He was searched, possessions bagged. He’d accumulated a confusing array of notes, contracts, all folded into one papery mass. The custody sergeant wasn’t interested in them, a man in his sixties with a Scottish accent and tufts of hair coming out of his ears. Belsey handed over his belt and shoes as instructed, declined the offer of a phone call.
They assigned him to the furthest cell. Last time he’d been in the station he’d spoken to a kid being held in this very cell – third time in a month he’d been picked up transporting weapons in his school bag, nunchucks and a kung fu sword, convinced he was under threat. An underdeveloped comic-book fantasist who collided with one of the sporadic crackdowns on gangs and was looking at time in a young offenders institution. Belsey knew he wouldn’t survive Feltham and put in some effort arguing for a caution instead. That failed. He wondered where the kid was now.
The cell’s orange and white tiles reminded Belsey of public swimming baths from his childhood. A line of thick glass bricks in the centre of the back wall gave the approximation of a window – but he knew the other side was just a corridor. Belsey got as comfortable as he could on the blue, plastic mattress. They had twenty-four hours before they needed to charge him or let him go. He put his hands behind his head, smelt vomit and thought of Amber Knight.
No great investigation had ever been conducted from a cell. Apart from those by the prisoner into their own soul, and even then not as often as commonly believed. Who had he found in Epping Forest? The dead man, whoever he was, had been at the Comfort Hotel at the same time as Amber and Mark. Belsey knew that much. Mark Doughty was in danger and on the run. Good luck, Mark. But what are you running from? The thought faded to black.
At 6 a.m. he woke to the sound of the cell being unlocked. Detective Inspector Geoff McGovern walked in.
McGovern held a preliminary pathology report and a rolled-up tabloid newspaper. Behind him, on the bench in the corridor, Belsey saw his own shoes and the bag of his possessions, freshly rifled.
‘You attacked Amber Knight.’
‘Self-defence,’ Belsey said.
‘What were you doing there?’
‘I was asking her some questions.’
‘You were in Epping before that.’
‘That’s right.’
‘Why?’
‘I thought I’d found Mark Doughty, the guy I told you about.’
‘You thought?’
‘It’s his car. It’s not his body. Have you ID’d it?’ Belsey glanced at the file in McGovern’s hand. ‘Is that a pathology report?’
But the Inspector hadn’t finished.
‘You’ve got a necklace amongst your possessions that belonged to Chloe Burlington.’
Belsey lifted himself onto his elbows then swung his feet to the ground.
‘She gave it to her friend. Her friend gave it to me.’
‘The friend you tried to stop giving a statement.’
‘I didn’t stop her. I just spoke to her first.’
‘You’re a fucking tool.’
‘Amber was with Mark Doughty at the Comfort Hotel in Finchley on Friday night.’
‘Of course she was.’
‘Seriously. It’s on CCTV.’
‘I thought Mark Doughty was some crazed stalker.’
‘I think he was.’
‘So why the fuck would she be at a hotel with him?’
‘That’s a good question, Geoff. I don’t know. The joy of degradation, perhaps. Maybe she likes the smell of public transport on his clothes. You know what I mean?’
‘I’ve no idea what you mean.’
‘Maybe they’re in love, against the odds, one of those miracles that makes life worth living.’
‘Right. And where’s Mark Doughty now?’
‘Hiding.’
McGovern took a breath. ‘Apparently you’re coining in on all of this.’
‘Am I?’
‘I hear a guy called Andy Price is managing the income from your new-found celebrity.’
Belsey laughed. ‘How much has he managed so far?’
‘Fuck knows.’
‘Show me the forensics report, Geoff.’
‘Explain to me why you think Amber Knight would be caught up in all this.’
‘Someone went to the papers with a recording.’
‘Of what?’
‘I’ve no idea. It may have been from Chloe. Maybe it was Mark. Maybe both. Who knows?’
McGovern stared at him. His phone rang and he answered.
‘I’m with him now. Kentish Town. I’ll bring him to you.’
Belsey held his palm out for the report. McGovern threw the file over, still talking on the phone. ‘We’ll be there in twenty . . .’ Belsey turned the pages. The line for victim name was blank. No ID. No fingerprint connection on the database.
Cause of death: asphyxia due to aspiration of fluid into air passages.
The pathologist had found white froth in the lungs, water in the stomach and intestines.
Salt water.
Another wave of confusion, crashing in. He read on. There were traces of salt in the victim’s hair and on his skin. The report noted the lack of socks and underwear. It was all commensurate with someone who’d drowned in salt water. Been drowned.
The image that came into Belsey’s mind was of those freak occurrences, storms that pick up water and drop it along with whatever else it contains: frogs, stones, bodies. He imagined the victim storm-tossed, lifted by a tsunami.
Belsey flicked through the rest. The skin had badly decomposed where clothes had ripped as the body was dragged along. But the arms were relatively well preserved. One flap of skin in particular had been carefully salvaged from the corpse’s upper right arm, cleaned and dried, like a fragment of parchment, before being photographed. It bore a tattoo. Insects had eaten away the edges, but you could make out what looked like ‘Angel’ in gothic black script, and, below this: ‘Jack’.
Angel Jack.
McGovern was still on the phone, eyes not moving from Belsey.
‘He’s said he was there. It’s not clear. No, he hasn’t expanded on that.’
Belsey leaned back against the cool tiles. McGovern had left his pen clipped inside the report. Gold, monogrammed. When had Geoff McGovern started using monogrammed pens, for Christ’s sake? It was heavy. In their old CID office it would have been nicked in minutes. Mocked, then stolen. Belsey took the pen and set it down on the floor, behind his left foot.
‘He was admitted into custody at two a.m. It’s OK, I’ve got the car. Get Steve there.’
Belsey took a final look at the photographs of the tattoo, angling them to get full light on the image. The ink on Jack looked fresher. He flipped back through the print-outs, to a photograph of the victim’s left hand. No wedding band.
‘Come with me,’ McGovern said, hanging up, snatching back the report.
Belsey stood and stretched, followed McGovern into the corridor and collected his bag of possessions.
‘Your pen.’
McGovern turned, saw his pen on the floor. He stepped back into the cell and Belsey shut the door.
21
YOU GET A LOT OF people banging and shouting in their cells. No one rushes to respond. But they get there eventually. Belsey took his possessions and walked fast, from the station to the residential backstreets, cutting through to Camden Road.
Out in the free world, it had gone 7 a.m. Camden Road was bleak and busy enough to lie low for a while. He sat in Cantelowes Gardens, transferred his possessions to his pockets, threaded his belt. Realised what was missing.
His passport.
The bastard.
Belsey closed his eyes, took a breath, continued down Camden Road.
The bandage was conspicuous and identifiable. He dropped into the Parma Café. He knew the chef there, Miguel. A little while back Miguel had given him some Spanish lessons in return for help with his cousin’s visa.
‘Your head,’ he said, seeing Belsey.
‘
I walked into a door.’
Belsey went down to the bathroom, removed the bandage. The wound had scabbed under the hair. His ear was amply dressed with the adhesive stitches. Dried blood rinsed off, he binned the bandage. Got a tea to take away.
‘No time for a lesson?’
‘Hoy no. Gracias, Miguel.’
Belsey cut south towards King’s Cross. By the time he was at the back of St Pancras he felt safe. He found the number for Detective Sergeant Gary Livermore, the least principled officer he’d ever had the pleasure of working with, which was saying something. Livermore answered over the sound of traffic. ‘Who’s this?’
‘It’s Nick. Got a business opportunity for you.’
‘Fuck’s sake.’ Livermore hung up. He called back a minute later from another mobile.
‘What do you want?’
‘You at work?’
‘What do you want?’
‘A favour, Gary. I’m looking for a family where the wife’s called Angela and there’s a son called Jack. I need the name of the father.’
‘You’re all over the Internet.’
‘That’s right.’
‘You know there’s a warrant on you? What you playing at?’
‘It’s been a busy few days. I need you to run a check.’
‘You’ve got to be joking. Shit’s properly hit the fan, Nick.’
‘Who says?’
‘Geoff.’
If McGovern had a true disciple it was Gary Livermore.
‘What did he say?’
‘Nothing to me. People say he thinks you’ve fucked it – everything’s going to come out about Borough when they get this inquiry going. Only you’re so fucked yourself he thinks he can shut you down before you get the chance. You’re a suspect in a murder. Soon you’re going to be out of action. Out of credibility once and for all. So no worries.’
In a way it was a relief having McGovern’s strategy spelt out so clearly. It told him unambiguously what he was up against.
‘Your last chance to fleece me then,’ Belsey said. ‘Name your price.’
‘What’s the surname?’
‘I don’t have it, that’s the point. But let’s give this a go. I’d put money on them being somewhere in the system. Search divorce records, Domestic Violence Prevention Notices, social-work case files. Angela and her son Jack.’ Belsey checked his watch. ‘It’s quarter past seven. The office will be quiet. You can make a couple of hundred quid before morning prayers.’
‘Five hundred.’
‘It’s an hour’s job.’
‘It’s hot.’
‘Not too hot for you, Gary. It will be in the last three or four years, I reckon – plaintiff called Angela. Won’t be too many. One will have a son called Jack.’
‘Five hundred.’
‘Sure. Start with the London area: Camden, Middlesex.’
‘I’m going to need some time, yeah.’
‘I don’t have time.’
‘Whatever. I’ll call you. Don’t call me on that phone again.’
He hung up. Belsey walked into St Pancras station, slipped into the crowd. The only police here carried automatic weapons and had bigger things to worry about. He bought newspapers from WHSmith’s, took them to the Pret to read over coffee.
His altercation at Amber’s had been too late to make the print run. The entertainment pages had a lot on her wedding plans:
150 guests are expected at the reception on Saturday at the Dorchester Hotel in London. The celebrations are rumoured to have cost in excess of £1 million. Some of the costs include £200,000 for flowers; £350,000 for food, including caviar, Kobe beefburgers, truffles, and cupcakes; £300,000 in Perrier-Jouët champagne; £5,000 for hand-painted Lehr & Black wedding invitations.
But that was it – nothing more spectacular in the world of celebrity. The Sun on Sunday’s £750k exclusive hadn’t caused any advance ripples; they were sitting tight. He checked online, scrolled past a photo of himself, head bloodied ‘after violent altercation days before wedding’. Nothing from Damian Drummond, the Sun’s entertainment correspondent. Keeping it all for himself, no doubt. Something huge. Keeping it for Sunday when it would explode.
All the papers had a few inches on the ongoing Chloe Burlington murder investigation. Which seemed stuck. Still on appeals from friends and relatives. It wasn’t clear who they were appealing to. He checked his phone. A couple of messages from Terri Baker: Call me. Against the stark landscape of his current predicament she almost looked like a friend. He called her.
‘Is it true?’ she asked. ‘You were at Amber’s last night?’
‘I was there. The body found in Epping last night, it connects to her. I think Amber was involved in dumping it.’
‘What?’
‘Seriously.’
‘Why were you at her house?’
‘I was asking her what’s going on. Didn’t get an answer.’
‘Listen. Have you come across someone called Katja?’
‘No.’
‘I’ve been going through the last few months of Chloe Burlington’s social media. I’ve spoken to everyone. There’s one girl who shows up in three or four photos, tagged as Katja D. I can’t figure out who she is exactly. Her Facebook page says she was born in Krakow, twenty-two years old. Now lives in London, studying business at Westminster Uni. Everyone I’ve spoken to has said Chloe became distant over the last year or so. But not from this girl, it seems.’
‘What are the pictures? Partying?’
‘Not exactly. There’s only a handful. But look, none of Chloe’s friends know who she is. None of them. One of Chloe’s old schoolfriends, she thought she might have got in with a bad crowd. Says she hadn’t seen her in ages. She was acting strangely – Chloe had asked her once if she wanted an adventure. The friend thought maybe sex parties. She said it would involve being taken somewhere blindfolded.’
‘To what? An orgy?’
‘That’s what the friend thinks. I’ve got to start writing this up. Will you call me if you get more? Anything.’
Belsey went back online, found Chloe’s Facebook page, looked for ‘Katja D’. Katja D turned up in inoffensive restaurant shots. ‘Out with friends’. A pale girl with dyed red hair who favoured T-shirts and jeans, didn’t use much make-up. No hints of orgies. There was one picture of her holding shopping bags on an expensive-looking high street: Knightsbridge or Chelsea. Then ‘Day trip’: Katja standing beside a grey Peugeot people carrier. He knew that people carrier. It had been caught on speed camera, a few yards behind Mark Doughty’s Renault as it sped to Epping.
There was more. One recent photograph, posted three weeks ago, had been taken in the mirror of a dressing table: Katja and Chloe, both bare-shouldered, hair up, glowing. ‘Feeling much better’. There was a large, white bedroom reflected behind them. Chloe Burlington’s place. Belsey examined it closely. Some kind of kit on the bed. Maybe a hair dryer, and something plastic-looking, with two loops at the end, like an oversized key. More grooming kit? Sex toys? Something that made her ‘feel much better’ in the bedroom of a girl who was killed on Monday night.
Belsey searched through Katja’s profile. Not A-list. Not much anything, as far as he could tell. But real enough that her own friends were concerned. In June 2013 there was a flurry of messages congratulating her on getting a grant to study business. There was a photo of her celebrating with ruddy-faced parents in a poor-looking home. Then she came to London and posted a few photos of Big Ben – then, a year or so later, a few with Chloe Burlington. A succession of messages had been posted to her wall over the past week or so, mostly in Polish, none garnering a reply.
He pasted them into Google Translate: ‘Where are you?’, ‘Call me.’ One friend, Irena, gave a mobile number.
After a couple of experiments with international dialling codes, he got a ring tone.
A girl answered: ‘Tak, stucham.’
‘Is that Irena?’
‘Yes. Who is this?’
‘My n
ame’s Nick. I’m a friend of Katja’s, in London. I’m worried about where she’s gone. I saw your message on Facebook.’
‘What’s happened?’
‘I don’t know. I’m trying to find out. When did you last hear from her?’
‘Last week.’
‘Do you know where she was staying?’
‘I have an address. From a year ago.’
‘Can I have it?’
‘Please wait.’
She got the address. He wrote it down. 236a Turnpike Lane.
‘How long’s she been in London?’
‘A couple of years.’
‘Doing what?’
‘You are a friend of hers?’
‘Yes, but I don’t know her well.’
‘She is studying.’
‘At Westminster University?’
‘Yes, I think so. She won a grant, from a foundation. You will speak to her parents?’
Belsey rang off with promises to phone Katja’s family and keep Irena in the loop. He flicked through the rest of Katja’s pictures. There was nothing to do with any university. No uni friends. No parties, no campus, no happy hour in the union bar.
He downed his coffee and headed to the Piccadilly Line.
22
TURNPIKE LANE: A BUSY THOROUGHFARE several miles long, with flats above an endless parade of all-night grocers’, kebab shops, cheap Indian and Chinese restaurants. It wasn’t Primrose Hill.
Katja’s address was above a pub, the Admiral, currently clad in scaffolding. A banner announcing YES, WE’RE OPEN sagged from the first floor. A delivery lorry was parked outside, boxes of crisps being trolleyed in.
Belsey found a worn white doorway down the side of the pub: one bell, no name. Junk mail for ‘Katja Dabrowska’ was jammed in the letter box. He pulled it out. Through the letter box he could see narrow beige-carpeted stairs and a spread of letters that looked a few days old. There was a bicycle pump beside a radiator, space for a bike but no bike.
The House of Fame Page 15
