Nothing.
I turn the Bump Key to the right and the lock opens. Good. I remove the key, put it back on the key chain, open the door and go inside to be faced with total darkness and bone-chilling cold. I gently close the door behind me until I hear the click. It’s so bright outside that it takes almost fifteen seconds for my eyes to get accustomed to the lack of light and even then I can only see vague outlines. I must eat more carrots.
I’m in a long, narrow corridor. I crouch down and pat my hands along the floor; some sort of ceramic tiling. There’s a background noise of lightly running water, but I can’t place where it’s coming from; could be toilets somewhere in the building.
The walls either side of me feel like they’re wallpapered. It’s a remarkable thing; despite trying to convince myself that I’m just in some place that just happens to be without light at the moment, I always feel a worrying sensation of fear when I can’t see where I’m going.
I stretch out a hand. I can see my fingers, so things can’t be that bad. Keeping my hand in front of me, fingers stretched, I walk slowly along and wait for whichever tactile sensation I encounter first. After thirty seconds, I find it. It’s a soft fabric, something like velvet, and it’s covering another door. I run my hands over it until I find a handle. I grip it firmly and turn it down, then up. Thankfully, it opens, and I pull it towards me.
I can see what’s going on now. This is a smartly decorated, well-lit little antechamber with male and female toilets to my right and three wood veneer doors to my left. One of these three doors says ‘Kitchens. Private’, another says ‘Office’ and the third one says nothing. The noise of running water is coming from the Ladies’ toilet. I assume that the door with nothing on it leads directly into the nightclub, so decide to go and have a look.
It’s much bigger than I imagined, and my guess about the club running into the buildings next door, at least on the ground floor, was correct.
Any type of club has a unique atmosphere and smell during the day when it isn’t open to the public. It has a brittle, unsettling ambience, not helped by the total silence, as if it’s waiting to be filled with people before it can properly be said to exist.
The predominant smell is of stale alcohol, but with notes of sweat, perfume, plastic and leather. In the past, you’d have smelt stale tobacco, but not anymore. All of the bars are closed up, with metal shutters preventing out-of-hours access to all the booze. It looks neat and tidy, so either it wasn’t open last night or the cleaners come in for a few hours immediately after closing time.
There are no windows, and what illumination there is comes from bright sub-floor lighting, which I assume is left on twenty-four hours a day. There are lights on the walls, coloured LED spotlights and hanging from the ceiling are a dozen or so electric chandeliers and banks of hi-tech mobile disco lights, particularly over the dance floor area down the far end.
Most of the interior consists of long leather seating units, each with its own wide glass table. Each table has a couple of glass lamps, designed to look like chunky church candles.
Walking past the dance floor takes you to another seating area and then into a kind of restaurant zone, with smoked glass tables and chairs. To my untrained eye, it all looks pretty upscale. As Nick Sarna said, really expensive, but OK for a one-off visit for a special occasion.
A couple of double doors lead into the large reception area at the front of the building. There’s a large cloakroom and more toilets. If there is a basement, there’s no obvious way down to it that I can see. I go back to the antechamber and give the door of the office a try. It’s locked. I can’t be bothered with that at the moment, so try the kitchen. This is open.
It looks like any professional kitchen; the type you might find in a restaurant or club. It smells of lemon-scented cleaner and my footsteps echo as I walk around. Everything is stainless steel and meticulously tidy. Spotless preparation areas have shelves above them with piles of brand-new looking crockery and shiny steel and copper utensils.
I decide this is a waste of time and decided to take a look at the office, but just as I’m about to leave I get a strong feeling that something’s not right in here. I actually feel slightly dizzy and reach out to steady myself on one of the steel surfaces. Perhaps I’m suffering delayed shock from this morning’s activities or, more likely, I’m just knackered.
On a whim, I walk down to the far end of the kitchen. There’s a metal table on castors with what looks like a giant food mixer on top. There’s a left turn into an area with more giant versions of stuff you’d see in a normal kitchen. Some of it is professional catering machinery, which I can’t identify or see any use for.
There are three big steel bins with black bin bags hanging out of them. There’s a loud air-conditioning noise down this end; it rattles like it needs to be fixed. There’s a long steel table with a body on it. This is covered in a light brown sheet of some sort; cotton, by the look of it.
Even though I can’t hear anything, I look over my shoulder and then walk back to check that the kitchen’s still empty before I take a look at whoever this is. When I pull the sheet back, I’m not totally surprised to discover that it’s Blond Hair.
No one’s bothered to close his eyes. They’ve undone the top couple of buttons of his shirt, but that was never going to do much good. Just to be absolutely sure, I place two fingers against the pulse point on the side of his neck. Now I’m absolutely sure. On the side where I broke his elbow, the shirt is soaked with his blood and it’s all down his trousers on that side. There’s a big pool of blood on the floor underneath him.
His elbow is severely bruised with a big tear in the flesh and a large reddish patch on the reverse side of the bicep. Whoever brought him here, and I’m guessing it was Blue Suit, decided that there was no need to visit a hospital and Blond Hair simply bled to death or died of shock or a combination of both.
Well, that’s too bad and it still doesn’t tell me what I need to know, other than the pair of them were idiots.
Remembering the useful clue that I found in Blond Hair’s jacket, I search his trouser pockets, but there’s nothing in them at all. I’m going to have to break into the office.
As I turn around to leave the kitchen, I’m amazed to see a guy pointing a gun at me. I say amazed, because I really didn’t hear anything at all, focused as I was on Blond Hair’s cadaver. And the air-conditioning noise, of course. I’ve got a shitload of excuses and they all make me feel really efficient and professional. I’m annoyed with myself as I don’t like to feel I’m slipping in any way. As I’m taking him in, I notice that he’s not wearing any shoes. Smart.
He’s in his twenties, pretty tall, beefy, bald, bearded and looks cut from the same mould as Blue Suit, except he’s wearing a black suit. He’s calm, curious, slightly annoyed and holding a Taurus PT 100. It’s a nice-looking pistol, made in Brazil and popular with civilians in the US. Ten to fifteen rounds, depending on whether it’s manufactured for the police or ordinary mortals.
I don’t raise my hands or anything like that. That would indicate that I thought I was doing something wrong. It’s a new theory and one I’m testing out for the first time.
‘Who the fuck are you?’
‘Health and Safety. I’m afraid we have some issues with corpses in food preparation areas. It’s to do with bacterial cross-contamination.’
There’s a millisecond, a millisecond where a flicker of doubt crosses his features, like he thinks that this preposterous story might be true, that someone who’s obviously broken in to a locked premises to check kitchen hygiene and casually comments on a fresh corpse breaking H&S rules might be in any way sane and/or slightly honest. This tells me he isn’t too bright.
He’s holding the gun steadily and professionally and it’s aimed at my head, grip in his right hand and his left hand supporting his right wrist. The safety is on, but his left hand is two inches away from it and he could flick it off in a second. I’m assuming it’s loaded.
&n
bsp; ‘Take your jacket off. Throw it towards me. Don’t try anything stupid. I’ve got a gun.’
No shit.
I slowly remove my jacket, making a quick mental inventory of what’s in the pockets: mobile, wallet, small pack of my business cards, tactical pen. If he’s bright, which I don’t think he is, it’ll take him a couple of minutes to work out what I am and possibly even what I’m doing here.
My wallet contains the usual wallet stuff, plus six hundred bribery money. My business cards only have my name and my mobile number. My mobile will be virtually useless as I use initials and numbers for all contacts, and besides, it’s got a difficult lock screen pattern, which I’m not going to help him with.
The tactical pen is actually (in my hands) a dangerous weapon, made from aircraft grade aluminium and used in the same way you’d use a Kubotan, a small martial arts weapon. Whether he’ll recognise it as such is another thing altogether; most people don’t, often to their cost.
I chuck the jacket so it lands at his feet.
‘Right. Now put your hands behind your head. Remember. No clever stuff.’
I do what he says. No point arguing. Not yet, at least. Keeping the gun on me, he picks my jacket up and takes a cursory look at the contents. He takes the money out of the wallet and puts it in his pocket, smirking at me as he throws the wallet onto the floor. Good. It’s not occurring to him to take a detailed look at everything as he has no idea who I might be or why I’m here.
‘OK, my friend. Who are you and what are you doing here? Believe me; I’m not going to ask you twice.’
He’s standing eight feet away from me, close enough for me to be able to smell the Hoppe’s Precision Lubricating Oil that he’s used on the Taurus. I can also smell some unpleasantly sharp aftershave or cologne.
Naturally, he’s banking on me being a little in awe of the gun, but I don’t think he’d really shoot. There’s no silencer and that gun takes a .40 S&W; you’d hear a shot being fired in the pub next door and in the street. I just hope he knows this. I’ve got to think of something to delay him.
‘I work for Keegan’s. Keegan’s Nightclub in King’s Cross.’
‘Never heard of them.’
Neither have I. I don’t know what I’m talking about. He takes his mobile out of his pocket and presses something on it. As he’s waiting for whoever it is to answer, I take a look at him. This is not one of Sara’s assailants, at least not from her descriptions, anyway. How many of these people are there? What is this?
‘They sent me here to check out the club and see if I could find out the money situation. I thought I’d be able to break into the office. They think you’re not doing too well and were going to make you a rather aggressive offer. I just work for them. This is nothing to do with me. I don’t know anything about their business matters.’
‘Oh, really? This sounds like bullshit to me, my friend.’
That’s a pretty fair comment, to be honest. ‘Why don’t you just let me go. Come on, mate. I haven’t been able to get what I wanted.’ I try to sound plaintive and pathetic; anything to make him think I’m no real threat to him. Anything to slightly alter the atmosphere; to get him off high alert.
Whoever he’s calling responds. They say something. He laughs.
‘Yeah, listen. I just popped into the club to pick some stuff up and there’s this guy here. I don’t know who the fuck he is and he’s got some bullshit story about being from a club called Keegan’s. Do you know anything about this?’
All the while, I’m watching and waiting. Waiting for a miniscule moment of relaxation, waiting for him to be distracted by something, waiting for something, anything, to happen; something that will kill his composure or impair his concentration; a noise, a gust of wind; anything.
The distance between us is too great for me to jump him; he’d easily have time to get the safety off and shoot me. But that option may be the only one I have. Maybe there isn’t a bullet in the chamber. Maybe he’s not a good shot, even at a distance like this. Maybe the gun will jam. I can feel the adrenalin starting to rev up inside me, my heart rate rising and my saliva starting to dry up.
He looks me over. His eyes have no humour in them whatsoever, just a vacant malevolence. He’s got to be disposed of. He starts describing me to whoever’s on the phone. It’s almost flattering. Maybe we should get married and start a family. One day we’d talk about how we met and have a laugh.
‘He’s over six foot, early thirties, athletic build, dark brown hair and eyes, good-looking in a poncy actor way. Yeah – he’s seen Robbie. He was looking at him when I came in. There’s no way he’s going anywhere after seeing that. Fuck, no. I didn’t think of that. Hang on. Just wait!’
So that’s Blond Hair’s name: Robbie. Robbie Hyland. I’ll try and remember that, for all the good it’ll probably do me.
He reaches down and picks my wallet up. Unfortunately his concentration is good and he doesn’t take his focus or the gun off me for a second. He takes one of my business cards out of the wallet, stares at it, and resumes his conversation. I notice that sweat is gathering on his upper lip and he’s starting to smell.
‘Daniel Beckett. It’s on a poncy metal business card. No, me neither. There’s a phone number. Look, can Jackie get a cab over and sort this out? I really haven’t got the time and he likes this sort of thing. What do you mean? What?’
He has a hurried series of exchanges about Jackie and how they haven’t seen him for over twenty-four hours. I soon pick up that they’re talking about Footballer Dad.
‘OK. OK. Well, send Derek over. I’ll wait with this prick until he gets here. Someone better go round Jackie’s flat and have a look. No, of course he hasn’t got a fuckin’ mobile. Are you kidding? You know what he’s like about that sort of shit. What? Well, that’s no good. Where’s Derek now?’
I’m still watching, still waiting. He’s having staff problems. Perhaps it’s an occupational scumbag hazard. There are a few physical signs that he’s getting a little impatient and rattled; he’s shaking his head, pouting and taking deep breaths.
‘What? He’s in Exeter Street? Where the fuck is Exeter Street?’
My stomach turns to water as I realise the missing piece of the jigsaw has just fallen into place.
Isolda.
22
BLACK SUIT
Isolda.
It was staring me in the face the whole time and I just didn’t see it. I was too overwhelmed by her physicality, wanton beauty and the thrill of a fresh, voracious sexual encounter.
‘OK,’ says Black Suit. ‘Well you’ve got to get someone else who can get over here and take over from me. I can’t deal with this right now. I have to be up in Tottenham.’
Her concern for Sara, her sympathy for Sara, her admiration for Sara, her appreciation of Sara’s talent, even her job title: Most Trusted Assistant.
‘What about Oliver. Where is he at the moment?’
Using sex to distract me; to keep an eye on me. Her warped passion and taste for deviance keeping her on my mind when I should have been more focussed on the case and observing her more objectively.
Continually checking up on how I was doing; the phone calls, the trysts, the convincingly reluctant hints that Sara might be imagining the whole thing.
‘Good. That’s good. That’s ten minutes away. Give him a call and tell him to get over here ASAP. He can park around the back. I’ll disable this guy and then we can have a good chat with him later tonight.’ He laughs coldly. ‘Yeah. Yeah. With extreme prejudice. See you, mate.’
It explains how Blond Hair knew how to catch me as I was leaving the gym. No one knew where I was going apart from Isolda. All those suggestions about phones being tapped and premises being bugged were bullshit. Blond Hair was simply protecting his source. Ridiculously, I’m annoyed that I wasted Doug Teng’s time and Sara’s money.
‘And give the boss a bell anyway. Ask about this Keegan’s club thing. There might be something in it. This guy ain’t going nowher
e.’
And the most obvious factor; Isolda knew where Sara would be at all times, whether it cropped up on social media or not, whether it was professional or personal or somewhere in between. She knew where she lived and she knew her background; the nervous breakdown, what sort of person she was, how she could be intimidated, how to put her off her stroke.
And short of Sara announcing the fact on social media and in the press, there is no way on earth that anyone could know she was in my flat; only Isolda knew and she knew because I told her and I told her to make her feel better about Sara and I wanted her to feel better because I like her, perhaps a little too much if I’m being honest with myself, which I never am.
Hell.
‘OK. Tell Oliver I’m waiting. Do it now. See you later.’
Black Suit flicks his mobile off and drops it in his jacket pocket. His attention is back on me. I have to get him out of the way so I can get over to Covent Garden. I may be too late, but I have to try, if only to see what’s happened. Then I have to find Isolda.
‘So here we are, Mr Daniel Beckett. We’re going to wait for my associate to arrive, then we’re going to restrain you and have a more detailed word this evening. Whether your story is true or not – and I don’t think it is – you’re in the deepest shit you’ve ever been in.’
He’s a little more relaxed with me now. His focus has decreased slightly now he’s sorted his personnel problem. I still have my hands behind my head.
‘Can I sit down? All this standing up is getting a bit much.’
‘Oh yeah. Sure. I’ll get you a fuckin’ comfy armchair. I’ll tell you what, though. You can get down on your knees. That’ll be nice and comfortable for you. Right down on your knees where you belong.’
Death is the New Black Page 22
