The Seventh Star (The King's Watch Book 7)

by Mark Hayden

‘Totally. Nothing unusual at all.’

  ‘Did you have to refuse anyone admission or throw anyone out that night?’

  ‘No one. I …’

  He was cut short when the rest room door opened and a woman came in. Moss was about to tell her to go away until he recognised her. He frowned and said, ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘I heard you were having the coppers in,’ she said, and without waiting for further invitation, she sat down on the fourth side of the table, between Tom and Moss and opposite Elaine. Having the coppers in. The woman made it sound like the club was having the decorators in.

  When Moss said nothing, Tom turned to her. ‘And you are…?’

  ‘Jaycee the MC. That’s spelt “JC”.’

  She was in her forties, with a lined face and rough skin. She was heavy in the shoulders and thick in the thighs. The loose trousers and sweatshirt were made of heavy fabric and did nothing for her, neither did the short, gelled hair.

  Moss didn’t move. He didn’t confront JC, nor did he turn away. It was as if he were totally indifferent to her presence. In the hierarchy of the Fairy Gardens, they looked as if they ranked equally.

  ‘Go on,’ said Tom to Moss. ‘You had a quiet night?’

  Moss shifted some of his weight in the chair, and the chair complained loudly. ‘It wasn’t quiet. It was very busy. No one misbehaved, though.’

  ‘And what time did the Count leave?’

  ‘Ms Klass finished her last set at midnight. I knew the Count was going out, so I went down to see him. He likes to take some cash to the Well, so I gave him some and checked everything was okay.’

  ‘How much?’

  ‘Four grand.’

  Elaine looked up from her tablet, and Tom let her ask the question. ‘Four thousand pounds cash? That wasn’t in your statement.’

  Moss glanced at her, then looked back at Tom. ‘I was in a hurry. I stuck to the basics.’

  ‘Was that usual?’ said Tom.

  ‘I said. Yes.’

  Suddenly they had a big motive for something to go very wrong. Something that had nothing to do with turf wars or power struggles. Tom moved on. ‘What were the Count and Fae Klass wearing?’

  ‘The Count was wearing his dinner suit. He always wore it to work. I can’t remember what Ms Klass was wearing. Oh yes I can. It was cold, so the Count put his cloak on her.’

  ‘I can show you,’ said JC. She pulled a phone out of her pocket and stood up, peering down at Elaine’s tablet. ‘Have you got your Bluetooth on? I’ll Airdrop the pictures.’

  Elaine tapped for a few seconds. JC tapped twice and there was a tang noise. Tom leaned over and looked at the pictures.

  There were three of them. As soon as the first picture loaded, Elaine let out an involuntary Mmm, so quiet only Tom heard it. The Count was heart-stoppingly handsome in his snugly fitting dinner jacket and immaculate white shirt. He was tall, muscular and (unlike Wayne Moss) perfectly in proportion, with a brilliant smile that caught the lights outside the Fairy Gardens. He was posing next to a billboard that advertised the special guest for their Christmas extravaganza.

  ‘What on earth is this man doing running a nightclub and not starring as the next James Bond?’ said Tom.

  He looked to JC for an answer, but it was Moss who spoke up. ‘The world isn’t ready for a promiscuously gay James Bond. And he couldn’t act. He was born to play one part, so he played it.’

  ‘He was good,’ added JC a little wistfully. ‘I put the second one in because he’s wearing the cloak.’

  Elaine swiped the screen. ‘Less James Bond, more Count Dracula,’ she said.

  She was right. It was the same dinner suit (or its twin), coupled with a jet black cape lined with red silk. She flicked on and Tom did a double-take. Two people stood next to each other, and you had to look hard to see that the one on the right was JC the MC.

  She, too, was in a man’s dinner suit, and with makeup and slicked back hair you couldn’t work out whether she was a man pretending to be a woman or vice versa. The same could not be said of the figure next to her. If you looked at the jawline, and only the jawline, you were looking at a man; every other inch said woman. ‘This was taken on the night they disappeared?’

  ‘Yes,’ said JC. ‘Just before her last set. She always wore red for the last set.’

  Tom looked at his notepad. ‘What can you tell me about Fae Klass?’

  He looked up and caught Moss and JC sharing a look, and it was the woman who looked down first.

  Moss cleared his throat. ‘The Count found her about six months ago. Picked her up at some low rent bar in Blackpool. Brought her here and polished her up. Changed her name and moved her in with him.’

  ‘And after a few weeks, she was top of the bill,’ added JC. ‘The punters loved her. She sang, she danced, she worked the room.’ This was delivered with professional respect, and then her tone changed to one of disdain. ‘The only thing she couldn’t do was patter. He scripted that for her.’

  ‘And before?’ said Tom. ‘Her given name, for example? Her friends and family?’

  ‘When you moved in with the Count, you left everything else at the door,’ said Moss.

  Tom looked at JC, who gave a slight nod to confirm it. ‘Talking of left behind, we’ll need access to the Count’s flat. Who has the key?’

  ‘It’s been emptied,’ said Moss.

  ‘Just like that?’

  ‘He’s gone.’ Moss frowned. ‘There was nothing in there for you. You can have a root through Ms Klass’s things if you want. I’ve put them in storage. And you can have this.’

  He took a brand new iPhone out of his pocket and slid it over the table. ‘The Count didn’t have a phone. Ms Klass had one, but it’s disappeared. I got a replacement with her number, but all the data is backed up and we couldn’t hack her account. I did get a printout of the calls and called them all. They were all businesses. Nothing personal.’

  ‘The Count didn’t have a phone? Really?’ That was Elaine. ‘So how did he make a distress call?’

  JC grinned. It was the predatory grin of the shark. ‘Yes, Wayne, how did he call you and the Management? I’d love to know.’

  For the first time, Moss was at a loss for words. He blinked twice and said, ‘I don’t know. It came up on my phone as an Unknown Number.’ He spoke with the robotic cadence of a man who doesn’t normally need to lie, not even to the police: the only record of Wayne Moss on the system was a registration and licence with the Security Industry Authority. He had never been arrested, questioned or even given a witness statement. Unheard of.

  Tom took the phone and checked that there was no lock on it before passing it to Elaine. There was a polite knock on the door, and Moss shouted, ‘Yes? We’re busy.’

  The door opened and Tom caught a glimpse of a scared young woman before Conrad Clarke moved in front of her and came in. He turned and said over his shoulder, ‘Thanks, Stacey. I don’t know how long we’ll be. And don’t give in to temptation and feed him.’

  JC the MC looked up with curiosity at the newcomer; the impact on Moss was altogether different. He stood up and bowed to Clarke before saying, ‘Welcome in peace, Lord Guardian.’

  Lord Guardian? What’s that all about, thought Tom.

  Clarke bowed in return. ‘In peace, thank you, Saerdam, and it’s Wing Commander Clarke.’ He looked at the room and saw a chair in the corner. He moved towards it and said to Tom, ‘Forgive me, DCI Morton. Scout took a while to settle.’

  Moss waited until Clarke was seated before sitting down himself and turning back to the table. JC was still twisted round, observing Clarke through narrowed eyes. Clarke flashed her a smile and sat back, trying and failing to make himself less visible.

  ‘Going back to the Friday night,’ said Tom. ‘Where were they going?’

  Moss looked over Tom’s shoulder. Even Clarke’s dog could have told that he was about to be lied to. Big time.

  ‘The Well of Desire was a private member’s club started
by the Count as a separate business. It met in the upstairs rooms at the Earl of Moir pub after normal licensing hours. Because all of the details were kept in the Count’s notebook, the club has been closed. I had no part of that operation.’

  Elaine snorted her disbelief and looked at Tom with raised eyebrows. JC had the biggest smirk on her face, and Clarke gave a shrug that said he had nothing to add to the mystery of the Well. Another thing they could leave until later.

  ‘Two more things from me,’ said Tom. ‘First, do you have any idea of the route they would have taken?’

  Moss shook his head. ‘There’s about ten different ways to get there from here. I followed them all, but I couldn’t see any evidence.’

  Elaine looked up from her tablet and spoke to JC. ‘Did Fae change her shoes, do you know?’

  ‘What? No, she didn’t.’

  Elaine grinned. ‘Then which way has the fewest cobbles? You’d break an ankle if you fell over in those.’

  JC laughed. ‘Good point. It’s longer if you go by the canal, but every other route has to go over a cobbled street and down some dark alleys.’

  Moss jerked a small nod to confirm what she’d said. ‘Yeah.’

  Tom picked up his pen for the first time and said, ‘Who would want to hurt the Count?’

  Moss flicked his eyes to the left. ‘We’ve provided a list to Wing Commander Clarke. He has all the details.’

  Tom couldn’t resist it. ‘I’m sure he does. It wouldn’t be the first time.’ He made a show of closing his notebook and said, ‘Do you have anything to add?’

  To Tom’s surprise, they did: a flashdrive appeared from Moss’s pocket. ‘CCTV for the night in question,’ he said. ‘We have two cameras covering the outside front and another one on the lobby. Then there’s two on the bar, but they’re more for staff protection than anything else. We also have a camera in the bar cellar, but that’s on a motion sensor. I haven’t included it.’

  ‘Thank you.’ He looked right round the room. ‘Anyone else?’

  Elaine, Moss and JC shook their heads. Clarke stood up and rubbed the leg that had been shattered in Afghanistan. It looked to be giving him as much pain as it had the last time they’d met. Clarke grimaced, straightened up and said, ‘Perhaps JC could show us out through the club, and I can collect Scout. It’ll save him going off the deep end again.’

  Moss gave Clarke a frown. ‘Where did you get a dog like that? Don’t tell me you trained him.’

  Clarke gave a grim smile. ‘You could say it’s a familiar story.’

  Moss’s eyebrows showed something approaching emotion by shooting up. ‘Is that so? Then I’m sorry for your loss.’

  Tom’s mouth opened and closed. He had the feeling that the men had just switched to a parallel universe where words sounded the same but had entirely different meanings.

  The corridor ran along the back of the building, with staff toilets, a closed door marked Dressing Room and then steps up to a stage. They passed those and went through a door that led behind the bar.

  The club’s lighting was switched off, with only the bar’s spotlights showing the way. Beyond the stainless steel counter, the club disappeared into darkness. A dim glow from the backstage exit showed a decent sized thrust stage and a few of the tables. The whole place smelled of rotten fruit, presumably from cocktail adornments dropped and ground into the carpet. Before Tom could look any further, they were through the club and into the foyer.

  The smell of rotten fruit was replaced by bleach from the open doors to the customer toilets and just a hint of wet dog. It looked like Elaine was right.

  ‘Arff,’ said Clarke’s dog with a wag of its tail. The collie’s owner bent down and gave it a rub.

  The girl who’d shown Clarke into the rest room appeared from the ladies, a giant pair of yellow Marigolds on her hands that only emphasised how slight and how pale she was. Her shape said late teens; the lines around her eyes told a different story.

  ‘Thanks again, Stacey,’ said Clarke with a nod.

  The young woman flashed a nervous smile and said, ‘I’ll get the doors.’ She bent down and stroked the dog. ‘Bye, Scout.’ Then she unlocked the heavy security doors and pushed them open to a flood of grey daylight and rain. It felt very good to be outside.

  Clarke checked the wind and lit a cigarette. He was far enough away that any objection would be seen as point-scoring, so Tom just said, ‘I don’t know about you, but I’m starving. Any recommendations, Elaine?’

  She looked at Scout the dog and said, ‘There’s a place along Canal Street that has outdoor seating with patio heaters. We could go there.’

  ‘If you wouldn’t mind,’ said Clarke.

  Tom pointed at his hand. ‘No smoking.’

  Clarke made a surrender gesture. ‘Lead the way.’

  Tom went first on the narrow pavement, and heard Elaine say, ‘You’re a fast worker, Conrad. You had that cleaner dog-sitting for you in less than five minutes.’

  ‘She’s a … friend of Mina’s. She only started on Monday. A favour from Tara Doyle.’

  ‘Friend, eh? What was she inside for?’

  ‘Was it that obvious? She was very good to Mina, and she’s not just a cleaner. Junior housekeeping.’

  Tom stopped and turned round. ‘What are you playing at? Are you putting her in there as a spy for Tara? For you? Are you mad?’

  ‘None of the above,’ said Clarke. ‘She’s there because she needs a job with an employer who knows what she did but doesn’t care. She’s safer there than anywhere else.’

  Tom hadn’t planned to have this conversation on the pavement. Now he’d started, he might as well get it out of the way before they sat down for lunch. ‘And what’s with this Lord Guardian business?’

  ‘Aah. Yes. There’s a group of ex-servicemen with connections to Special Forces. Because I flew them in and out, they gave me the honorary title of Guardian.’

  ‘What did you call him? Surdam?’

  ‘Saerdam. It’s a Pashtun word.’

  Elaine touched his shoulder. He was doing it again: rubbing the scar tissue on his left arm, and this time Clarke had definitely clocked him doing it. Damn. That man just got under his skin. Literally, it seemed.

  ‘It’s just here,’ said Elaine, drawing his attention to the bar café. ‘I’ll nip in and see if they’re serving food outside.’

  ‘Put it on a tab for me,’ said Clarke, handing over a credit card. ‘I’ll text you the PIN. Are we on duty this afternoon, or shall we split a bottle of something?’

  Tom’s hackles rose. ‘Yes, I am on duty, and sharing a bottle of wine in the rain is not something I planned on when I got out of bed at the crack of dawn.’

  Elaine almost snatched the card out of Clarke’s hand and bounded up the steps. Like the rain, Tom’s aggression ran down Clarke’s waterproof coat without leaving a trace. Clarke chose a table with a big umbrella and took the seat with least protection from the elements. When he’d tied up the dog, he said, ‘Where are you living now, Tom? I got the impression from Ruth Kaplan that you’ve had cases all over the north of England.’

  It was wet, none too warm, and today had been a very frustrating day for many reasons. Tom tried to summon the energy to take it out on Clarke. Because he was there. Because it was his bloody genial obfuscation that was making this “case” such a murky pit of tangled snakes. And then Clarke’s dog lay down and rested his head on his master’s boot, and Tom knew that the real reason he was frustrated was not Clarke, or MI7, or Mina Desai worming her way into Lucy’s good books: it was being beholden to Leonie, the Deputy Director of Tom’s branch of professional standards.

  He let out a huge sigh. ‘I’m living out of a suitcase, mostly. Lucy has a flat over Caffè Milano Number One, but it’s tiny. Sometimes I stay at the Cloister in York – that’s home, by the way. And there are a lot of hotels.’

  Clarke nodded. ‘That bad, is it?’

  Tom laughed. ‘And the rest.’ He leaned forward. ‘Can you give me s
ome clue, any clue about what’s going on here?’

  Clarke leaned down to stroke the dog and move its head off his boot. He crossed his legs and looked up at the sky. ‘Birds of a feather, Tom. There are a number of connected groups around here. Not gangs, groups of related individuals. Related by blood, drawn together by ethnic ties, or joined by money. You could call them families if you want. The Count was a player in one family, and he was probably assassinated by one of the other families. I’m under strict orders not to name names, and yes I do have a partial list.’

  Elaine had reappeared with menus and heard the last part of Clarke’s answer. ‘Or he was killed for the four grand in cash he was carrying and Fae Klass is living it up on the Costa Blanca.’

  Clarke took his menu and said, ‘If she moves up the coast, I’ll ask my father and little sister to track them down. Steak and kidney pie and chips, for me. Are you sure about a bottle of Rioja?’

  Elaine dug Tom in the ribs. ‘Go on, sir. Come round to my place after this, because you know what we’ll both be doing tonight, don’t you?’

  She was right, even if he wished she weren’t. ‘Go on then.’

  ‘Oh?’ said Clarke. ‘What are you doing tonight?’

  ‘Taking pictures of Fae Klass to every low rent bar in Blackpool, because that’s the only bloody lead we’ve got. And talking of the missing witness, why did Moss call her “Ms Klass” all the time?’

  ‘Mmm. To avoid confusing her with any other Faes who might be lurking. There are a couple of them in the briefing notes.’

  Tom gave his order to Elaine, and she went back inside. Something that had tickled the back of his mind came to the surface. ‘I know your parents live in Spain. I thought Rachael lived in London and worked for billionaires. If I hadn’t left the City Police, she might be on my radar by now.’

  Clarke shifted in his seat and stretched out his bad leg. ‘I shall ignore the slur on my sister for your sake. You wouldn’t want her on your case, believe me.’ Elaine came down the steps with a bottle and three glasses. ‘It’s my other sister, Sofía, and that is a story I can tell you.’

  11 — New Blood