Pierce’s words. “This place gives me the creeps,” he added, looking toward the tent, but only shuddering when his eyes darted back across the street.
“All right, then,” Pierce announced. “Let’s head there now.”
I waited until Pierce and Jones had t
urned and walked far enough away before I spoke.
“What do you know about Sweet Hell?” I kept my voice soft, only loud enough for Cawfield to hear.
He let out an amused chuckle.
“Thinking of joining, Keen?”
“It’s gentlemen only, isn’t it?”
He shook his head. “Like most things in life,” he said, voice lowered to match the volume of mine, “appearances can be deceiving.”
“What the hell does that mean?”
“Ever wondered how you got into CIB so easily?”
I lifted my eyes, from where they had been staring blindly at the forensics team, to his face. He looked like he was having way too much fun.
Bastard.
I didn’t say a word, just held his stare with an impassive one of my own.
“Well,” he drawled, “let’s just say your name would get you in there, as well.” He nodded towards Sweet Hell. “Just saying.” And then sauntered away, hands in jeans pockets, whistling a fucking tune.
My personal hatred of Joe Cawfield ballooned. A bomb threatening to go off inside. I tamped it down with bitter determination.
Keep pushing and pushing and pushing, Sport. But the moment you hear them snap back, shut the fuck up and watch them unravel.
I just hoped Cawfield was close to unravelling, because it was getting harder and harder not to snap back.
I ran a hand over my face and contemplated my next move. Jones was an unlikely CIB traitor. Cawfield still stood in the spotlight for that one, but why? What would he gain by helping hide connections to Auckland’s premier drug lord? Money to buy bigger name-brand sunglasses?
I shook my head and turned towards where I’d parked my car.
Sweet Hell beckoned over my right shoulder. The dead woman called out from the other side of the spiritual realm. I stopped in my tracks and stared at the pavement for a moment, running that thought through to completion. The position the murderer placed the body in meant something. The situation as well. Mechanism and location.
Placed on a cross. Crucified. Opposite an establishment that referred to itself as the nine circles of Hell.
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