The House of Fame

by Oliver Harris

  He got dressed fast. The film crew were on the stairs. Belsey could hear Gabby’s nasal instructions from somewhere down there. He stepped silently past the room that looked like a hairdresser’s and saw Amber sitting in one of the chairs, watching a wall-mounted TV as a woman wound rollers into her hair.

  Belsey kept his head down, moving swiftly and purposefully out of her life. There would be the usual photographers out the front: he used the stalker exit, through the garden and over the wall.

  Fuck that, Belsey thought, continuing fast towards Camden. He was hungry. He walked into a café on the High Street then changed his mind and ducked down a side road to a smaller establishment with fewer windows. He ordered eggs, bacon and coffee, took a seat at the back. His phone rang. This time he answered it.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Nick! Andy Price here. Left you a voice message.’

  ‘How did you get my number?’

  ‘I got passed it. Someone said they met you last night.’

  ‘Have you given my number to anyone else?’

  ‘No, Nick. I’m a professional – and I’m here to help.’

  ‘I’m not looking for publicity right now.’

  ‘Sometimes publicity comes looking for you.’ He laughed, coughed.

  ‘It’s not a game I’m playing.’

  ‘Sure. Terri Baker says she met you at the house yester—’

  Belsey hung up. There were many things he needed; a career in show business wasn’t high on the list. He sipped his coffee, searched himself online. Nothing, he was relieved to see. He searched Loulou’s, got a photograph of an attractive young woman it took him a second to recognise as Chloe. She was outdoors somewhere, in sunshine, smiling. She looked even prettier than he remembered. On the BBC News page. ‘Woman found stabbed to death in Mayfair.’

  Belsey stared at the screen. The story had gone up fifty minutes ago.

  The woman found stabbed to death in a residential street in Mayfair, central London, has been named as 22-year-old Chloe Burlington, daughter of Sir Malcolm Burlington. An ambulance was called but the victim was pronounced dead at the scene.

  Her body was discovered by a local resident in the early hours of the morning, just moments from the private members’ club Loulou’s, popular with A-list celebrities and royalty. It is believed the victim had been attending an event at the club.

  Belsey got up, switched the café’s TV on.

  ‘Excuse me,’ the owner said.

  ‘I need to check something.’ The screen showed a BBC reporter on Piccadilly looking serious. Behind her, a thin line of police tape interrupted Down Street, heading up towards Loulou’s. ‘That’s all the information they’ve released. We’re expecting a more comprehensive update at around eleven, when the Chief Inspector will be hosting a press conference.’

  The ticker at the bottom of the screen scrolled past: ‘22-year-old socialite in fatal stabbing.’

  The obese café owner craned his neck to see the screen, appeared indifferent. The TV cut back to the studio and a weather forecast.

  Belsey clicked through to Sky News. Same police tape from a more acute angle. No additional information. He put a tenner on the counter, walked to the high street and caught a cab.

  ‘Piccadilly.’

  He barely saw the city pass. They followed the route he and Amber had driven last night, which seemed to emphasise something bizarre about chance and something that wasn’t chance. He was conscious, in a vague, professional sense, of an element of shock, in the way you have glimmers of self-awareness on a drunken night. He saw her looking at him, remembered the warmth of her mouth, and tried to understand that she was dead.

  He got out his phone. The call he’d missed from her came at 12.19. That can’t have been long before she was killed. What had she wanted to say? He thought about Chloe’s expression when she saw Mark Doughty’s ID. Staring at it, her face darkening somehow. Staring at Belsey as if he’d brought her bad news. And then clinging to him. He called Maureen Doughty as they drove.

  ‘Maureen, it’s Nick Belsey, from yesterday.’

  ‘Have you found anything out?’

  ‘I’m not sure. I want you to call me if you hear from him. That’s important, Maureen. If Mark calls or visits, you contact me immediately, OK?’

  He reached Piccadilly at 8.35 a.m. Traffic was snarled by the number of emergency service vehicles parked along both sides of the road.

  ‘Nightmare,’ the driver said. ‘It’s going to be like this all morning.’ Belsey paid and got out. A long line of media sat alongside Green Park, from the Ritz down to Hyde Park Corner: broadcasting vans, random cars illegally parked. Police vehicles filled the other side of the road, in front of the Park Lane Hotel and the Japanese embassy. They’d kept Piccadilly itself open to traffic but taped off the alleyways north into Mayfair. These were occupied by Scene of Crime vans.

  He headed for the tape. It was a cold, bright day. Wind whipped down Piccadilly towards the Wellington Arch. The brass horses on top of the monument reared up, hooves kicking at a hard, white sky. Three constables guarded the tape, fielding questions from tourists. Sneaking through wasn’t viable.

  Belsey walked to the Park Lane Hotel, skipped up the steps.

  ‘Is this where I check in?’ he asked a doorman in top hat and tails.

  ‘Straight through, sir. On your right.’ He held the door open. Belsey walked briskly past the reception desk, down a corridor to the back of the hotel. Fire doors led onto Brick Street.

  He followed alleyways towards the crime scene. The area was a warren that had served individuals seeking expensive discretion throughout history – he remembered reading about its high-class whores. The small, winding streets must have given good cover to the eighteenth-century punters. They’d gone now, brothels converted into expensive restaurants and skincare clinics. It was a ghost town this morning. Security grilles over shop windows. The whole area had been sealed off, right up to Curzon Street. No fewer than five pairs of plain-clothes officers worked Down Street and Hertford Street, knocking on doors, trying to summon up a witness. Senior police stood in scattered huddles at the junction of the two roads. Scene of Crime officers in white boiler suits came and went from Stanhope Row.

  Belsey turned the corner onto Market Mews and saw the forensics tent. It filled the road, sudden and incongruous as an air bag. An inner cordon of police tape surrounded it. More SOCOs came and went from the tent. Several performed careful operations in front, charting the tarmac: photographing, measuring, combing and collecting.

  It was a couple of hundred metres west of Loulou’s. Not a very visible couple of hundred metres if you decided to walk it at night. Market Mews was barely the width of a car, cobbled, blind, reached via the backs of restaurants and hotel loading bays. Wrong direction for transport or shops. A dog-leg turn into it, so that most of the road was totally hidden from the world. There was no reason you’d end up there after leaving the club.

  He approached a pair of DCs doing door-to-door enquiries.

  ‘Excuse me, who can I speak to about the investigation?’ They looked at him suspiciously.

  ‘Who are you?’

  ‘I’m based locally. I have information.’

  ‘What information?’

  ‘Information about the victim. About Chloe Burlington. About a possible suspect.’

  The pair looked around for a senior officer. Either they sensed significance or trouble. The older one led him towards the broad back of a grey-haired man scribbling notes, resting papers on the bonnet of a car.

  ‘Sir.’

  The officer turned, saw Belsey. His eyes widened. Belsey’s heart sank.

  ‘Geoff.’

  ‘Nick. Of all people.’

  Not the homicide officer Belsey would have chosen to run into. Anywhere, ever. DCI Geoff ‘Bullseye’ McGovern. His first mentor in CID. First and last.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ McGovern asked.

  ‘He says he might have information,’ the c
onstable said.

  ‘Really?’ A cruel smile played at the corners of the Inspector’s mouth. ‘How thoughtful of you to come down. Let me get you a coffee.’ He led Belsey away from the other officers, stopped when they were around the corner. ‘What the fuck are you up to, Nick?’

  ‘I was there last night. At the club.’ Belsey found Mark Doughty’s ID in his wallet. ‘I think this is the guy who did it.’

  ‘Yeah?’

  McGovern glanced at the ID then back at Belsey. Belsey studied his former boss. Six foot, heavy-set. He’d lost weight but not in the way that made you look healthy. His greying hair was cropped close, high forehead still ready to break your nose.

  ‘I met her,’ Belsey said. ‘I spoke to her.’

  ‘Are you winding me up?’

  ‘No.’

  McGovern looked disgusted by the whole scenario. He turned away and continued down Brick Street. Belsey followed. Nine years, he thought. Nine years since they’d last seen each other. But then time was a weak thing compared to hate. Still, McGovern was a good detective on his day. And hate was a connection of sorts. Hate, and the miracle of having survived.

  Belsey caught up with the DI as he ducked under the tape, back onto Piccadilly. The media scrum across the road was growing. Belsey kept his head down. McGovern stopped at a shiny new BMW and beeped the locks. Certainly not a Met car. Belsey wondered if he was still on the take. McGovern chucked paperwork onto the passenger seat, took a bottle of hand sanitiser from the dashboard.

  ‘Give me ten minutes,’ Belsey said. ‘For old times’ sake.’

  McGovern had the good grace to laugh. In the full light, Belsey saw the scar, a neat arc of white that began at the corner of the Inspector’s mouth and led down beneath the jaw; the curve of a broken pint glass, stopping an inch from the artery. I almost did it, Belsey thought. I almost killed the bastard.

  McGovern closed the car door.

  ‘Ten minutes,’ he said. ‘For old times’ sake.’

  Piccolo Sandwich Bar was a 1950s relic: vinyl seats, photos of Sinatra and three generations of taciturn men in stained white aprons. Belsey and McGovern queued in silence. Breakfast with Bullseye. It used to be a ritual – the post-crime-scene fry-up. He remembered McGovern ordering him a full English on his first call-out with Borough CID, one involving a month-old corpse they’d unwrapped from a carpet in a recycling depot. Don’t skimp on the extras, Nicky. This one’s on me. Tuck in.

  McGovern ordered tea, black. He took a banana from a dish on the counter. Type 2 diabetes, Belsey guessed. A man on doctor’s orders. Not wife’s orders; no remarriage according to his ring finger. McGovern took his tea to a stool by the front window, perching like someone who didn’t intend to get comfortable. There was a stiffness to the way he held himself which could have been age or his senior rank, or a wariness particular to this encounter.

  Belsey ordered a double espresso and joined him. McGovern reached inside his jacket and, for a second, Belsey half expected the old 30ml of Smirnoff to appear. He took out saccharins. They sipped and watched the street, both being careful, as if a wrong movement could open a floodgate of toxic memory. Old times. For Belsey, they coalesced to a single vision of the Crown, their last Christmas Eve, every bottle smashed, alcohol pouring onto the floor behind the bar. McGovern looking for a weapon with which to retaliate. Quite a mentor. He was dry now, Belsey could tell: fury had retreated to the last stronghold of the eyes. With his saccharin and banana, his awkward bulk and strangler’s hands. No longer larger than life. No longer Bullseye, with psychological flaws that set the tone for an entire CID unit.

  ‘Eight minutes.’ McGovern checked his watch. Belsey placed Mark’s ID on the ledge.

  ‘Mark Doughty. Forty-one years old. He lives at 37 Herbert Street, in Kentish Town. He has a thing about celebrities, socialites, party girls. I found instructions on making poison in his bedroom. I also found Amber Knight’s passport and underwear.’

  ‘Amber Knight.’

  ‘Mark Doughty scores drugs off a dealer called Lee Chester. That’s how I heard about him. He owes Lee money and he’s on the run, not seen since Saturday.’

  ‘And what do you think he’s got to do with it?’

  ‘I showed Chloe Burlington this ID last night and she seemed to recognise him. She then tried to call me, just after midnight. What time was she killed?’

  McGovern picked up the ID and almost let himself appear interested. He set it back down.

  ‘Not long after. Has he got previous?’

  ‘I haven’t checked.’

  McGovern stared at the greasy brown surface of his tea.

  ‘You knew her well?’

  ‘I met her last night,’ Belsey said.

  ‘What time?’

  ‘About half-ten, maybe eleven. It’s hard to say.’

  ‘When did you last see her?’

  ‘Approximately half an hour after I met her. She had a friend, a model called Tatiana. I didn’t see her speak to anyone else.’

  ‘What time did you leave?’

  ‘A bit after midnight.’

  ‘Alone?’

  ‘With Amber Knight.’

  McGovern nodded.

  ‘Of course you did, Nick. And where did you go with Amber fucking Knight?’

  ‘Back to hers. She thinks I’m a security guard.’

  ‘But it’s this Mark guy I should be worried about.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  McGovern sipped, winced, set his mug down.

  ‘Was she sexually assaulted?’ Belsey asked.

  ‘Not that we can tell.’

  ‘Stuff taken?’

  ‘We can’t find her phone.’

  ‘Whereabouts was she stabbed?’

  ‘Throat.’

  ‘Just the once?’

  ‘Yeah. There’s also a skull fracture and a broken right cheekbone. Looks like she might have fallen or been thrown up against the wall, maybe punched – huge smack on the head anyway. The throat might have been a coup de grâce. I’m not sure whoever did it meant it to end that way.’

  ‘How did she get there? Did she leave the club alone?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Checked with paps?’

  ‘We’re checking with everyone, aren’t we. So far no one’s sure when she left. And the paps were all moved on by the bouncers around half-eleven.’

  ‘Why did she walk in that direction?’ Belsey said. ‘If she was alone. Why did she not get straight into a cab?’

  ‘Maybe she wasn’t alone. Or maybe she met up with someone after leaving. Keeping it discreet.’

  For the first time McGovern tore his gaze from Piccadilly and looked straight at Belsey.

  ‘Any idea who, Nick? Because, you see, your business card was on the ground. A foot or so from the body. Your old business card, as far as I understand.’

  And it was then Belsey realised McGovern had sat between himself and the door. There were three squad cars parked across the road from the café. He saw, again, McGovern’s expression when he’d turned from his notes on the car bonnet. Surprised: pleasantly surprised. Like something had fallen into his lap.

  ‘Was her bag there?’ Belsey asked. ‘It could have fallen from the bag.’

  ‘You gave her an old business card?’

  ‘It has my mobile number on. Her bag was there, right?’

  McGovern nodded.

  ‘Was it open?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But nothing else taken, apart from the phone?’

  ‘Doesn’t look like it.’

  ‘Traced the phone?’

  ‘Signal cuts just east of Avenue Road, about an hour later.’

  ‘That’s in the direction of Mark Doughty’s home.’

  McGovern nodded again, slowly. He picked up the ID.

  ‘Can I take this?’

  ‘I was hoping you would. Who’s heading the investigation?’ Belsey asked.

  ‘A guy called Steve Tanner. West End Central.’

&n
bsp; ‘Know him?’

  ‘He’s all right.’ McGovern put the tea down, finished his banana and folded the peel beside his mug. ‘They’ve tried to get in touch with you.’

  ‘There’s a lot of messages I haven’t listened to yet.’

  ‘They’ll keep trying, I’m sure.’

  McGovern pocketed the ID. He pushed his mug away, stared out of the window at the plush trees.

  ‘I bumped into Mick Donovan down in Elephant the other week.’

  ‘Long time. How’s he keeping?’

  ‘He told me about this misconduct investigation into you. Is it happening?’

  ‘I reckon.’

  ‘Know anything else about it?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘It’ll get historical though.’

  ‘You think they’ll drag you in? You’re employee of the fucking year, Geoff. No one wants to stir up that much.’

  ‘People who don’t know anything sometimes do.’

  ‘It’s not in my hands, is it.’

  ‘This is.’

  ‘What are you saying?’

  ‘I mean there’s going to be a shitload of attention on you now. Because of this.’

  ‘So it seems.’

  ‘I can steer it away.’

  ‘Christ, Geoff. Don’t make this worse than it already is.’

  ‘I think you need a favour here. Maybe you don’t realise how badly. What I need is you to be very fucking careful if the IPCC are going to start poking around in the past. If it’s getting archaeological you need to tell them where to dig.’

  So this was it – manoeuvres, self-protection. Welcome back to the old school. Belsey remembered what was most disturbing about McGovern: the sense that he was driven by something too febrile, too gleeful, to call a sense of justice. It was a love of power or, more accurately, the games involved; of violence. A sadist who thought that winning meant you were on the right side. Belsey used to work in a station full of them.

  ‘You could have played it clever, Nick. You know police is a family. No one wants to turn against their own.’

  ‘You once told me a family’s just the people statistically most likely to kill you.’

  McGovern allowed himself his second smile of the day. The squad cars peeled off into the traffic. He’d been paranoid. McGovern had been clever, using whatever props came to hand. Belsey remembered that lesson.