Maloney Morrison had been the receptionist at 42 Essex Square for fourteen years and in that time she had had only two hairstyles. She regarded the bedraggled creature that had seemingly fallen into her reception area with disdain, not really knowing whether or not it was her job to deal with incoming vagabonds. It was her break in ten minutes and she hoped the visitor might just wonder off or at least remain quiet until someone else took over to deal with her. But out of the corner of her eye she sensed some unrest on the other side of the Plexiglas divider that separated the reception from the clerks room and, realising that the visitor was beginning to attract some attention, it dawned on her that the clerks might be equally as confused by her omission to deal with the visitor as with the visitor’s actual presence.
Reluctantly, Maloney craned her foundation lathered face over the reception desk and addressed the visitor in the sort of slow, monotonous tone that British people use to address waiters abroad.
“Excuse me? Dear? Excuse me?”
Thick cockney accent. Late fifties. Extensive makeup added a few years. Shoulder pads in the green jacket, another five. Alix looked up and gave Maloney a broad smile.
“Oh, yes. Sorry, that chair was so comfortable. It’s so lovely and warm in here too and by gosh you’ve done well with your choice of colour scheme.”
Maloney’s feigned smile faltered slightly as the younger woman approached her. She glanced over nervously to the clerks’ room. Two men in waistcoats had already got out of their seats and were looking over to her, obviously amused by the spectacle.
“Can I help in some way?” Maloney asked tentatively. Alix eyed her shoulder pads with suspicion.
“Er, yes. I’m here to see Amanda Harker.”
Maloney gave a little cough, badly concealing a laugh and began looking around the room, perhaps looking for the hidden cameras. Alix remained unfazed and kept her eyes fixed on the receptionist’s pale, doll-like face.
“You’re here to see the Head of Chambers?” She chuckled and shook her head.
“Yes. Amanda Harker. Head of Chambers.”
“And do you, madam, have an appointment?”
“No. But I feel confident that Ms Harker will be pleased to accommodate me at short notice.”
Maloney couldn’t help it and blurted out a screechy laugh that sounded like a fox being shot. Alix winced a little but was otherwise unmoved.
“Have you any idea where you are? Have you any idea who you’re asking to see, dear?”
“Yes. I’m at 42 Essex Square Chambers and I’m here to see Amanda Harker, Head of Chambers. That is information that I have already imparted to you.”
“And who might I say is here?”
“Alix Franchot. Doctor Alix Franchot.”
“Doctor no less?” Maloney was openly laughing now, her enjoyment of watching this poor woman make such a fool of herself clearly outweighed the embarrassment of having to deal with her.
“Listen, dear, there’s a Sally Army down the road. Go there and see if they’ll give you a wash. Amanda Harker. Good one!”
Alix frowned, her patience waning.
“Listen, I’m not going to stand here and justify to you why I look like the Artful Dodger’s bitch. Just tell Harker that Alix Franchot is here and that I want to speak to her about Anwick. Now.”
“Now listen here, missy. You can’t just walk in here smelling of sheep demanding to speak with the Head of Chambers without an appointment. This is a respectable establishment. I have no idea which gutter you climbed out of but I strongly suggest you piss off and climb back in it before I call security and have you thrown there.”
“Go ahead. Call security. Call the National Guard. Call a fucking UN Peace Keeping Force. Whatever, I’m not moving until I see Harker. Now we can do this the easy way or the hard way. It’s your choice. And that foundation is far too pale for a woman of your advancing years.”
“Advancing years? Advancing years!? I don’t have to take make-up tips from someone who collects plastic bags for a living. Or is it the odd hand job for the council workers that brings in the cash? You get that shit stained ass out of here love or we’ll have a problem on our hands.”
“Damn right they’ll be a problem. Question is: will they be able to retrieve your oversized head from that bin or will it get stuck to the bottom?”
As Maloney gasped and gawked in bemusement, mouth open and hands clenched into fists, a middle aged gentleman – confident gait, Armani suit, strong six o’clock shadow – strode toward Alix.
“Is there a problem, Maloney?” he asked.
“Oh, Patrick, this little whore needs taking out of here. I’ve got Citibank coming in in five and I doubt they’ll want to share the waiting room with this trash.”
“Come on, love. Don’t cause a scene.”
Patrick put his arm out. Firmly touched Alix’s arm, touched her hand. Their skin connected. She felt a warm sensation, like a high rushing through her. Anger and frustration. The feeling of his hand on hers, like tapping into something.
Like tapping into him.
She saw him. Broad, naked shoulders, muscles flexed and tight, powerful arms gripping her, holding her down, the noise of his grunts, of his satisfaction, pounding in her ear. She struggles free but he continues to thrust deeper and deeper into her and then she sees her, sees Maloney, head thrown back over the side of the bed, mouth open, gasping and panting, osculating her hips in rhythm with his, calling his name, “Patrick! Patrick! Fuck me! Fuck me harder! Fuck me like your wife!” He quickens his pace, leaning right into her so that every plunge reaches deeper and deeper. She sees everything. Sees the fire burning in his eyes, the look of rapture on her face as every muscle in her body contracts, her clitoris engorged and swollen, just before the orgasm releases through her body and she screams for more, screams to him, “You’ll leave her for me! You’ll leave her for me!”
Breathing deeply, Alix regained focus and looked up at Patrick and then down to his hand holding her arm. She was still standing in the same spot, her penetration of him lasted for only a second, maybe two, but it was enough.
“How about, Patrick,” she said, gently prizing his hand off her, “we stop messing around and you go and give Harker a shout for me so that we don’t have to tell your wife about your liaisons with the Chamber’s receptionist over there.” He stopped dead. He stared at her, confused, shocked. Said nothing.
She moved in closer and whispered in his ear, “Oh Patrick, Patrick, fuck me like your wife. You’ll leave her for me. You’ll leave her for me. Now why don’t we see if you actually do, shall we?”
Chapter
66
Ash watched Grigori across the interview room table with interest. He came round a little in the car but didn’t give them any trouble. He’d asked to make his phone call in private and drunk six glasses of water. He’d refused a lawyer. Now he was sitting perfectly pleasantly admiring the ceiling.
He was a good foot taller than Ash, maybe more. His skin was a grey colour and matched the cheap carpet at the station. The dark rings around his pin-prick eyes reminded Ash of a corpse. They had taken his coat from him. Found a small pair of scissors and a wallet with a bundle of notes in but nothing else. Now he wore brown, stained trousers and a tatty shirt.
Ash had rolled up his sleeves, something that Alix had told him never to do when he wore a waistcoat but it didn’t seem to matter much right now. He’d lost track of the number of times he’d tried to phone her and in the end he’d sent Jeff Eldridge round to her flat to see if he could find her, a blatant misuse of police resources but his concern outweighed his conscious about that. He’d told Jeff to text him as soon as he got there if he found anything.
Keera was sat next to him, giving off an atmosphere. She’d scoffed at the number of times she’d caught him trying to phone Alix and told him that she probably couldn’t hack a real job and gone home. She could be a real bitch sometimes.
Ash leaned across the table, hand on his chin, like he was
interested in Grigori. He needed information fast.
“You look worried, Mr Yefimovich. Something troubling you?”
“No. Grigori is not worried.” Ash was suspicious of the broken English. It sounded put on.
“That’s great. So, you work at our local friendly secret asylum?”
“What?”
“Innsmouth.” Ash narrowed his eyes. He couldn’t tell whether Grigori was looking at him or not. He’d asked for the lights to be dimed and the blinds down, something about not liking the sunlight, what little was left of it by now.
“I cannot talk about Innsmouth. I sign sheet.”
“Yes, the Official Secrets Act. We’ve all signed it. So that means you’re amongst friends today, Grigori. So tell me about Innsmouth.”
“I cannot. I sign sheet.”
Ash chewed his tongue but remained leant across the desk. Grigori’s shirt sleeves were stained with dried blood and torn underneath. He’d been checked out by the police doctor and had the wounds patched up and sterilised without a fuss.
“But you do work there?”
“If you’d signed sheet, you would know.”
“But the fact I know about it tells you that you’re okay to talk to me, Grigori.”
“You know that Innsmouth is there. You have no idea why.”
Ash leant back in the chair. He had a point.
“What were you shooting up with?” asked Keera. “Heroine?”
“Shooting up?” said Grigori, puzzled.
“Your little comfy chair with the special blades on the arms,” she prompted. Grigori just stared ahead. His face was impossible to read.
“There’s a lot of blood on that chair,” she said. “We’re taking a lot of samples. Is it just your blood we’ll find I wonder?”
“Do you recognise these children, Grigori?”
Ash produced a picture of the Laicey twins and put it in front of him. Their spiritless faces were the only thing that had stopped him giving Keera the interview and going round to Alix’s flat himself. He glanced at his phone. Nothing from Jeff. He should be there by now. Just a weird love poem from Penny. Something about birds and wardrobes.
“This is Katelyn and Megan Laciey,” Ash said when Grigori didn’t answer. He put another picture down of Katelyn, her head twisted unnaturally to one side. Her face as grey as the Russian’s. “This is what Katelyn looks like now. Someone broke her neck. I’m going to find out who that was. Does any of this mean anything to you, Grigori?”
No answer, no reaction.
“The suspicion,” he continued, “is that Katelyn was murdered by Professor Eugene Anwick, a resident in your fancy secret prison, but the odd thing is that a couple of days ago someone broke into the mortuary and took Katelyn’s body. Again, any little bells ringing in that very high head of yours?”
Still nothing. Keera shuffled in her seat.
“Then Megan goes missing, Grigori, can you believe that? Taken from a safe house miles from here and our friend Professor Anwick is snugly locked up at the time. Oh, did I mention that whoever took Megan also crucified the guy looking after her? Did I mention that, Grigori? And here’s the best bit: we can put you at the entrance to the mortuary in Bristol City Hospital just moments before Katelyn’s body went missing. Now what on earth were you doing there because I don’t think you were picking up your jaundice prescription, were you?”
Ash noticed some movement in his eyes, a tiny flicker of something. He got the impression that Grigori was now looking at him for the first time.
“I sign sheet,” he said.
Ash’s phone bleeped. He picked it up. Penny again. Just a series of x’s.
“You’ll have to do better than that, Grigori,” said Ash dangerously. “My investigation overrides any duty you might have to your employers, whoever the Hell they are. And you can quit with the English-is-my-second-language bollocks, too.” He tapped the picture of Katelyn’s dead face. “Look at her, Grigori. She’s nine. Was nine. Do you have kids? Do they look like this?”
He sat back again. His kids probably did look like this, if he had any. There had to be an angle. He looked over at Keera. She was surprisingly quiet, an indication maybe that even she wasn’t quite sure how to handle this.
He was about to speak when the door opened. Not the cautious way that young DC’s opened interview doors to interrupt, but opened fully and quickly. Eyes turned. Baron filed the door frame. Then another man, someone Ash vaguely recognised but he couldn’t quite place. Mid-fifties, well built, perfectly groomed hair with a hint of silver running through the sides. Expensive suit.
“Sorry, Ash,” said Baron. “This interview’s over.”
“Wha-”
“You’re Walter Cargil,” said Keera. Ash looked at her gone out. “The Home Secretary?” she said to him.
Ash looked back and he realised she was right. He’d didn’t care much for politics. Democracy was more like a game show nowadays but he had at least seen this man on the TV before spouting off about longer sentences for burglars and upping the classification of cannabis. In short, everything that Alix disagreed with. What the Hell was he doing here?
“Detective Fielding?” Cargil stepped forward and smiled broadly, that winning smile that drove the house-wives mad. “I’m Walter Cargil.”
Ash got up robotically and took his firm handshake but couldn’t manage a word. He looked at Baron who stood slightly aback. He looked almost sheepish.
“Now there is no discourtesy intended, Inspector,” said Cargil pleasantly. “You’re doing a fine job but the situation is complicated by the involvement of the Innsmouth Institute.” Cargil waited for the words to sink in. Ash suddenly became aware that his mouth was open. A screech of a chair and Keera got up. Grigori didn’t flinch.
“The problem here,” the Home Secretary explained, “is that, whilst we were happy for you to have some knowledge of the Innsmouth Institute provided you signed the Official Secrets Act – a copy of which I have here – we’re not overly keen on you delving any further into one of our most important operations. So, if it’s ok with you, we’re going to take things from here.”
“You can’t just... you can’t just take over my operation.” Ash was incensed.
“I’m afraid we can, Inspector. Again, it’s no reflection on you and your team. It’s, well, it’s just one of those things you’ll have to put down to experience. Superintendant,” he turned to Baron who returned the smile with nothing but disdain, “would you mind bringing Mr Yefimovich to my car. He is free to go.”
“Free to go?” Ash gasped. “This man is the only suspect in a double, maybe triple, murder and a kidnapping. There’s a nine year old girl out there somewhere. He could have vital information-”
“I’m sorry, Inspector,” Cargil raised his hands diplomatically, “it’s done and my hands are tied. Innsmouth employees enjoy a special privilege as part of their-”
“And does that privilege extend to immunity from murder?!” Ash felt the blood rushing to his head as he felt control of the situation slipping away. “Boss, surely..?” He looked at Baron.
“Sorry, kid. This is well above my pay grade, too.”
Cargil took Grigori by the arm and lead him out. They stopped at the door. Cargil said something inaudible to Baron, Grigori turned back. Out of Cargil and Baron’s sight he smiled at Ash and Keera.
“Until next time, Inspector Fielding,” he said in perfect English.
Chapter 67
Patrick wasn’t sure what he was most pissed about: the fact that someone he had mistaken for a street urchin inexplicably knew about his affair with Maloney or the fact that, when he finally relented and called Harker, the old battleaxe had told him to show the girl up to her office without an appointment.
Seething, he ushered her into the lift and hit the top floor button, grimacing notably when he caught a glimpse of the smug look on her filthy face in the reflection of the polished brass panelling. He shook his head in disbelief. Harker had been acting
strangely recently – late night appointments with unknown clients, cancelling conferences, declining new instructions, even turning down a murder trial – but this takes the biscuit. Her fee income was dwindling and she didn’t even bother putting in a bill to the Legal Services Commission for her last case.
But the street urchin had mentioned something about Anwick, which had triggered something in Patrick’s recollection. Professor Eugene Anwick. The guy that pleaded guilty, through a video link if he recalled rightly, to killing a young girl. He had read the report about it and seen some of Harker’s notes. Open and shut case. Just a question of sentencing, he thought. The hearing had been put back until the new year on Harker’s application. Now this girl turns up claiming to want to talk to Harker about it but who was she? A witness maybe? But that didn’t make sense unless Harker was planning a Newton hearing, asking the court to reconstruct what happened to establish Anwick’s culpability. But that also didn’t make sense.
She shouldn’t be seeing anyone involved in a case without a CPS solicitor present. That was odd in itself. He decided to listen at the door while Harker had her meeting with the street urchin. There was no shame in that.
Alix felt uncomfortable in the lift. Although she had put on a good show in reception, her head was spinning with a sickly cocktail of conflicting emotions. Patrick was standing too close to her for comfort, the reek of his aftershave congesting the small space. She felt numb about what had happened on the M4. It didn’t seem real. Her memory of it was like remembering a low budget disaster film. The Tanker Inferno. Extras scattering from the fire like termites abandoning the mound. She hoped Charlie was okay.
She thought about Azrael. She didn’t even understand what gender he was but she had, in her own mind, assigned a masculinity to him, although quite why she wasn’t sure.
Church of Sin (The Ether Book 1) Page 29
