A second vehicle might explain how Amber got out of there.
What else might it explain?
The first two officers he’d encountered were talking to the Vauxhall Insignia woman now, thumbing in Belsey’s direction. She gave an instruction and the sergeant glanced towards Belsey’s Audi, lifted his radio and read the licence plate.
It would come back registered to Nick Belsey.
Nick Belsey would come up as wanted by the police.
That would be thought-provoking.
Response vehicles kept piling in, Metropolitan Police as well as Essex. It was a Tuesday, late turn; no one was going to miss out on a corpse. More tape wrapped the scene as the SOCOs ordered an outer cordon. Soon the road would be blocked entirely: two more forensics vans were already struggling to park, another squad car and a traffic-police motorbike queuing behind.
Belsey walked back to the Audi.
‘I’ll move this out of your way,’ he said, climbing in. The classic crime-scene mistake: not man-marking their witness. Bigger the scene, messier the operation. He started the engine, swung out fast, tearing past the DCI and the sergeant. The fresh roll of tape snapped out of someone’s hand as he caught it.
Belsey stepped on the accelerator and headed to Primrose Hill.
18
HE SPED BACK INTO LONDON, once again wondering at the limits of Amber Knight’s abilities. Amber in the passenger seat. Mark Doughty in the boot. Mark Doughty, who she’d been with twenty-four hours earlier in the Comfort Hotel, wrapped in a pair of sheets.
There’d be an alert on his vehicle now. Belsey kept to back roads, away from cameras and patrol cars. He arrived in Primrose Hill shortly before one a.m. The streets were quiet. He left his car a block away from Amber’s house and walked. He could see lights on in her home. Three fans in blankets waited by her gate, two paps with Thermos flasks encamped across the road.
Belsey went around the back, into the neighbour’s abandoned garden. He shifted the ladder into place, crossed to the roof of the shed and dropped down to the garden. All was still, dark, no security lights. He took a breath then moved slowly towards the back window. Amber was curled up on the sofa in the living room, oblivious behind her wall of glass. She looked like something trapped in a vast block of ice. She looked normal.
He spent a voyeuristic moment wondering at her calm. Pink shorts, white vest. No make-up. Hair in a messy bun, face pale in the light of her MacBook. He tried to imagine her dragging a corpse through a wood. It wasn’t easy. Beside her, splayed face-down on the sofa, was a small black book. Leather cover. The diary Terri Baker had mentioned. The one she’d been looking for. Amber said she was recording the truth about things: love, fame, growing up. She’d been doing plenty of growing up in the last week or so. Belsey wondered what observations the book might contain.
No movement in the other windows of the house. No sign of the new security. Belsey took another step and the security lights came on. Amber looked up, couldn’t see him in the glare. He knocked on the glass and she got to her feet, startled. She peered out, then saw him. She approached the glass cautiously, opened the sliding door.
‘You gave me a heart attack.’
‘Are you alone?’
‘Yes. Why?’
‘I need to speak to you.’
Belsey slid the door closed behind him. Amber moved the MacBook and diary. He sat on the sofa, beside her.
‘What are you up to?’ he asked. ‘Just chilling?’
‘I guess.’ She looked at him, then down at the floor. ‘I’m sorry you got caught up in the fuss about us going to Loulou’s. These things blow over fast.’
‘It’s been pretty insane, to be honest.’
‘Welcome to my world. Enjoy it while it lasts, that’s what I say. I heard you’re going to do some stuff on TV.’
‘Am I?’
‘I don’t mind. Good luck to you.’
‘What’s going on, Amber?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘What do you think I mean?’
Her expression faltered.
‘Do you want a drink?’
‘That’s not what I’m here for.’
‘I’m going to get some water.’
She went to the kitchen, taking the diary with her. Belsey opened the MacBook. Online, five tabs of news sites, UK and international. He shut it as she returned. She sipped water from a crystal wine glass, sat beside him, put the glass down. No sign of the diary.
‘Who sent you here?’ she asked.
‘No one sent me. I’m very much self-motivated right now. In fact, I was just in Epping. Why do you reckon I was there?’
She nodded, which was an odd response. She looked down at the floor again. Finally she made eye contact.
‘Trust me,’ she said.
‘Trust you.’ He stared at her. Gave her a moment. ‘So who killed Chloe Burlington?’ Amber flinched. Again, it struck him as an odd response, not so much guilty, but as if he was being crass, transgressing propriety.
‘There’s something you’re not going to understand,’ she said.
‘Give it a go.’
‘I can’t.’
‘Somebody’s making you do this.’
Amber put a finger to his lips. She shook her head, eyes brimming. She was scared, but it didn’t feel like it was entirely for herself.
‘I can help,’ Belsey said. ‘If you tell me what’s going on.’
She shook her head again, slowly. ‘Please, just stay away.’
‘What’s it got to do with a kid called Conor Shaw, Amber?’
The tears stopped. ‘How do you know about him?’
‘That’s not the urgent question here.’
‘This is nothing to do with you. Don’t come stumbling in.’
‘Don’t come stumbling in?’
Something was driving her. He had no doubt about that. When someone’s in a situation like hers and doesn’t crumble, it’s because they have a greater fear than their own imprisonment. She was drawing a desperate strength from something.
‘Seriously—’ She paused, breathed ‘—this is nothing to do with you.’ Another breath. ‘You’ll get more people killed if you keep going around asking questions.’
‘Why? What’s going on?’
The front door opened. A woman called out: ‘Amber?’ The manager, Karen. Belsey turned towards the sound. Amber smashed her wine glass into the side of his head.
He felt the blow like a punch, got instinctively to his feet, staggered out of reach. His fingers came away bloody when he felt his left temple. He saw the glass broken in Amber’s hand. It had cut deep. Fat drops of blood appeared on the carpet around him. Amber came at him again. He grabbed her wrist and the glass fell. He pulled her to the ground and got a knee in her chest.
Karen entered the living room with a security guard. She screamed. The guard picked up the piano stool. He was built, shirt straining.
‘Help me,’ Amber called from the floor. Belsey clambered back to his feet.
The guard approached, stool in his right hand, arms spread as if dealing with a wild animal. ‘Call the police,’ he said to Karen. She was already fumbling for her phone.
Belsey, bleeding, moved for the sliding doors.
19
HE HEADED FOR THE AUDI, trying to staunch the bleeding with a wad of used Kleenex from the depths of his coat pocket. A guy on a Vespa appeared from out of nowhere, lifted his camera and fired off a round of shots. A second man pulled up in a Mini, blocking Belsey’s car, climbing out with camera raised.
Belsey turned away, stumbled back to the high street. He crossed the bridge into Chalk Farm. An area-response car passed, heading towards Amber’s, braked hard, pulled a U-turn. Belsey cut across Chalk Farm Road. There was a drunk crowd spilling out of Marathon Kebab House in the wake of a brawl.
He dived in.
Marathon was one of the few local places where you could buy alcohol after hours. A live band played in the back room, oblivious to th
e fight at the front. Kebab meat was strewn across the floor. Belsey pushed his way through. People stared at the blood, but it all seemed part of the fun. He moved between guitarists, over an amplifier, found the ‘Staff Only’ door. It opened onto an outside rubbish area. Up onto a beer crate, to the wall, to the back of a budget hotel with a gate to the Belmont Street Estate.
Breathe.
No one following. He reckoned he knew the estates better than the paps. Probably better than whichever area sergeant he’d almost encountered on the high street. Another siren called: faint, back towards Primrose Hill. Belsey headed deeper into the maze of public housing, sat for a moment behind someone’s wheelie bin as he tried to clean the head wound with a hose tap.
He needed to fix up properly, lie low, rehydrate. Only one place came to mind.
The power had cut again at Maureen Doughty’s. It allowed him to get to the bathroom before she could see his injuries. He undressed and rinsed himself, fashioned a makeshift bandage, dressed the wound. He swallowed some of Maureen’s painkillers. He took a shirt from the cupboard in Mark’s bedroom.
He came back downstairs, checked the window, drew the curtains.
‘Don’t answer the door to anyone. Especially other police.’
‘Why? What’s going on?’
‘Nothing. We just need some peace for tonight, Maureen. OK?’
‘OK.’
He took an armchair, sat in the dark with her and let the meds kick in. Listened to squad cars crawl the estate outside, searching for him. He could see her eyes in the darkness, wet points of concern, studying the strange man who kept turning up where her son should be.
‘How long’s the electricity been gone?’ Belsey asked.
‘Not too long.’
‘Do you know how to charge the key?’
‘I think so. I can never find it.’
‘Is there anyone else who can come and help for a bit?’
‘Mark will come back soon.’
‘Maybe.’ He couldn’t bring himself to make a death announcement. Not wearing the dead man’s shirt. ‘What if he doesn’t?’ Belsey said.
‘He will.’
‘Do you have any other relatives in London?’
‘No.’
‘You go to church, don’t you? Know people through that?’
‘I can’t get there any more. Hip.’
When the sirens faded, it was peaceful. Belsey took his phone out and searched for news on the Epping body. Nothing yet. He pictured Amber, that scene.
Maureen Doughty dozed off. He thought of his own mother, and the belated gesture of his sitting vigil in Lewisham Hospital. An individual spent by those around her. Broken by his father in more ways than one. And by him, no doubt. That a life can be that, fuel used up in other people’s fire. Propping up and excusing cuntish men.
He eased himself out of the armchair, up the creaky stairs to Mark’s room. Lit a candle.
If you seek his monument, look around you.
Notes, print-outs, magazines, books. Belsey sifted the clippings again. At the bottom of a pile he found one that wasn’t about the world of celebrity. Not directly anyway.
It was three sheets of advice on counter-surveillance.
The sheets had been printed recently by the look of the paper. The first few tips were obvious enough: ‘Avoid SMS text messages. Leave mobiles at home, or remove the battery to defend against tracking. Face-to-face conversations are the safest bet.’
It got more paranoid as it proceeded. ‘Detach external microphones and cameras from your laptop or cover the lens of attached cameras with a small piece of tape when they aren’t in use. This ensures that remote activation of those mics and cameras is one less thing to worry about.’
There were instructions on how to securely delete data, how to encrypt iPhones and Windows devices. How to use encryption tools ‘to “tunnel” communications securely over the Internet’. Finally it listed commercially available bug detectors and signal jammers.
Who did Mark think was bugging him? Press? Because of Amber, maybe. Maybe she gave him the documents. How exciting. Transgressive. Had it all been worth dying for, some hours snatched in the Comfort Hotel? A blinding flash as all your dreams ignite at once; a fuck in return for your life. Would Mark consent to that deal?
Then the line of thought broke – and he heard the smooth voice of Chloe Burlington’s lawyer: She said she had fears about her phone calls being listened to. Mark wasn’t the only one with worries, was he.
Belsey cleared enough papers off the bed to find a seat. The mattress retained the hollow imprint of a living Mark Doughty. Encrypted now and for ever. The moon shone through the curtains, a cold, unflinching light. He looked around and wondered when Mark’s obsessions would realise their master was gone, and the lonely clippings would start to curl.
He put a finger to his bandage. It came away warm, tacky. What was possessing Amber? Something terrifying, for sure. There’s something you’re not going to understand. Turns out there was plenty.
The landline rang.
Belsey got to his feet. He checked the time: 2.50 a.m. His first thought was police, but police didn’t ring. Not when something needed doing at 2.50 a.m.
‘Hello?’ Maureen answered. Belsey stepped slowly down the stairs. There was a long silence, then she spoke again: ‘Yes. Yes . . . No. But sweetheart, I’m so worried about you.’ She saw Belsey, covered the receiver. ‘It’s him.’
‘Mark?’
‘Yes.’
‘Are you sure?’
She nodded. Her whole being had lit up.
Belsey leaned close, heard a man’s voice on the other end of the line: ‘. . . won’t be long, Mum. I promise. It’s just not safe right now.’
‘And you can’t say more, darling?’
‘No. I wish . . . I wish I could explain.’ It was the voice of someone trying hard not to sound scared. ‘If you don’t see or hear from me, it means I’m safe.’
‘OK, love.’
‘Has anyone visited you?’ There was a pause. Then Mark said: ‘Mum – is someone with you now?’ Maureen’s eyes flicked to Belsey. He let her decide how to play it.
‘Yes, darling,’ she said. ‘A police officer. He’s been looking after me.’
Belsey took the phone before it was too late.
‘Mark,’ he said. ‘I can help.’
‘Who is this?’
‘My name’s Nick Belsey. I understand you’re in a difficult situation, with Amber.’
Mark hung up. Belsey winced, gave the phone back.
‘He’s gone.’ Maureen kept her ear to the receiver. Belsey saw the body lying in Epping Forest and wondered who he’d found. ‘Do you know where he was calling from?’ She shook her head, put the receiver down gently in its cradle.
‘He couldn’t say. He’s hiding.’
‘Did he say why?’
‘No.’
‘Is he in London?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Did he say anything about Amber Knight?’
She shook her head.
‘If he phones back tell him I’d like to speak to him. I can help.’ Belsey wrote down his number again. ‘Tell him I understand that something’s going on and it’s not his fault.’
‘OK.’
She returned to her armchair. Belsey went back upstairs.
He picked the counter-surveillance instructions up from the bed, lay back with them held to his chest. Passed out. Woke to the sound of prayers.
Someone was holding his hand. He turned. Maureen Doughty knelt beside the bed. Four a.m. light through the curtains.
‘You’re alive,’ she said.
The pillow was wet. Belsey sat up. His bandage had slipped. The pillow and sheets were blotted a rich scarlet. Maureen Doughty watched him, wide-eyed.
‘It’s not as bad as it looks,’ Belsey said. He went to the bathroom. He’d rolled in the blood during his sleep. His face and hands were sticky with the stuff.
‘You wouldn
’t wake up,’ Maureen said.
‘I’m awake.’
He was fixing a new bandage when he heard the sirens – approaching, then cutting out.
‘That’s not for me, is it?’
‘I thought you were dying.’
‘You called an ambulance?’
‘Yes.’
Belsey shut his eyes. The sirens weren’t just ambulance sirens. There would be an alert out for male IC1s with head injuries in the Camden area.
He went to the window and watched them pull up. The ambulance, and right behind it the police convoy. They’d killed their lights and sirens before entering the estate, but it wasn’t a discreet arrival. Ambo and two squad cars, at this time of night. Curtains twitched in the ground-floor flat opposite. Then torchlight shone through Maureen Doughty’s front window. There was a heavy knock at the door.
‘Have I done something wrong?’ Maureen Doughty asked.
‘No,’ Belsey said. ‘It’s fine. Thank you. And thank you for praying.’ He answered the door before they broke it down.
20
‘DID SOMEONE CALL AN AMBULANCE?’ an officer asked. Tall, with stubble shadow, eye-balling Belsey. Behind him was a stocky colleague.
‘It was for me.’ Belsey gestured at his bandaged head.
‘Is this your home?’
‘No.’
‘Whose home is it?’
Belsey pointed into the darkness behind him, towards Maureen Doughty.
‘Can we take a look inside?’
‘Ask her.’
The tall constable walked in, the stocky one guarded Belsey.
‘Nasty knock you’ve picked up. What happened?’
‘I slipped and fell. It looks worse than it is.’
‘Want to take a seat?’ Belsey was encouraged out of the front door as the officer’s radio confirmed the description of a man wanted in relation to an aggravated burglary in Primrose Hill earlier that evening. He was given a seat on the wall of the front garden.
‘Been out tonight, sir?’ the officer asked.
They were courteous enough not to cuff him until he’d been checked by the paramedics. He got butterfly stitches and a new bandage. Once the paramedics gave him the all-clear, he was put in the back of a squad car and driven to Kentish Town police station. No familiar faces working the night shift. He sat in a holding suite for twenty minutes while a drunk was processed, then his arresting officer took him through to custody.
The House of Fame Page 14
