Belsey found the Nokia from the Cherokee in his pocket, got a signal at the very back, near the storeroom. Lee Chester answered.
‘Who’s this?’
‘It’s Nick,’ Belsey said. ‘What exactly were you supplying to Mark Doughty?’
‘Everything. Why? Speed, MDMA. You name it.’
‘And a lot of acid.’
‘Right, yeah.’
‘How much did he buy last time?’
‘Acid? Fifty tabs, two bottles of liquid. Hundred pills as well.’
‘How long’s he been ordering that kind of selection?’
‘I don’t know – five years now? Every month or so. Never this much before.’
‘Can you imagine him as a leader of something?’
‘A leader? He’s mental. He’s a danger to himself, Nicky. Have you found him?’
‘Not exactly.’
‘Well, he’s still about. I heard he was getting fake passports off Kieran Banks.’
‘How many?’
‘A couple.’
‘Know if he got hold of them?’
‘No idea, mate.’
‘Who was the other passport for?’
‘Haven’t the foggiest.’
Belsey heard movement. The mahogany doors opened. The main lights came on, bright halogen bulbs blinking across the ceiling. Belsey hung up, turned.
Mark stood at the end of the main meeting room. He wore a dark suit, white shirt open at the neck, black hair in a short ponytail. He saw Belsey through the door of the side room and froze. Belsey dialled 999 with his thumb, slipped the phone into his jacket. Emergency services would put a trace on it. If they had a tag on this phone they might even send someone fast.
The bright light was unnerving. With the house lights up, you could see signs of wear. The plastic chairs looked cheap, the wiring at the back of the isolation chambers exposed. Limescale crusted the edges of the flotation tanks.
Mark tore his eyes from Belsey and surveyed the space like a host at the end of a party that has enchanted everyone but himself. At his feet was a canister of petrol. He nodded at Belsey as if conceding defeat, sat down on a plastic chair in the back row.
‘So this is yours,’ Belsey said, stepping past the fitness equipment and through the open shutter into the main room. ‘Your show, Andreas. Classy alias, by the way.’ Mark nodded. Belsey looked around, nodded too. ‘Not bad.’ He checked his watch. ‘Where’s the rest of them? What’s next?’
‘I didn’t want it to end this way.’ Mark’s voice was calm and surprisingly soft. He fixed his pale eyes on Belsey.
‘How else was it going to end?’
There was no answer to this, it seemed. Mark’s eyes flickered over the screens, the charts, as if seeing things he might have done better.
‘You had a good thing going,’ Belsey said. ‘You were helping people. Then you started killing them. That tends to spoil things.’
‘I wasn’t involved in the death of Chloe Burlington,’ Mark said. He sounded sincere.
‘No? What about Ian Harper? He was going to ruin everything, wasn’t he? Make it all public?’
‘I don’t believe I’ve done anything that needs hiding.’
‘He was drowned here.’
‘Not at my hands. There are other people involved. They’ve made us rich,’ he said, drily. ‘They must be appeased.’
‘Sure. Police are on their way,’ Belsey said. ‘You can convince them of that.’
Mark nodded. He ran a hand through his hair, stared down at his shoes, then up at Belsey again.
‘You could join us.’ He said it casually, as if inviting Belsey to an impromptu dinner.
‘I might have been tempted. I feel I missed the best times though.’
‘Not at all. They’re just beginning.’
‘What’s the plan?’
‘You’re more than a detective, Nick. You know that. You were always looking for something more.’
‘Was I?’ Belsey checked that his phone had connected. It had signal. The call was still live. He wondered if the call operator was hearing this. ‘You know a lot about me, it seems.’
‘There are ways of knowing someone.’
‘Perceptual Augmentation.’
Mark raised his eyebrows, impressed. ‘Amongst other techniques.’
‘Is that how you got to know Amber? Is she good enough at mind-reading to know what a horn you have for her? That you have a shrine to her in your bedroom?’
The light in Mark’s eyes changed. A more human anger lit them now. Belsey caught a glimpse of the rage behind it all, a glimpse of Queen’s Crescent, the life before the Bridge, a life stunted, plans frustrated.
‘I do know you,’ Mark said.
‘Great.’
‘I know that in fifteen years of CID you’ve never felt like you’ve solved anything.’
He let this settle in. Belsey watched him: a guru, like any conman, feeling for the pressure points.
‘I’ve had my moments, Mark.’
But Mark didn’t blink. He had recovered his poise. ‘Trying to solve death,’ he said. ‘Bring justice to the world.’ He smiled. ‘You.’
‘I can see the funny side. You’ve built an incredible thing here. You’ve got a lot of people high on your own frustration. I respect that. But it’s over now and you’ve left people with a steep come-down. It’s a long-winded way of getting laid, that’s all I’m saying. It’s a waste of life. John and Melissa Shaw . . .’
‘You know what’s a waste? Throwing away hope when it’s offered to you.’
‘I think all you really want is Amber and if you can’t have her you don’t give a fuck what happens, on this planet or any other.’
Mark looked away, shook his head. Belsey watched his face to test the truth of his assertion. What he saw was resolve.
‘Have you never killed anyone?’ Mark asked, turning back towards him.
‘No.’
‘Sure?’
‘Yes.’
Mark nodded. ‘Remote viewing is an incredible thing,’ he said, eventually. ‘Whether you believe in it or not.’
‘I bet.’
‘You can follow someone’s life back through the years, see the energy being accumulated. It’s like tracing a river to its source. Do you know where I get to when I trace yours?’
‘Where?’
‘A flat in south London. It’s not your flat. A woman’s. She’s not breathing.’ Belsey stared at him. Mark’s gaze had become distant. ‘It’s November,’ he said.
‘Go on.’
‘It’s difficult getting her downstairs on your own. Into your car.’
‘What the fuck are you up to?’
Now Mark closed his eyes. ‘King’s College Hospital. You think if she dies it will all be over. Then you will have to rethink everything. Maybe it’s a shame you never did.’
He rolled his neck, opened his eyes. ‘Moments like that are an obstruction. They stand out.’
‘How do you know about this?’
‘It’s hard for some people to accept that their past actions remain inscribed. They think time has washed the guilt from them. But it’s those people who become the strongest, who are forced to dive down, to reclaim their own hearts.’ He sighed, tensed his hands. Closed his eyes again. ‘You think about the girl so much because she was a door. Her death was an offer to you. No wonder you’ve never been able to talk about it. Sometimes we can’t share something because we need it for ourselves. We haven’t finished using it.’
‘Nice trick,’ Belsey said, but his voice had turned weak and unfamiliar. ‘This is bullshit.’
‘It was the week your father died. You’ve tried to think about why these things happen. How energy is exchanged. When you took his money, the money he’d hidden, you were taking on his energy, transforming it into the drugs that killed the girl. That’s a chain. You could endure it, she couldn’t. Hence you’re in A&E and you want to run. You don’t even wait with her. Because you need to keep your job; keep po
licing. And where did you think that would take you?’ He opened his eyes. His pupils were needle-sharp amidst a pained, pale blue. ‘That’s what I’m saying – it took you here.’
‘How do you know about all this?’ Belsey said.
‘You can’t shut a door like that. Light comes through. It keeps you awake at night.’ Then Mark leaned forward, like a salesman ready to close. ‘But you can convert it.’
‘Melanie Crews didn’t die.’
‘Not that night, no. I know you tried. She wanted more than she was ever going to get. That’s usually the problem, isn’t it? But you don’t need me to tell you about your past. I see your future. I wish you could see it too. You will achieve things I have failed to achieve.’ Mark stood up, petrol canister loose in his left hand. ‘Still don’t believe me?’
‘No.’
‘Want to see something? Want to see Melanie Crews?’ He walked past the room divider. Belsey remained where he was, tracked him as he passed into the final room, with the tombs and flotation tanks. Mark pushed the lever across the emergency doors, there was a metallic clunk and he ran. A second later Belsey saw the yellow flames spreading across the floor.
40
HE MADE IT UPSTAIRS, THROUGH the spa and out to the Cherokee. There was already black smoke pouring out of the place. He called the fire brigade, then slumped in the driver’s seat, stunned, thinking of a bad forty-eight hours thirteen years ago. Melanie Crews.
The sound of approaching sirens jolted him back to the present. Walton and the Dutch must be wondering where he’d got to. Belsey found the number for UK Europol and got put through.
‘Where’ve you been?’ Walton asked.
‘In a store cupboard.’
‘Great, we’ve got a situation on our hands. Over the past six hours, we’ve had several leads on people from this group. Some have tried to flee the country, a couple of others have already fled and been picked up visiting various radio telescopes in Europe, like that Spier girl. To be honest, I don’t think they know what’s going on either – it doesn’t seem like a co-ordinated thing. Counter Terrorism are on their way in now. We’ve got the break-in report you requested.’
‘I know who it is,’ Belsey said. ‘He’s called Mark Doughty. I don’t know if there’s much we can do now.’ He looked at the thickening smoke and saw King’s College Hospital A&E. Melanie Crews’ skin, her cracked lips and pleading eyes.
‘Mark Doughty? Is he known to police?’
‘I’m not sure.’
‘Can you come in?’
‘I’m coming in. Where else am I going to go?’
Belsey hung up. He felt numb. He drove. The Aylesbury Estate, he thought. Helping her down the stairs. That week, with the funeral, the stash. A cold winter. You don’t even wait with her. Because you need to keep your job; keep policing. But he had wanted to wait. It wasn’t his idea to leave the hospital. It was his boss’s instructions.
Detective Sergeant Bullseye McGovern.
He stopped at the side of Harley Street.
No wonder you can’t talk about it. But one person didn’t have to be told.
He thought back to Mark’s defence: There are other people involved. They’ve made us rich. They must be appeased.
The change in the group, described by the Dutch – someone new had come in. Someone working with Majorana behind the scenes. Tighter security, more emphasis on raising money. More suspicion. Right after the Marquess centre break-in.
Belsey started the car again. By the time he reached Cromwell Road, things had begun to make a lot more sense.
He stopped outside the Europol HQ, walked straight in, jumped the barrier.
‘Hey!’ the guard called. Belsey sprinted up the stairs to the conference room. It was crowded now. New faces. Everyone turned.
‘How did you get in?’ Walton asked.
‘Show me the break-in report,’ Belsey said.
‘We’ve got people looking for Mark Doughty, the man you mentioned.’
‘The report.’
Walton lifted it from the conference table and passed it over. ‘Islington Police Station, 12/09/2013’. Damage to the community-centre security camera, to the office window. No forensics report. No record of the manager’s suspicions; no suggestion that anyone had been interviewed. Attending officer: DI Geoffrey McGovern.
Belsey could see it as if he’d been there: McGovern interviewing Mark Doughty in Islington police station. Tell me again what they pay? Really? Who? The question that had been troubling him: why would Majorana allow someone else to come in on his project? It was because he had no choice. OK, let’s say we come to an arrangement . . .
He saw that initial encounter by the Mayfair crime scene. McGovern hustled his way onto the investigations he wanted to be involved in. Ones that might implicate him if not steered. Belsey looked at his wrists, still a little reddened from the tape, thought of Shaun White, less fortunate, taped to his chair. Good old Bullseye. Geoff knows how to get them talking. He also knew the Sun on Sunday crew.
Belsey looked up. They were all staring at him.
‘What is it?’ Walton said.
‘This is what he does.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Geoff McGovern. I used to work with him.’
‘What does he do?’
‘Fucks things up with his greed.’
‘I don’t follow.’
‘He’s a DI on the Homicide team now. But he used to be in Islington CID. He got involved with the group when he interviewed Mark Doughty about a break-in in 2013. That’s why it wasn’t pursued. He got involved, saw a way of making some money. A guy called Ian Harper went to the Sun with a story about the group. Geoff got tipped off – he has friends at the paper. Harper filmed a group meeting at the Comfort Hotel in Finchley and the next day Geoff drowned him in a flotation tank in front of several cult members. I think he persuaded other individuals present to dispose of the body. Some of them handled all this better than others. Chloe Burlington didn’t handle it well. I reckon he confronted her and things got out of hand. I think Geoff might have had low-level surveillance on individuals he didn’t trust. He’s a paranoid bastard. See if he was using police resources to monitor Chloe Burlington.’
‘He’s a Homicide detective?’
‘That’s right.’
Silence. As people were digesting this, the wall-mounted phone rang. Someone picked up, motioned to Walton. He took the receiver, spoke for a few seconds then hung up and grabbed his jacket.
‘They’ve arrested a man at a house connected to Doughty – Herbert Street, Kentish Town.’
‘That’s his home,’ Belsey said. ‘His mum’s place.’
‘He was apprehended a few minutes ago.’
Everyone seemed to rise at once.
41
IT WAS SIRENS ALL THE way to Kentish Town. Belsey rode the slipstream. Weedington Road was already blocked with vehicles. He abandoned the SUV and ran.
Mrs Doughty’s front door had been smashed in. A crowd filled the living room, uniformed and plain-clothed. The international contingent joined it, Walton and Voskuil and some Counter Terrorism officers. A man lay face down on the floor. All the furniture around him was upended, slashed. Yellow stuffing and paper money covered the carpet. Maureen Doughty sat in the corner with several grand in twenty-pound notes on her lap.
The crowd parted to reveal Stefan Keydel on the carpet, hands cuffed behind his back. The Sisco investigator’s right hand was wrapped in a blood-soaked T-shirt.
‘Sit him up,’ Belsey said.
Keydel winced as they lifted him. He saw Belsey.
‘Tell them who I am,’ he said.
‘What are you doing here?’
‘The Addison Lee account – this is the address for it. Mark Doughty. He just stabbed me through the fucking hand.’
‘He was here?’
‘Yes. I’ve got bank statements for him as well. You might want to have a look, fast. He’s bought flight tickets.’
&
nbsp; Walton found the statements, bloodstained beside the coffee table. A pair of paramedics walked in. Belsey looked at the paper money, the furniture. He walked over to Maureen Doughty in the corner.
‘What did Mark say?’
‘He’s gone now.’
‘Gone for good.’
She nodded once.
‘He took the knives,’ Keydel said, as a constable uncuffed him. A paramedic tentatively unwound the T-shirt. ‘He stabbed me and ran.’
Belsey went to the kitchen, saw the drawer out: no sharp knives. One of the constables was talking quietly on his radio, eyes fixed on Belsey. Belsey moved past him to the stairs. He heard the discussion amongst the senior officers in the living room.
‘There’s payment to British Airways,’ Walton said.
‘Flying tonight.’
‘Get those details to Border Control.’
The rucksack containing Amber’s clothes and travel kit had gone from Mark’s room. Belsey took a final look at the books and papers, the psychotic library, the bottle of perfume.
Bride.
Officers were coming up the stairs, stalking him around the house. Belsey pushed past them, back to the living room.
‘It’s Saturday,’ he said.
‘That’s right,’ Walton said.
‘It’s Amber Knight’s wedding.’
‘OK.’ People looked at him curiously.
‘Is it happening?’
‘Why?’
‘How many flight tickets are there?’ he asked.
‘Two,’ Voskuil said. ‘And a night booked at the Dorchester Hotel, tonight.’
‘Why book a London hotel if he’s flying out?’ Walton asked.
‘To get access to it,’ Belsey said. He turned to Keydel. ‘How long ago was Mark here?’
‘About ten minutes.’
‘Get an armed-response unit to the Dorchester.’
The House of Fame Page 26
