Running Girl

by Simon Mason

  ‘And drove off in what direction?’

  ‘The ring road.’

  ‘Towards Imperium.’

  Singh nodded.

  ‘You’ve been back there. You’ve seen it, seen the upholstery, all those clubs and diamonds and hearts and spades. Remember what Chloe said? Everything matches inside.’

  For a while Singh was silent. Then he sighed. ‘Yes, I went back to talk to Winder. And yes, it could be his car in the footage. But he’s absolutely and definitively ruled out.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘He was in Monaco all week. The car was locked up in his garage.’

  ‘What about his son?’

  Singh breathed heavily through his nose. ‘Please don’t make this mistake.’

  ‘Any sightings of it up at Pike Pond Friday night?’

  ‘None. Now listen to me—’

  ‘She was there, you know. At Imperium. I told you before. If I were you, I’d find out what went on at the casino Thursday night. My informants tell me something happened.’

  Singh stared at him. ‘What?’

  ‘I don’t actually know.’

  ‘What informants?’

  ‘I can’t divulge that. It’s classified.’

  The policeman clicked with exasperation. ‘Then why are you telling me all this?’

  ‘Why? Because I like you, man. You’re cool, and funny, and you’re always up for a—’

  ‘I’m serious. Why?’

  ‘Oh.’ Garvie thought. ‘I don’t know. I guess I just like to interfere. Why are you listening to me?’

  Singh made no answer. He sat in silence, frowning. ‘I don’t know, either,’ he said at last. ‘But I’ll admit this. You have a knack for finding things out. As well as for irritating me. All right, then. Listen, I have less than a week to turn this investigation round. If I don’t I will be a failure; there will be no place for me here. Just by talking to you I’m breaking my code of conduct. You mustn’t come here again. Ever. After this we speak only on the phone. I already have your number.’

  He pulled out his card and scribbled on it and handed it to Garvie, who glanced at it and handed it back to Singh. Without smiling or showing any sort of emotion, the policeman put it in his pocket.

  ‘All right. This is what I suggest. You call me if anything crops up. I’ll call you to let you know what we’re doing. But only,’ he added, ‘if you promise me something.’

  ‘I know. Keep off the grass.’

  ‘You mustn’t come back here. More important, you mustn’t ever go back to Imperium. You don’t know what the Winders are like. We do. Over the years we’ve seen far too much of them.’

  ‘They’re not just gamblers?’

  ‘The same old story: nothing has ever been proved. But a lot of people have got hurt. I’ll keep you informed if you keep away from them. Is it a deal?’

  He put out his knuckles and after a moment Garvie shrugged and put out his own.

  ‘Is it a deal?’ Singh repeated.

  ‘Yes, it’s a deal.’

  ‘You won’t go back to Imperium?’

  Garvie shook his head.

  ‘You promise?’

  ‘Crikey, don’t you trust me?’

  ‘Do you promise? Say it out loud.’

  ‘I promise. I promise, I promise, I promise.’

  48

  IN THE DAYLIGHT, Imperium Restaurant and Casino looked shabbier, like an unwell face, Garvie thought, with the make-up scrubbed off. The stone walls were discoloured, the smoked glass was smeary and there were cigarette butts in the orange-tree pots.

  At seven o’clock it was still closed. Only Reception was open, taking bookings for parties. There were no bouncers on the door, no managers loitering in the corridors, and Garvie went inside unchallenged, and down the silent slot-machine-lined hallway to the sunken lobby. A middle-aged lady sitting at a desk next to the unlit fishtank looked up from her laptop. She had a predatory face full of glints and bony outcrops.

  ‘Hi,’ Garvie said winningly.

  The lady said nothing. Her eyes contracted slightly.

  ‘Message for Hypatia,’ Garvie said, holding out an envelope. ‘Any chance you could pass it on?’

  The woman looked at the envelope as if working out how to make it disappear. Then she returned her stare to Garvie and tried to do the same thing to him.

  ‘Who’s it from?’ she said eventually. Her voice was as cold as a drip on a concrete floor.

  ‘An admirer.’

  She looked at him for a long time. ‘No Hypatia here,’ she said at last.

  ‘Are you sure? A waitress. Croupier. Shoulder-length chestnut hair. Grey eyes. Dazzlingly pretty. Although,’ he added politely, ‘seems to me you’re all dazzlingly pretty.’

  The woman thought about this. ‘Doesn’t work here any more,’ she said.

  ‘She left?’

  Now the woman smiled, a ghastly sight. She picked up a phone. ‘Why don’t you talk to the manager?’ Her finger hovered over the key pad. ‘Who shall I say it is?’

  Garvie didn’t reply. But he had a sudden sick feeling.

  At one o’clock in the morning Imperium was back to its best, all dressed up, the dinner-jacketed doormen in place, the orange-tree pots swept out, the soft light from the blue globes washing the walls clean.

  Garvie watched the entrance from his position in the front yard of the bowling alley next door. Luckily his mother was still working late shifts. Frowning, he pushed the thought of his mother out of his mind, and focused on the casino entrance. He was tired, but that wasn’t so bad. Much worse was his fear. He thought of a loose-limbed girl with shoulder-length chestnut hair and grey eyes. A girl who’d seen something, who’d been seen talking to an over-curious brat. A girl who’d disappeared. Maybe she’d gone to India already. He didn’t think so. He remembered what Singh had told him about the Winders. So he waited, watching.

  An hour passed. Bored, he took out his phone and punched in a number.

  It was answered immediately. There was a sharp crack, as if the phone had been flung against a wall, then an over-loud voice making an urgent unintelligible noise.

  ‘Chill, dude, it’s only me. What’s up?’

  After a longish pause Singh said, ‘Garvie?’

  ‘The same. I was just wondering if you had anything you wanted to share.’

  ‘Garvie. It’s two o’clock in the morning.’

  ‘Is it? You weren’t asleep, were you? I didn’t think you slept. I thought Singh of the Yard was ever vigilant.’

  ‘There’s no news,’ Singh said. ‘If that’s why you’re calling.’

  ‘So what have you been up to?’

  He heard Singh sigh. ‘We’ve interviewed Winder senior again. Nothing. We’ve been interviewing staff. Nothing there, either. No confirmation of Chloe at the casino on Thursday night.’

  ‘Well. Keep at it.’

  Singh made a noise. ‘I hope I don’t need to remind you to stay clear of Imperium.’

  ‘No need at all. All right, then, catch you later.’

  And he rang off and went back to watching the casino.

  By quarter past two the punters had all gone home, and the doormen closed the doors and went inside. At half past the waitresses and croupiers came out, strangely unRoman in jeans and T-shirts. He ticked them off in his mind. Agrippina, Sabina, Flavia, Livia ... But not the person he was waiting for.

  He waited another half-hour to make sure, then walked slowly back to his bike in the superstore car park and cycled home. The sleeping city spread out around him, vast and empty. Little creatures came out to scavenge and kill each other; he heard them scuffling in the scrub. Nearing home, he saw a muntjac deer cross the deserted bypass, trotting unperturbed across the asphalt towards the cash-and-carry store, and he stopped and waited a moment next to a litter-filled privet hedge, watching.

  He thought of Chloe riding in a black Porsche.

  Everything matched. If only it did. He put a number of things in his mind one by one.
A photographer’s umbrella discarded on a sofa in the back office of a casino. The pseudo-gorgeous carpet of the staircase. The son left in charge. The dressed-up girl. He added a pair of ugly lime-green and orange running shoes. A note scribbled on a torn sheet of A4 notepaper. They all matched, he knew they did. But how?

  He thought of a girl without a name, dazzlingly pretty.

  And when he focused again, the deer had gone, disappearing like a conjuring trick into the shadow of the roadside. But no trick of the mind could alter his feeling of growing dread.

  The next night, as he waited by the bowling alley he had a surprise. A call from Detective Inspector Singh. It was still early: eleven o’clock.

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Singh here. I know it’s late. Can you talk?’

  ‘Yeah, I can talk. I open my mouth and words come out. I’ve been doing it since I was small.’

  He could almost hear Singh frown. ‘I’m keeping my side of the deal. Half an hour ago we got a call from Mrs Dow. She’s found something in Chloe’s room she can’t explain.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘An Imperium gambling chip.’

  ‘Where’d she find it?’

  ‘In a white jacket of Chloe’s.’

  ‘The one she was wearing on Thursday night. Which pocket?’

  ‘Outside, right-hand side.’

  ‘I don’t like it.’

  Singh hesitated. ‘But it confirms what you suspected.’

  ‘That’s why.’

  Now he could hear Singh being puzzled.

  ‘You told me once that hard evidence is the only thing,’ Garvie said. ‘What we need’s a witness statement. Someone who saw Chloe there.’

  ‘We’re interviewing everyone.’

  ‘Staff?’

  ‘Staff, of course.’

  ‘Ex-staff?’

  Again he could hear Singh’s puzzlement. ‘Why do you say ex-staff?’

  Glancing up as he listened, Garvie saw a figure come out of Imperium’s car park. A small figure. Unsmiling.

  ‘Got to go,’ he said.

  He could hear Singh listening to the change in his tone.

  ‘Where are you, by the way?’

  ‘Where am I? It’s late, man. It’s eleven o’clock. Where do you think I am?’

  ‘Good. Stay there. You’re safe at home. That’s the other reason I called you. We’ve had the Winders in again, and their legal team. They’re showing signs of strain. Keep away from the Imperium. I don’t want you annoying them.’

  The short, unsmiling girl had crossed the street and was heading towards a bus idling at the stop on the other side of the road, and Garvie, still talking, moved after her.

  ‘Listen, man, don’t you go annoying the Winders, either. I don’t want them taking it out on any of their staff. Or ex-staff.’

  ‘Why—’

  ‘Got to go,’ Garvie said, picking up speed. He added, ‘If I don’t get back to sleep now I’ll be awake for hours. Laters.’

  Then he was running out of the bowling alley car park and across the street.

  As the late-night bus rolled along The Wicker he made his way down the aisle, trying to get his breathing back in order. He went between the seats, most of them unoccupied, until he came to one where a short, unsmiling girl sat.

  ‘Mind if I sit here?’

  She took out her ear-phones, glanced briefly at the empty seats around her and shrugged.

  He settled down in his usual slouch.

  After a few minutes she took out her ear-phones again and turned to him. ‘What’s your problem?’

  He continued to look at her with a friendly, if not outright tender, expression. ‘Sorry. Didn’t realize I was staring. It’s just that I recognize you. You’re one of the glam croupiers at Imperium, aren’t you?’

  She looked at him suspiciously. ‘Maybe.’

  ‘Definitely. I don’t forget a face like yours. I even remember your name. Wait a minute, it’ll come to me. Messalina. Not your real name, of course.’

  She didn’t smile.

  ‘Don’t you remember me? Playing blackjack the other day. Big winner.’

  She looked him over and coloured slightly. ‘Maybe. We get lots of punters in.’

  He glanced at his watch. ‘It’s a bit early to be going home, isn’t it? Shouldn’t you be dealing out cards?’

  ‘Headache,’ she said shortly.

  ‘Oh. Sorry.’

  While the bus waited at lights he was silent, but when it juddered off again he went on.

  ‘When I was in I got chatting to one of your friends there. Hypatia. Not her real name, either.’

  ‘I know her,’ the girl said. She looked at him watchfully. ‘She’s all right,’ she added.

  ‘Hypatia,’ Garvie repeated, with a smile. ‘Or should I say Madonna?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Her real name’s Madonna, right?’

  Frowning, the girl opened her mouth, and Garvie said, ‘Wait, I’m getting it mixed up. Sorry. She’s Messalina, you’re Hypatia. Right?’

  She opened her mouth again, and Garvie said quickly, ‘Or you’re Madonna and she’s ... Messalina. Real name Hypatia?’

  The girl shook her head impatiently. ‘You’ve got it all mixed up. She’s Hypatia, real name Hannah. I’m Messalina ...’ She hesitated.

  ‘Real name Madonna?’

  She nodded reluctantly.

  ‘OK. I got it finally. Madonna.’ He gazed at her. ‘Not everyone could carry it, I know. But for the right person ... Wow!’

  He raised an eyebrow appreciatively, and finally she blushed and smiled.

  ‘Madonna,’ he said. ‘And she’s Hannah. Wait. Not Hannah Briggs whose brother got sent down last year for that business with the detergents scam?’

  She frowned. ‘Clark’s her name. Anyway, she doesn’t work at Imperium any more.’

  ‘Really? What happened?’

  Her face closed down. ‘I don’t know. Nothing. She just doesn’t work there.’

  Garvie nodded. ‘Well, Madonna. Lovely talking to you. Here’s my stop. Save a smile for me at the blackjack table.’

  He wondered if he might get a smile straight away, but Madonna was looking at him suspiciously again, and he turned and went down the bus towards the doors, and all the charm fell like a mask from his face and left him pale and staring.

  49

  THE CITY IS a maze – the city at night is a trap.

  Abdul kept glancing at him nervously in the rear-view mirror as they drove through the evening darkness to the Strawberry Hill estate.

  ‘Garvie man. You have trouble?’

  Garvie shook his head. ‘Not me, Abdul. Someone else.’

  ‘This personne, he hiding good, eh? We looking here, we looking there.’

  ‘I don’t know if she’s hiding at all. I hope she is. We’ll find out soon enough. When we get there.’

  And he looked again out of the window across nearby rooftops to Strawberry Hill’s tower block as Abdul changed gear and turned towards it.

  It was ten o’clock, Wednesday, cool under an overcast sky now dark with fat rags of navy-blue cloud. Nearly twenty-four hours had gone by since he’d learned Hannah’s name, a name he’d instantly recognized from a conversation overheard earlier.

  What about that new one? Hannah, isn’t it? Thinks she’s such an independent spirit. She going to shoot her mouth off?

  The words had been in his head all day. They made him feel sick but he couldn’t seem to stop listening to them. Or stop thinking of a girl with chestnut-brown shoulder-length hair, grey eyes and a smile like a sudden splash of sunlight. All day at school he’d gone from class to class without speaking, and at home in the afternoon he’d sat staring unfocused at a revision book, apparently incapable of movement, until his mother left for her shift at the hospital, when he instantly jumped up, grabbed his jacket and ran to meet Abdul at the rank.

  The city phone book had listed twenty-three Clarks with H as an initial. The calls he’d made earlier
in the day had eliminated all but five. With Abdul as his driver he’d visited four of the addresses so far, none of them Hannahs; now there was only one left: Apt 138, Hornbeam Tower, Strawberry Hill.

  Abdul pulled up at the side of the road and turned in his seat. ‘She live here?’

  ‘Maybe.’

  Together they looked up at the tower.

  Abdul said, ‘You want I wait?’

  ‘It’s OK, man. I know you’ve got an airport job.’

  Abdul made tsking noises and waved his hands.

  ‘No need to fret. I owe you several already.’

  Abdul gave a half-smile. Half pleased, half fretful.

  Garvie got out and Abdul leaned out of the window.

  ‘Be safe, Garvie man.’

  For a moment Garvie stood watching the cab recede down the road, then he crossed to Hornbeam Tower. There was a wide pavement in front of an arcade of shops, mostly shut, and a plaque on the wall reading HORNB A TOWER. A group of kids sat on their bikes staring at him as he went past and through a heavy steel door into the entrance hall. He didn’t know any of them. Inside, the hall was pale grey and empty, brightly lit by florescent tubes high in the ceiling above. Across the washed grey concrete floor was an empty office with a wooden door labelled STAFF ONLY and a window obscured by a grey blind. Opposite was a pair of metal lift doors.

  He waited, and a man wearing army fatigues came in and waited with him.

  The lift came, and they got in and stood together silently in the bright light, going up slowly. On the eighth floor the man got out, and Garvie went on alone to the twenty-third.

  There was an alcove, and he stepped through it onto an exterior walkway and stood in a slight breeze gazing through the gap between metal railings and concrete ceiling at the evening sky curdling over the sewage plant and car works. Turning, he went along the walkway, past pairs of doors with glass fronts, some of which had been replaced with metal grilles, until he came to numbers 137 and 138.

  The glass panel of number 138 had been smashed and someone had fixed a strip of cardboard over it.

  He pressed the bell and heard it ring faintly inside the apartment, a sound as lonely as a telephone ringing after hours in an empty office. After a while he rang it again. A few minutes passed. He banged on the door frame with the side of his fist.