by J. F. Penn
“I’m not promising anything but put it on the table.” He pointed to a low table at the side of the room under the window. It was dark wood, plain, with nothing on it. “Give me a minute.”
Blake stood and walked into the adjoining tiny bathroom, shutting the door behind him. Jamie placed the key on the table with some reverence, hoping like hell he could get something from it. There was a part of her that was screaming disorder at this whole process, the skeptical part of her, the police officer who at least tried to play by the rules most of the time. That part of her wanted to run out of there, hand the key over and leave it to the investigation team.
But Jamie knew the system. She knew that, however hard the police worked, there were priorities, and investigation according to protocol took time. Time she didn’t have, and after all, she was Polly’s mother, her protector in life and death and her daughter was not resting in peace. The image of her body on a slab, like the little boy at Day-Conti’s studio, dominated her mind.
Blake emerged, his hair wet from splashing his face.
“Do you want coffee?” Jamie asked. “Would that help?”
Blake shook his head. “Not at this point. Just sit quietly while I read and note down anything I say. I can’t promise much, though.”
Jamie nodded and sat on the bed, a piece of paper and pen on her lap as Blake knelt in front of the table. From behind he looked like a penitent, praying at a shrine to emptiness. He breathed in and out slowly, rolling his shoulders around in an attempt to relax. He picked up the key. Jamie waited, trying to breathe quietly, not moving for fear of breaking whatever trance state he went into.
Blake was silent for nearly two minutes before he spoke.
“Corinthian columns. Yellow.”
Jamie frowned, writing it down.
“Looks like a church or a temple, but definitely yellow.” Blake’s voice was strained as if he were peering into the gloomy distance. “She’s worried, afraid. She knows something she shouldn’t. More yellow.” Blake paused. “Green apple.” He went silent for a moment and then put down the key. He turned on his knees to look at Jamie, his face distraught. “Sorry, that’s it. There’s an overwhelming sense of yellow. I don’t know whether that helps but there’s no deeper level on an object like this. It’s a new key with only her imprint, but it’s all so faint.”
Jamie felt disappointed at what he had told her. His words seemed like impossible clues.
“Look,” Blake said, “Why don’t you stay here and use my laptop to do some online research. I need a couple of hours’ sleep but then I can try again. Or you could go home and come back later.”
Jamie thought about her empty flat, Polly’s belongings reminding her of everything she had lost. “I’d like to stay, if that’s OK. You’ve given me a few things to check out … if you don’t mind.”
“Sure. There’s coffee and a bit of food in the kitchen. Help yourself. I’ll sleep like the dead so you won’t wake me with any noise.” He stopped, realizing what he’d said. “Sorry, that was a stupid thing to say.”
Jamie shook her head, smiling at him gently. “It’s alright, seriously, go to sleep. I can see you need it.”
“You look like you could do with some too,” Blake said softly, and Jamie felt the deep fatigue that had seeped into her body over the long night. She shook her head.
“There’ll be time for that later when I’ve found my daughter.”
Blake logged onto his laptop and Jamie sat at his plain IKEA desk with a side lamp on, her back to the bed as she heard the rustle of him taking off his jeans and slipping under the covers. There was a curious intimacy between them, and she felt a moment of wanting his comfort. If she went to him now, what would he do? Jamie knew that she would shatter with physical touch, grief would pour from her and the waves of desolation would crash against them both.
She pulled herself together and went to the bathroom. She washed her face, wiping off the black makeup until she was scrubbed clean. Emerging quietly, Jamie listened to the noises of the house. The pipes groaned and there were creaks, the sounds of an old area, a good house. Outside, she could hear the city waking up, buses going past and cars starting up.
At the laptop, Jamie opened Google and went to the Maps application. She went to London and zoomed in to a scale that showed where Jenna Neville had worked and where she had lived South of the river. She added in the Torture Garden Club in East London. It was a good few square miles, but not exhaustive. As she studied the screen, there was a meow at the window and a faint scratching. Jamie looked up to see a black cat with white paws and a cheek smudge pawing at the glass. On the windowsill she noticed a saucer with a little dry food. So Blake was a cat person, bonding with the independent. She smiled and got up to open the window a little way so the cat could wend its way in.
“Hello, puss,” Jamie whispered, stroking as it nibbled at the food. It butted up against her hand. She smiled and picked it up, holding it close to her face, feeling its warmth. There was something therapeutic about stroking. The Lavender Hospice used animals as part of their therapy for the children, although perhaps the parents needed it more. She carried the cat back to the desk and sat down, stroking it firmly on her lap. It circled a little, kneading its paws and then settled against her. Jamie was glad for its companionship. She caressed the cat with one hand and with the other doodled on the pad where she had written Blake’s words.
She tried to put herself in Jenna’s shoes. She had needed somewhere to keep secrets from her flatmate, her parents, her work, basically away from anyone. Jenna certainly had a trust problem, Jamie thought, and she could relate to that. But what could be so secret that it was worth killing her for?
If it was some files, like Jenna had at work, they could be kept within a small locker. Jamie wrote down locker, then brainstormed options around that. The threat of terrorists meant that most train and bus stations no longer had lockers, and libraries and gyms cleared them out most nights. Jamie wrote down ‘gym’ since sometimes they rented lockers long term, but whatever Jenna was hiding might not be something so small. The key could unlock a safe or even something as big as another flat. Despite her activism, Jenna still had money, so that wouldn’t have been a problem.
Jamie nuzzled down onto the cat’s head.
“Too many options, puss,” she whispered, stroking it and feeling its purr resonate through her.
Maybe she should just try using the words Blake had given her.
She typed “yellow + lockup” into Google.
The first results were technical errors for Ubuntu software, yellow lockups on splash pages. She scrolled down to Skull Candy yellow lockup belts and yellow transmission belts, becoming lost in the technical rabbit hole she had stumbled into. But further down, Jamie found Big Yellow Self Storage, a company with lockup space of all sizes dotted around the country and with a number of sites in London. Jamie felt a wave of excitement run through her. It fitted, now she just had to narrow the location down. After a few more mouse clicks, she found there were a few units around the places Jenna lived and worked and also near Torture Garden.
Using Google Maps street view, Jamie started to examine the pictures of the locations. The minutes ticked by as she virtually walked the streets of London, using the technology to view snapshots in time.
Then she saw it.
Opposite the New Cross storage facility was the Lewisham Arthouse, featuring a classical entranceway with a large door framed by Corinthian columns, fitting Blake’s description. Jamie virtually walked down the street a little way and found a pub called the Flower of Kent. On the sign above the door was a picture of a tree and a green apple on the ground under it, representing the tree under which Newton had been sitting when the apple fell, giving him the idea for the law of gravity. It had to be the place.
Jamie checked the opening time for the storage facility. 8am. It was only 6.40am now, so she could be there when it opened. Looking behind her at the bed, she could see a mound of covers unde
r which Blake slept silently. She still found his ability disturbing and it wasn’t admissible in court, but anything she found at the site would be. She could keep the secret of how she found the place but she could still give the key and the address to the investigation team after she’d discovered what was inside.
She wrote a short note to Blake saying thank you and that she would call him, that he was a star. He’d probably read it and wonder what the hell he’d done the night before under the tequila influence. Jamie rose and gave the cat another cuddle, relishing its warm body for a moment longer. She put it down gently on the chair, stroking it so it settled into her warm patch. Then she let herself out of the flat, pulling the door quietly shut behind her.
Chapter 20
Jamie parked the bike down a side street off the main road of Lewisham Way. There was still some time before the storage office opened so she walked down and got a takeaway coffee from a service station. She poured two sugars into it and grabbed a Mars bar at the same time. The spike of sugar and caffeine would keep her going just a little bit longer.
She sat on the steps of the Arthouse looking at the Yellow storage units, and wondered what Jenna had hidden here. What was so secret that she kept her research away from her work and home life? And would there be clues to the location of the Lyceum?
At five to eight, Jamie watched a car pull up and a woman reach out the window to key in a code on the main gate. The gate swung open and a few minutes later Jamie saw her unlock and enter the office. At exactly one minute past eight, Jamie walked across the road and rang the bell.
“We’re not quite open yet. Can you wait five minutes?” The voice was hassled, clearly annoyed to be buzzed so early.
“I’m from the police,” Jamie said, deciding to approach with official credentials, omitting the fact she was off the investigation. “Detective Sergeant Jamie Brooke. I need to speak with you about one of the storage units.”
“Oh,” the voice sounded unsurprised. “Of course, come on in.”
A buzzer sounded and the pedestrian gate clicked open. Jamie walked in and showed the manager her warrant card. The woman was in her mid-forties, Asian, her dark hair tied back into a ponytail. She had the efficient air of a born organizer, and she nodded at the credentials, clearly used to dealing with the police.
“How can I help you, Detective?” she asked. “There hasn’t been a break-in, not that I know of. We had one last year, but you can’t be here about that.”
“I’m actually investigating a murder, and it looks like the victim had a locker here. I need to see inside.”
The woman looked at once appalled and intrigued. The cop shows on TV made people want to be part of crime scenes these days.
“Of course, we have strict privacy regulations here but …” Jamie could see the interest in the woman’s eyes. “What was the victim’s name?”
For a moment Jamie wondered if Jenna could have used a fake name, but there were so many rules around multiple forms of ID, it was unlikely.
“Jenna Neville.”
The woman tapped on her computer. “Yes, I have her here. Number 714. It’s a mid-size lockup, able to store a three-bedroom house worth of stuff.”
Jamie pulled the key from her pocket. “Would this be the key for it?”
The woman glanced up. “Oh no, they’re all number coded on a keypad, but I can let you in with the override. I’ll take you right up.”
As Jamie wondered what the key could actually be for, the manager led the way through the sterile complex, the bright yellow walls only serving to highlight the dead space. Full of secrets, Jamie imagined. What else might be hiding in the corners of this place? What stories would be revealed by the objects within?
On the second floor, at the very back of the complex, the manager stopped in front of one of the myriad yellow doors. She tapped a code into the keypad and the door clicked.
“Go ahead, Detective,” she said. “I’ll leave you to it. Just come and check with me before you leave.”
Jamie nodded, wondering at her lack of curiosity about what might be inside. Perhaps it wore off after years of working here. She listened to the woman’s footsteps receding down the hallway, echoing around the empty space. She imagined Jenna coming here alone, keeping the location quiet and not trusting anyone with the information inside. Blake had said that she was afraid, worried, when she held the key, and Jamie felt the same way right now. She was afraid to go in, because the contents might not be enough to give her the answers she needed. What if this didn’t lead her to Polly? What would she do then?
Jamie pulled on a pair of sterile gloves, took a deep breath and pulled the door open. The space was about six foot wide, almost the same deep, with a high ceiling so that boxes could be stacked up. The only thing on the floor was a heavy metal safe and Jamie felt for the key in her pocket. She stepped inside the unit and saw that the walls were plastered with images and maps. Here was Jenna’s extensive research spread out and expanded, and Jamie could see that the notes she had seen in the legal office were just a tiny part of the whole.
There were newspaper cuttings about crimes involving bodies, notes on art shows using body parts, photos of teratology specimens, historical references to John Hunter and other anatomists, as well as gruesome pictures of anatomy and quotes from legal papers on the rights of the body. On one wall was pinned the logo of Neville Pharmaceuticals and radiating out from it were all kinds of documents and sticky notes, curling at the edges. There were pictures of vivisections and animal cruelty as well as a photocopy of a very old newspaper article about the violent death of a PhD student at Oxford, back when the Nevilles were students. There was a photo of Esther Neville, looking pale and gaunt, her arm thrust out to obscure the view of the camera. It wasn’t the type of picture that a daughter would usually want to keep of her mother.
Clearly, Jenna had quite a story here. Jamie couldn’t quite work out all the links but it was far bigger than she expected. She couldn’t keep this from the police investigation, but she could get a head start on finding the Lyceum. Pulling the key from her pocket, Jamie squatted down and opened the safe. With her heart beating in anticipation, she pulled open the metal door.
Inside were a just couple of pieces of paper. Jamie knew that she was breaking all the rules of police investigation but she was well past caring at this point. She had to know what was going on. Carefully lifting the top paper from the pile, Jamie unfolded it. A photocopy of a title deed for a piece of land in West Wycombe. Jamie frowned, not seeing any immediate significance, for there was no mention of the Lyceum.
“Found something?” The voice made her jump and she looked up, startled, her posture immediately defensive and shielding the safe.
It was Blake, holding two cups of coffee. His body was slouched against the door, languid confidence in his stance and Jamie couldn’t help noticing how good he looked, all tousled and sleep-rumpled.
“Damn it, Blake,” she said, “How did you find me?”
“Browser history.” He shrugged. “I woke up and found you gone but your note had me hooked. Plus, I want to help you.”
Jamie’s eyes softened as she stood to take the coffee from him. Her fingers touched his gloved hand briefly and even through the cloth she could feel a spark between them. She realized that she was actually glad to see him.
“Thanks.” She smiled up at him. “How’s the hangover?”
Blake blushed a little. “I’m sorry you had to see me like that. When the visions get too much I have to escape. Tequila is the easiest, more effective way I know to tame the crazy. I hope I didn’t say anything … inappropriate?”
“Of course not.” Jamie took a sip of the coffee. “But I’m not sure that pickling yourself in tequila is a long-term life strategy.”
“You can talk,” he said, grinning. “Riding around town like some kind of vampire Goth when you should be looking after yourself.”
He paused, his eyes full of compassion. “I’m so sorry about you
r daughter.”
Jamie turned to the wall, hiding the tears pricking her eyes.
“Thank you … Well, since you’re here, what do you think?”
“It’s definitely yellow,” Blake said. “A bit bright for me at this point.”
Jamie pointed to the collage.
“Check this out. It’s on body snatching, and it looks like a full-scale investigation into her parents’ past and the history of Neville Pharmaceuticals.”
Blake came to stand next to her, close in the small space. He smelled of spicy soap and coffee and Jamie felt a sudden desire to lean into his tall frame. She pushed away the feelings.
“Wow, this is some serious investigative work,” he said. “She was a journalist?”
“A lawyer,” Jamie said, “but this is personal. That’s her mother and that there is her father.” She pointed at the aristocratic portrait of Christopher Neville, dressed in his regalia for the House of Lords but with his head turned towards the camera in a smile. The photo was softer, more emotionally resonant, than the one of Esther. Her choice of image painted him as someone Jenna had loved. But had he ultimately betrayed her?
Turning her head, Jamie caught a glimpse of another face she recognized.
“That’s Edward Mascuria,” she whispered. “He works for the Nevilles.”
Jenna’s research wall had linked him to various projects at Neville Pharma and there was a picture of him with Esther, an obsequious look on his face as she presented him with some award. Jamie remembered how she had felt in his flat, a crawling across her flesh, the look on his face that she had glimpsed as she rode away.
“What was on the document in the safe?” Blake asked, interrupting her train of thought, his head on one side to examine the material tacked up on the other wall.
“A property deed,” Jamie said. “For land in West Wycombe. I’m not sure what it means yet.”
