by T. M. Logan
“I’m asking. It’s pretty bloody important at this stage.”
He considered for a moment. “The source is my wife.”
“How does she—”
“I told you—don’t ask. The point is, we need to be prepared, Joe. We need to look at your options here. We should look at the smartest thing for you to do in this situation.”
“I don’t like the sound of that.”
“From a legal perspective—based on my twenty years’ experience in criminal law—the smart thing to do is for me and you to go down to Kilburn Police Station today, this afternoon. Tell Naylor you’re coming in voluntarily, you’re keen to cooperate, because you have nothing to hide. Take the initiative away from them.”
“Are you serious?”
“We should be prepared for charges, and this is your best option in light of that. It’s my professional advice to you.”
I was struggling to get the words out in the right order.
“I don’t … I don’t … understand. Charges. What … what does that mean?”
“For the police to charge you, within the next twenty-four hours. We need to prepare for that. They have enough—more than enough—to arrest you again, and I would expect that to happen very soon.”
I opened my mouth, closed it again. Words seemed inadequate—everything was happening too fast.
“It’s not true.”
Larssen put a hand on my arm. “Joe, you need to go home, talk to your wife, tell her what’s going to happen. And your son. Give them a little bit of time to prepare for it. There will be nothing worse for them than having this happen out of the blue.”
“You think it’ll be today?”
“There’s not really any reason for Naylor to hang about now.”
“He’ll want to be sure, though?”
Larssen drained the last of his coffee. “Oh, I think he’s well past that stage.”
65
As I rode the moped home, I tried to think of what to say to my wife. How to phrase the fact that I was about to be charged with murder.
Listen, Mel, I have to tell you something.
I’m not capable of committing this crime. You know it’s crazy, what they’re accusing me of.
But we have to agree on what we’re going to say to William.
I don’t want him to be frightened, or sad, or worried. We just need to—
There were two police cars outside my house. People walking up my driveway.
DCI Naylor was one of them.
I braked sharply and pulled over to the side of the road, a couple of car lengths short of my house. Naylor had come in force today: as well as Redford, he had brought two tall uniformed officers in high-vis jackets, bulky with gear, flanking the detectives on either side. Maybe to discourage me from doing something stupid.
The front door opened, and Mel stood there, looking from Naylor to the uniformed officers and back again, as if she couldn’t understand what they were doing there. As if it were all some huge mistake. William appeared at her side, half hiding behind her leg, peering up at the police on the doorstep.
Naylor was talking to Mel. She shook her head, giving short replies. Her eyes came to rest on me, sitting on her moped across the street. She knew I was using it, knew I was using her helmet too. Naylor would not recognize me with the helmet on, but she would. She stopped, did a little double take, and then shifted her position so that William couldn’t see me. I half expected her to point her finger, call out, give me away—but instead she went back to talking with Naylor as if she had not seen me at all.
A bead of cold sweat rolled slowly down my side. It was one of those moments where you either surrender or you push all your remaining chips into the middle of the table and see what the last card brings.
I revved the moped back into life and sped away.
There was a small retail park about a mile from my house, with a Sainsbury’s and a few other chain stores. At the end of the row was a Frankie & Benny’s. I went in, bought a bottle of Beck’s, and sat in a booth at the back of the bar. Rested my head back against the wood paneling and closed my eyes.
My whole life had been spent as a law-abiding, tax-paying member of the public. I played by the rules. Except that Ben was playing by a different set of rules entirely: the rules of the jungle, red in tooth and claw, the rules of hooray-for-me-and-fuck-you.
The rules that said, It’s not enough for me to win—everyone else has to lose. And right now he was winning hands down.
I needed backup. Advice. Help. I rang Adam.
“Yup.”
“It’s me, mate. It’s Joe. Can you talk?”
“Not really.”
“Just for a minute? I really need your advice.”
“Not a great time right now.”
“I’m in deep shit, Adam, I need—”
His voice turned low and hard, as if he were hunched over the phone to prevent anyone eavesdropping.
“You need to stop calling me on this number, OK? Get yourself some legal help, and stop calling me at work, all right? I can’t be talking to you. You’re the subject of an active police investigation, and my boss will have my balls for cocktail olives if he knows we’ve even been speaking.”
With every word, my heart sank further into my stomach. I felt like a climber dangling at the end of a rope, hanging over the abyss.
And my friend was about to cut the rope.
“Adam, please,” I pleaded, trying without success to keep a note of desperation out of my voice. “I need your help. Now more than ever.”
There was a click as he hung up. I stared at the phone for a moment, thinking how fast fifteen years of friendship had evaporated. I took a long pull on the Beck’s, then another, the lager icy against the back of my throat.
Almost immediately the phone started ringing, Larssen’s number showing on the screen. I rejected the call; I had to get things straight in my head before I talked to him again.
Going back to my house was not an option. And in any case, there was only one place that I could think of to go—one place that might hold some answers. I had to follow Ben, find him before the police found me. What had he said in his email to Mel?
Need to see an old mate at home.
He had just renewed membership at his favorite casino, in his hometown. It couldn’t be a coincidence. I did a quick Google search and checked my watch. It was tight, but just about possible if I didn’t hang about. The cell phone beeped as I took another long pull on the Beck’s—a new message as Larssen spoke to the answering machine. The phone’s battery was showing about 50 percent, and I had a moment of unease about doing what I had to do with a dead phone battery, cut off from everything—it was the one thing I had left to rely on. I went into the Sainsbury’s next door and bought an Apple charger, then withdrew £200 from the cashpoint outside, my maximum daily amount. The cell phone rang again, a withheld number.
“Hello?”
A woman’s voice. Husky. “Hello there. This is Lorna. You called me earlier.”
Lorna. It didn’t ring a bell. “I did?”
“This morning. Lorna from VIP—you were too shy to leave a message.”
“Oh. Yes, of course.” The escort agency. “Thanks for … calling back.”
“So what sort of thing are you looking for, sir? What’s your fantasy?”
Think. VIP provided “male and female companions” for dates, nights out, and consensual sex. The truth was, I had no idea how it was relevant to Mel’s affair with Ben—but it must be relevant somehow; otherwise, she wouldn’t have tried to conceal it.
“I’m … I’m looking for a repeat booking, actually. My wife and I used your company recently and were very satisfied with the evening. I was hoping to book in another visit. Same again.”
“Surname?”
I told her.
“Sorry. We’ve had no booking under that name.”
What name would she use?
Of course. Her maiden name.
“She would have
booked it under the surname Bailey.”
A pause.
“Ah. Yes. Here we go.” The sound of keys clicking on a keyboard. “Are you sure you want the repeat booking? I could text you a little selection, in case you’d like to meet one of our other escorts.”
I checked my watch again. Time was getting short.
“Listen, Lorna, sorry, but can I call you back a bit later? I’ve got to be somewhere.”
“Sure, darlin’. I’ll send you links to a few pages on our site, see what you think she might like.”
“Including the original booking?”
“Of course.”
“Great. Sounds good.”
“Oh, our boys and girls are always good,” she said, the practiced patter of an experienced madam. “Very, very good.”
I swung my leg back over the moped and headed for King’s Cross. I pushed it as fast as it would go, went through three red lights and up on the pavement a couple of times to save time getting through traffic-clogged junctions. It was ten past five by the time I was buying a single ticket for the 17:18 to Sunderland—paying in cash—and then I ran all the way from the ticket office across the concourse, through the barriers and down the platform, jumping aboard the train just before the guard slammed the last of the doors shut.
I was headed north. In search of answers.
66
North London slid past outside the train window. Tunnels of Victorian brick and graffitied concrete, a dual carriageway winding overhead. Old terraced houses pushed up too close to the tracks, grimy and tired, sagging with age. Ben was out there somewhere, hiding, laughing, congratulating himself on how clever he was for outsmarting everyone. Waiting for his moment. But how long would he wait before he came back? His endgame was all about Mel, about driving a wedge between us and exploiting that weakness to prize our marriage apart. Wrecking my reputation was a part of that, throwing enough mud so that some would stick, so that I would always be tainted with guilt. Because eventually he would—at a time of his own choosing. I was sure of it. He would be back, sooner or later, to show who had won. Who was the best. And to the victor, the spoils.
I felt totally alone, cut adrift from everything normal, carried along on a powerful current.
My phone was plugged in and charging. It buzzed with a notification, making a rattling sound on the table in front of me.
Where are you? Worried sick. Police just left. Call me. xxx
5:25 P.M. Mel cell
I stared at the text for a minute, typed a reply, thought about it for a moment, then deleted it. Typed another reply. Deleted it again. As I contemplated a third, the phone started ringing in my hand, the tone loud and intrusive in the half-empty carriage.
Larssen’s cell phone number showed on the display.
“Joe?”
“Yeah, it’s me.”
“Are you all right?”
“Fine.”
The train sounded its two-tone horn as it built up some speed, and Larssen was silent for a moment.
“Where are you?” he said slowly.
“On a train.”
He gave a little sigh of disappointment. “A train to where, exactly?”
I told him, feeling his disapproval coming through the phone line like white noise.
“And when are you planning to return from this jaunt?” His tone was acidic.
“As soon as I find Ben.”
“And that means what? Days? Weeks?”
“Not long. A day or two.”
“The longer you leave it, the longer you are not available for interview, the harder my job becomes. And that means it becomes harder for me to represent you effectively.”
“I know all that, and I’m sorry. But did you call me up to tell me off again, or was there something else that you need to tell me about?”
“You asked me to call.”
“Did I?”
“Yesterday you asked me about a car registration number. A Range Rover you saw at the park.”
A surge of adrenaline made me sit up straight. “Did you trace the owner?”
“Remember what I said to you earlier, about information I’m not supposed to have access to?”
Please let it be good news, just for once. Just for a change.
“Yes?”
“This falls into the same category, so don’t ask where it comes from.”
“OK, I understand. But did you find the driver of the Range Rover?”
“Yes and no.”
“What does that mean?”
“The vehicle is owned by a company, not a person.”
“Like a shell company?”
“No. Enterprise Rent-A-Car.”
“You’re saying it’s a rental?”
“So it would seem. Although it’s conceivable the plates had been switched.”
“Can you find out who it’s rented by?”
“A PNC check—that’s the Police National Computer—only provides ownership information. We’re not going to get client detail like that without a proper police investigation of the rental records.”
“Do you think Naylor could be persuaded?”
“On the basis of a random sighting in a parking lot? Not a hope in hell.”
“It wasn’t random. They were clearly following Beth, looking for her husband.”
“Still, there’s not a hope of persuading Naylor without something more concrete.”
“There’s something going on with this Alex Kolnik guy. He’s been to Ben’s house. He’s harassing Ben’s wife. That’s his car, and he’s up to something, I’m just not sure what yet. Have you asked Naylor about him?”
“Sure. Can do.” He didn’t sound enthusiastic.
“And can your source get the info about who’s rented this car?”
“No. And I’m not going to tell you the reasons why, so don’t go there.”
I sat back again, deflated. “The Range Rover is basically a bust, then.”
“It seems so.”
“You know Naylor turned up at my house earlier?” I said. “And his partner and two in uniform.”
“I did warn you the time was coming, today or tomorrow. There’s no running away from this, Joe. You’ve got to stand and face it head-on. Deal with it.”
“I’m not running away.”
“You’re doing the exact opposite of what I advised earlier today when we met at the wine bar. Go in voluntarily, show willing, take the initiative away from the police.”
“Spend the next six months on remand for a crime that hasn’t even happened?”
“That’s a very pessimistic view.”
“Or realistic, maybe. I’m sorry, Peter, but this is something I have to do.”
For a moment he said nothing, and I thought the connection had been lost. I pressed the phone to my ear.
“You keep saying that, Joe, but you’re forgetting what I’m trying to do for you.”
“They haven’t found it yet, have they?”
“Found what?”
“A body. All that police manpower at the country park, all that expertise and technology, all the sniffer dogs, all the digging, ground-penetrating radar, and whatever else they’ve got, all that time and effort in such a small area. And still they’ve come up empty-handed. You know why that is?”
More silence.
“You still there?” I said.
“I’m starting to suspect that we no longer have an understanding, Joe.”
I didn’t like the sound of that. “My understanding is that I’m paying you for legal advice.”
“Yes. But unless you get off that train at the next stop and come right back to London, I’m going to have to reconsider our arrangement.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means I will have to consider whether the best interests of both parties are served by our continuing involvement.” His words were intermittent now, the line breaking up as the train moved through tunnels and cuttings bordered with concrete.
“Or if it would
… for all concerned … our contractual relationship was terminated at this … you find an alternative—”
The line went silent. Larssen’s voice was gone, cut off by another tunnel. It didn’t matter: his message had been clear enough. I put the phone on the table in front of me. The train was gathering speed as it threw off the shackles of the capital, climbing out of a cutting and onto an embankment overlooking a dual carriageway. The red brake lights of hundreds of cars matched our pace, snaking into the distance, heading north. The cell phone vibrated with a new call. Larssen again. I rejected the call, put the phone on silent, and put it in my pocket.
It was four hours to Sunderland. Night was creeping in, casting my reflection in the window. There were dark shadows under my eyes, two days’ worth of stubble on my cheeks. I looked tired, frightened, hunted. Like a man who had already been tried and found guilty.
My wife had cheated on me. Her ex-lover was trying to set me up for murder. My best friend had turned his back on me, and my lawyer was about to drop me like a condemned man.
From here on in, I was on my own.
67
The Mirage Casino was dark and busy. A pair of bouncers turned their unsmiling faces on me as I walked in, but neither of them looked like Steven Beecham, and they almost immediately shifted their attention to a loud group of lads coming in behind me. I hadn’t been in a casino since Adam’s stag trip to Las Vegas five years previously, and while the city of sin had very little in common with Sunderland, all casinos had certain things in common: plenty of booze, no clocks, no windows, good-looking dealers, and happy drunks who thought they were on a winning streak. The blackjack area was toward the back, past the roulette tables and slots and small-stakes poker. It looked like a poker tournament was on, a couple of dozen players hunched around four tables, colorful chips stacked up in front of them.
Aside from poker, blackjack was Ben’s other favorite casino game because it was the nearest you could get to being even odds with the house. A player with a sharp brain and a good memory could do well at it. Ben had both. Tonight, my instincts told me that if he was here, he would be playing whichever game allowed him to stake the most. I couldn’t see him from the bar—it was too dark, too crowded—so I bought a beer and took a slow walk around the blackjack tables. Five players, ten-pound minimum bet. Much too small-time for Ben. The tables farther back were twenty and forty pounds per deal, still too much like small change for a guy who thought nothing of spending three grand on a Savile Row suit.
