The Shadow Dancers

by Angus McLean

  Moore nodded and sipped his coffee. The biscuit was gone but he wasn’t sure on the social etiquette of helping himself to another.

  ‘When did you last hear from her?’ he asked.

  ‘She posted on Facebook while she was in Istanbul, I saw that. I spoke to her last before she left, but I have to confess I didn’t actually know she was going over there.’ He shook his head, frustration etched on his face. ‘By Christ, if I’d known I would’ve said no. The place is in turmoil and the Russians of course have been bombing the blazes out of Syria next door. It’s too bloody dangerous over there for a young girl.’

  Moore was silent. The man seemed genuinely pained, and Moore wondered how he would have felt himself if it was he and Danni in their shoes. It was too horrible to contemplate.

  ‘Who did she go with?’ he asked instead.

  Paul Oldham shook his head. ‘I don’t know. As far as I know she went on her own, I asked her friends and nobody seemed to know.’

  ‘Do you have an itinerary or know where she was staying, what she was doing, anything like that?’

  Oldham shook his head again. ‘No.’

  ‘Has she been formally reported missing to the Police?’

  ‘No, good Lord no.’ Oldham was emphatic. ‘Can you imagine the media trolls with that?’

  Moore said nothing. He finished his coffee and put the cup down.

  ‘Do you have her address here? Any contact details for her friends?’

  ‘Of course. I’ll have Tristan email them to you. You’ll need to go over there, of course, and start looking for her.’ He slapped the back of one hand into the palm of his other, holding Moore’s eyes for emphasis. ‘We need to find my little girl, Rob. We need to get boots on the ground and start turning over rocks, get people talking to us. In my experience someone will know where she is, and they will talk to us…given the right approach. A robust approach.’ He slapped his hands together again, in case Moore hadn’t got the message that he was deadly serious. ‘We need to find her, and we need to bring her home.’

  Moore said nothing, just gave a slight nod. He’d noticed how common it was for white-collar workers, particularly politicians, to spout militaristic phrases in such situations. He blamed TV. Oldham sat back now, watching him.

  ‘Did you hear what I said, Rob?’ Oldham’s tone was sharp. ‘Or am I talking to myself?’

  ‘I heard you perfectly clearly, sir,’ Moore replied.

  Oldham pursed his lips and took a slow breath. He seemed to be struggling. ‘You don’t say much, do you?’ he said.

  Moore considered his answer. ‘I’m more about just doing it,’ he said carefully.

  ‘No need to talk about it,’ Oldham said.

  Moore gave a slight shrug. ‘Not usually.’

  Oldham was silent for a few moments, studying him. ‘What are you?’ he asked. ‘I presume you’re some kind of intelligence operator? A spy?’

  ‘I am.’

  Oldham nodded. ‘Have you done this sort of thing before? Found people?’

  ‘I have.’

  ‘And you’ve been to these sorts of places before? Hot spots and the like? You’ve…operated…in places like this before?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Oldham nodded again, absorbing the information. He paused, as if debating his next question. ‘Are you good?’ he asked. His tone was softer now; this was the father speaking, not the politician.

  Moore considered his answer. He knew the man wanted some kind of reassurance, an undertaking that he was going to go and find his daughter and everything would be just dandy and normal life-his kind of normal, anyway-would just resume. But he also needed to be honest.

  He met the Minister’s eyes. They were anxious, emotional.

  ‘I am,’ he said. Oldham’s eyes took on a gleam, a hopeful glimmer. Moore deliberately crushed it with his next words. ‘If she’s there, I’ve got every chance of finding her. But you need to be prepared for the worst.’ Oldham visibly flinched. ‘She may be dead.’

  Moore paused and let that sink in. He could see Oldham turning it all over in his head. His stomach would be churning, his heart slamming against his rib cage, his mind racing. Moore needed him to go through that storm of emotions and come out the other side. He didn’t want the Minister holding out false hope and then being floored when it all went tits up.

  ‘But if she’s there, I can find her. And if she can be brought home, I’ll bring her home.’ Oldham raised his eyes to Moore. They were moist. ‘That’s all I can promise.’

  The Minister slowly nodded, and Moore knew the message was starting to sink in. He stood and extended his hand. Oldham shook it and Moore gave him a plain business card with the High Commission’s details on it and a nondescript email address.

  He showed himself out.

  Tristan met him down by the front door. He was texting when Moore came down the stairs and looked up, his thumb a blur as it whipped across the screen. As the assistant dropped the phone into his pocket Moore noticed it had a customised case, silver with some kind of wing design on the back. He felt his lip begin to curl and fought it down. A phone was a tool, not a damn fashion accessory.

  Tristan held the door and followed Moore down the steps to the pebbled turning circle.

  ‘He’s very stressed,’ he said, his hands tucked into his pockets and a serious expression on his smooth face. ‘Very emotional.’

  Moore gave him a sideways look. ‘I managed to pick up on that.’ He went round to the driver’s door of the E-Type.

  ‘Poor Natalie,’ Tristan continued. If he was perturbed by Moore’s reply he didn’t show it. ‘I just hope to God she’s okay. She’s a real angel, you know?’ He shook his head and sucked his teeth, a picture of worry. ‘A real angel,’ he repeated.

  Moore jangled his keys to give him the hint, and Tristan looked up.

  ‘Thanks for coming out,’ he said. ‘Have a good drive back to wherever you’ve come from.’ He grinned widely, all traces of worry gone now. ‘I guess we don’t need to know where, do we? Nudge nudge, wink wink.’

  Moore bit his tongue. ‘Not really,’ he agreed.

  Tristan smiled knowingly. He nudged the closest tyre with his polished shoe. ‘See if the old beast’s got it in her for a good run.’

  Moore had opened the door and was starting to get in. He stopped and straightened up. He indicated the Ferrari with a toss of his chin. ‘That yours?’

  Tristan smiled smugly. ‘Sure is.’

  ‘Looks pretty. Slick.’

  Tristan nodded, unsure if Moore was complimenting him or testing him.

  ‘It’s great to be all flash and gash,’ Moore said. He tapped his fingers on the roof of the Jag. ‘But the old dog’s been there and done it, and still is.’ He flashed a wry grin at the younger man. ‘Catch ya later, Slick.’

  With that he got in and fired up the engine with a throaty roar. He checked the rear view mirror as he shifted into second down the drive.

  Tristan watched him leave.

  Chapter Six

  The email from Tristan came through within ten minutes of Moore leaving the house. He was nothing if not efficient.

  The address he gave was for a flat in Sutton.

  It was a commuter town situated in Surrey, south of London proper, with a direct train connection into Victoria. Moore had never had cause to go there before, and he found it like many similar commuter towns.

  The high street had the same shops, the same basic layout, and the same chavvy kids strutting round-the boys in shell suits to hide their lack of upper bodies, the girls in as little as possible, with tattoos, bling and push chairs all round.

  Moore followed his electronic directions to a residential street just a short walk from the town centre, and drove by the address for a recce. It was a bland two storey block of concrete flats, and Natalie Oldham’s flat was in the middle of the top floor.

  He parked the Mondeo down the road and sat for a while, observing the surroundings. It was a quiet street, the
houses close together and interspersed with blocks of flats. Not council housing by the looks of it-too well kept for that-but soulless regardless.

  Cars came and went, the odd jogger, a couple of dog walkers. One peroxided girl with her guts hanging over the top of her track pants, a fag in one hand and a mobile in the other, a snot-nosed kid with a rat’s tail running ahead of her while she talked at top volume into her phone.

  ‘Dante! Dante! Wait there!’ She waved her fag at the kid who was waiting patiently at the kerb. She turned her attention back to the phone as she waddled after him, past Moore’s car. ‘Fuck, little prick innit…got arseholes for ears, know what I mean?’

  Moore watched the little kid watching his mother. He looked about four years old and was clearly taking in every word she said. Moore’s left hand itched to snip the kid’s rat’s tail off. His right hand itched to smash the mother’s phone on the footpath while he shook some sense into her. Somehow, he thought, that would be a pointless exercise.

  Once they were out of sight he got out and walked back the way he had come. He first cut around the back of the flats, negotiating his way through a rickety side gate and past children’s toys and rubbish bins to check for a back fire escape.

  There was nothing.

  He retraced his steps and took the stairs to the second storey, noting that although a couple of the down below occupants seemed to be home, there was no sign of life upstairs. He passed the first couple of doors and stopped at the middle flat, number 8.

  The windows were closed and there was no sound from inside. There was no indication of an alarm. The longer Moore stood at the door without entering, the more likely he was to draw attention to himself. The door lock was a standard tumbler unit, nothing special. He withdrew a tool from his coat pocket and set to work quickly.

  The tool he used was an electric lock pick, similar to a small hand drill, and he fitted what he assessed to be the right sized pick where a drill bit would normally go. Slipping the pick into the key lock Moore triggered it and listened to the pins slide free, allowing him to turn the lock and open the door.

  Within seconds he was inside and shutting the door behind him. A quick scan revealed no alarm control pad or motion sensors. The door locked behind him. He put the lock pick away and took the measure of the flat. It was furnished by Ikea and thrift stores, with two medium sized bedrooms and an open plan lounge/dining area. The lounge had French doors out to a tiny balcony, barely big enough for a pair of deck chairs.

  Moore slipped on a pair of thin leather gloves he’d brought with him and got to work. He checked the wardrobes-all female clothes. The only sign of a bloke was a birthday card to “N” from “Jules,” signed off with multiple kisses.

  He presumed the N was Natalie, but there’d been no previous mention of a Jules. Another mystery to be solved.

  He carefully went through the bedside table, finding a partially used box of condoms in amongst the usual papers and junk people tended to hide away in their drawers. The papers were mostly general correspondence from the tax department, employment agencies, prospective employers and letting agents-all the usual things for a youngster on their OE. The important thing was that they identified the room as Natalie Oldham’s.

  Moore checked under the drawers but found nothing. The dresser held basic clothes, trinkets and a few photos. The photos were all either selfies of Natalie in various places, or group shots. There was no single recurring face to identify the mysterious Jules.

  He moved back to the wardrobe and went through the pockets of the clothes there. Nothing. The boxes and bags on the floor and the top shelf gave the same result.

  Moore stepped back from the wardrobe and took stock. Despite the fact that Natalie was travelling and therefore would have taken some of her belongings with her, he found the lack of personal belongings unusual. The biggest gap was electronic gear. No thumb drives, memory cards or accessories for devices. He guessed she would have taken her phone and camera with her, but he’d expected to find a laptop or tablet at home. The only thing he found was a power cable that appeared to be for a laptop, but no sign of the device it belonged to.

  He pushed the thought aside for now and moved to the next bedroom. It had twin single beds and an initial search revealed belongings for two other girls.

  Judging by the clothes one was slim and sporty, the other bigger and frumpier. There was documentation for a Shelley Parker in a drawer. He photographed it on his phone for later reference.

  He moved from there to the living area. A large comfortable couch and a couple of armchairs, all of which had seen better days. A TV and stereo in the entertainment unit which dominated one wall. He had just opened the cabinet on the entertainment unit when he caught a flicker of movement through the kitchen window as a figure passed by.

  Moore straightened up and paused, hearing a key in the lock.

  Chapter Seven

  Moore darted to the French doors and let himself out, quietly shutting the door behind him.

  There was a narrow lip of wall on either side between the frame of the French doors and the balcony railing, hopefully enough to hide him from the view of whoever had arrived. He pressed himself against the wall and held the door closed with his foot. With any luck whoever had arrived home would not notice the French doors were unlatched, nor would they come out onto the balcony.

  Moore glanced around, checking the neighbouring properties for prying eyes. A nosy neighbour was all he needed right now. Being arrested for burglary would be kind of hard to explain.

  He could hear movement inside the flat, and risked a peek around the edge. He saw a figure moving from the lounge into the hallway to the bedrooms. He pulled his head back again and waited. A few seconds later he heard a door bang shut.

  Moore stayed where he was until he was satisfied the flat was empty. He ducked back inside, secured the French door behind him and hurried to the front door. He could hear footsteps descending the stairs that he himself had used a short time ago.

  He waited and in a moment saw a young guy emerge onto the footpath, pause and check his phone, then turn right and disappear from sight. Moore shut the flat door behind him and hurried down the stairs to the roadside. The young guy was ahead of him, digging keys from his pocket. He headed towards a dusty red Peugeot hatchback that had seen better days and Moore went in the other direction towards the Mondeo, reaching it as the red Peugeot approached.

  Moore threw a quick look at the driver as the car went past. He was tall and lanky, with long dark hair and a pale complexion. He had the look of a backpacker or a student, and appeared to be oblivious to Moore’s presence.

  Seconds later Moore was tagged in behind the Peugeot, heading northwest on the A217. He let a couple of cars get between them and sat back, curious to see where the target would take him. Instinct told him this was the mysterious Jules, the giver of birthday cards.

  Within a few minutes the red Peugeot indicated left and turned off onto a side street, threading its way through a residential area before pulling into the driveway of a block of flats.

  Moore cruised past and found himself a park further up. He doubled back and went up the driveway of the flats. It was smaller but uglier than the block where Natalie lived, just six flats in two storeys.

  He saw the red Peugeot was the only car in the tight parking area at the back of the block. He turned his attention to the flats themselves. There were no open doors or windows, no signs of life in any of them.

  He went to the back door of the first one and listened for a moment. Nothing. The second one was the same. He reached the third flat on the ground floor, shadowed by a tall hedge badly in need of a trim. A kettle was starting to boil inside.

  Moore knocked at the door, a sharp authoritative rap. A second later the door opened and the lanky, long haired young man faced him. He looked sullen and suspicious at the same time.

  ‘Jules?’

  ‘Yeah?’

  Moore smiled inwardly. He was on the right
track. ‘My name’s Rick. I work for the New Zealand embassy. I need to speak to you about Natalie.’

  Jules’ eyes narrowed. ‘Why? I already spoke to you people.’

  ‘I know, but I have some further questions, okay? It won’t take too long.’

  He started to step forward and Jules moved to close the door.

  ‘I’m busy,’ the young guy said sullenly, ‘now’s not a good time, man. I’ve had enough of talking about Natalie. Just leave me alone.’

  Moore put a hand on the door and spoke quietly but firmly. ‘Sorry Jules, but I’m also busy. We’re very concerned about Natalie, and I think you can help me.’ He held the sullen gaze. ‘Mate, this could be very serious. I think you’d like to do the right thing, wouldn’t you.’

  There was silence for a few seconds while Jules mulled this over. Finally he relented and stepped back.

  ‘Whatever, man.’ He gave a heavy sigh and let Moore in.

  The flat was small and untidy, with no feminine touches to indicate a female occupant. Not that Jules himself was exactly the essence of masculinity. He seemed to fancy himself as some sort of Bohemian, with a large Che Guevera picture on the wall, a number of ethnic trinkets, and a tatty cane swing seat hanging in the corner decorated with colourful cushions.

  As Moore took a seat on the sofa-covered, of course, by a multi coloured throw-he noticed an oil painting on the opposite wall. It was a frontal nude of a young woman, sitting cross legged in a tatty cane swing seat, her hands clasping her knee and an enticing smirk on her face. She was small breasted and had long wavy blonde hair.

  There was no mistaking it was Natalie Oldham, and had clearly been done in this very flat. The colours were sharp but the artwork itself was somewhat amateurish.

  He shifted his gaze to Jules, who was looking serious.

  ‘I don’t suppose she sent a copy to her parents,’ Moore said, and Jules frowned.

  ‘I don’t think that would have been appropriate,’ he said sourly, plonking down into the lone armchair. ‘So what d’you want to know that I haven’t already told your colleagues?’ He narrowed his eyes. ‘And if you don’t mind me saying, you don’t look like a foreign service type. You look more like…I dunno, a cop maybe.’