Deadly Obsession

by DS Butler

  “Sorry to keep you,” he muttered, grasping the banister.

  Mackinnon frowned. “Not a problem, sir. I appreciate you showing us the way.”

  Mackinnon couldn’t help thinking what a selfish bastard the man’s son was. Surely, Nathan could have shown them the way instead and saved his father the painful walk.

  “I’m sorry my wife was a little abrupt before,” Roger Cleeves said as he reached the top of the stairs and sighed with relief. “She’s more upset than she lets on. She really did see star quality in Anya, and she was very disappointed when Anya left.”

  They exited the stairwell and walked along another corridor almost identical to the one downstairs. The sound of someone singing scales drifted toward them.

  Roger Cleeves stopped at the first door they came to and rapped on the frosted glass panel. He opened the door a crack and poked his head inside.

  The singing stopped.

  “Can we have a word, sweetheart?”

  Mackinnon didn’t hear a response, but it was obvious Roger Cleeves did. He pushed the door wide open and waved Mackinnon and Collins into the room.

  The two women in the room turned, wide-eyed with curiosity.

  “Rachel, darling,” Roger Cleeves said and beckoned her over. “This is DS Mackinnon and DC Collins. They want to ask you a few questions about Anya.”

  The shorter of the two women tucked her light brown hair behind her ears and ran a hand along the buttons of her cardigan.

  “That will be all for today, Roxie,” she said in a reedy, tremulous voice.

  Mackinnon turned his attention to Roxie. Her bottle-blonde hair was scraped back in a high ponytail. She pouted her bubblegum-pink lips and sashayed towards the door, staring at Mackinnon and Collins with blatant interest.

  It was hard to see how the contrast between the two women could have been greater. Compared to the highly-coloured, flamboyant Roxie, Rachel looked pale and drab.

  Rachel’s eyes flickered up to meet Mackinnon’s gaze. She blinked rapidly then looked back down at the floor.

  “Oh, all right.” Rachel Cleeves played with the cuff of her cardigan, which was several sizes too big for her. “Although, I’m sure I can’t tell you anything useful,” she said with a slight lisp.

  Her beige, baggy cardigan was worn over a faded, old-fashioned tea dress. Brown, clumpy shoes finished off her outfit.

  “I’ll leave you to it then,” Roger Cleeves said, cheerfully. “Take them back downstairs to reception when you’re finished, Rachel.”

  Rachel nodded.

  As Roger Cleeves closed the door behind him, Rachel turned to look at Mackinnon and Collins in turn before looking down at the desk in front of her.

  “Please, have a seat,” she said and gestured to the wooden desks, which were set out in a classroom fashion.

  Mackinnon and Collins sat down at desks in the front row.

  They must have been designed for primary-school children, Mackinnon thought as he tried to fit his long legs under the desk. He couldn’t quite manage it and had to leave one leg in the aisle.

  That seemed to amuse Rachel Cleeves. “Sorry, they are a little on the small side.” A ghost of a smile played on her lips for a few moments before it disappeared.

  “I understand you taught Anya,” Collins said.

  “That’s right. She had singing lessons twice a week.”

  “Was she any good?”

  Rachel paused, frowned, then said, “She was okay, but I think dancing was her real talent.”

  Mackinnon leaned forward, trying to get comfortable behind the tiny desk. “Were you close? Did she confide in you?”

  Rachel and Anya were similar in age. On the surface, it seemed like they had little in common, but you never knew…

  “Close?” Rachel said the word as if it puzzled her. “No, we weren’t close.”

  Rachel kept her eyes fixed on her hands in her lap. Mackinnon was starting to find her inability to maintain eye contact maddening.

  “She didn’t tell you she was leaving?” Collins asked.

  Rachel licked her lips and shook her head. “She didn’t tell me herself, no. But I heard a rumour she accepted a job on a cruise ship.” She said the final words in a disdainful tone.

  “You don’t approve of cruise ships?” Mackinnon asked with a smile.

  “It’s not the cruise ships I don’t approve of,” she said as she tucked her mousy hair behind her ears again. “These days, everyone wants to be famous for being famous. Most of our students don’t come to the academy because they love music or want to be on the stage. They just want to be in the gossip mags.” She rolled her eyes. “Two of our ex-students have been on Big Brother, you know?” She shook her head as if that said it all.

  “Is that what Anya wanted?” Mackinnon asked. “To be famous?”

  Rachel bit her thumbnail. “It’s funny because Anya … Well, Anya didn’t seem that way to me. I thought she was different, but I guess, you never can tell.”

  Rachel stared down at the floor.

  “Who told you about Anya’s job on the cruise ship?” Mackinnon asked.

  “Oh.” Rachel bit her lower lip. “I can’t remember. There were a few people chatting about it in my class yesterday. I’m not sure who mentioned it first.” She shrugged. “I just remember thinking my mother would be furious.”

  “Did anyone mention the name of the cruise ship? The operators?”

  Rachel shook her head. “Not that I remember.”

  “Rachel,” Mackinnon said, “how well do you know Henryk Blonski?”

  “I don’t know him at all. I only met him once. He came here on Wednesday to ask if I could tell him which cruise ship Anya signed up with. Why?”

  “Henryk Blonski was found dead this morning.”

  Rachel paled.

  “Can you describe your movements on Wednesday night?” Collins said.

  “My movements?” Rachel Cleeves ran a hand across her skirt, smoothing it over her thighs. “I was at home.” She pointed upstairs. “We live in a flat on the third floor.”

  “With your parents?” Collins asked.

  A flicker of irritation passed over Rachel’s face. “Yes. Nathan and I live with our parents. It’s a large flat and accommodation is extremely expensive in London.”

  “So you didn’t go out at all on Wednesday night?” Collins asked.

  “No, Detective. I was here all night.”

  Rachel escorted them back to reception in silence. She was pissed off with them, but Mackinnon didn’t care. It wasn’t his job to be likeable, and there was something strange about the Cleeves family.

  After Rachel Cleeves had shown Mackinnon and Collins the door, Mackinnon stepped out onto the street, turned to Collins and said, “What did you make of them?”

  Collins screwed up his face and looked up at the exterior of the Star Academy. “Bunch of weirdos.”

  “That’s your professional opinion, is it?” Mackinnon asked, moving out of the way as a woman, weighed down by shopping bags, pushed past them.

  “Nathan Cleeves,” Collins said, screwing up his face as though he’d bitten into a lemon. “I’m going to check up on him.”

  “We’ll need to run a check on all of them. Shall we pop in while we’re here?” Mackinnon nodded at the furniture store next to the academy.

  “Shopping?” Collins asked.

  Mackinnon pointed at the huge glass windows. “Good view of the street. Staff working in here may have seen Anya now and then. They may have seen something important.”

  Mackinnon pushed open the shop door, and a bell tinkled as they entered the store.

  There were no customers or staff. Mackinnon glanced around the surprisingly large shop.

  It was one of those places with beautiful, polished wood floors, and smooth, handmade furniture that reminded Mackinnon of his grandparents’ house. The smell of freshly cut wood took him back in time to his grandfather’s workshop with its rows of tools, planes and files, and curly wood shav
ings.

  Oak bed frames, wardrobes, chairs and tables were scattered around the shop floor in no discernible order. Mackinnon picked up a red cardboard “for sale” sign from a rocking chair. Everything had little red stickers, advertising final reductions.

  “Good choice, sir. That’s a fine, handmade rocker. Top quality,” a voice behind them said. Mackinnon turned to see a plump, middle-aged man with reddish-blonde hair, dressed in a grey, three-piece suit with a yellow handkerchief poking out of the breast pocket. He smiled and nodded at Mackinnon and Collins in turn.

  “Oakland’s,” he said. “Finest quality at the best prices.” He stuck out his hand. “Fred Oakland at your service.”

  Mackinnon shook his hand. “I’m afraid we’re not shopping for furniture, sir.”

  Fred Oakland deflated like a popped balloon. “Are you sure? We have some really lovely new stock, excellent workmanship.”

  Mackinnon shook his head.

  “Well, what do you want then?” Fred Oakland said peevishly, dropping his plummy vowels and slipping into a South London accent.

  Mackinnon held out his warrant card, and Fred Oakland eyed it suspiciously, then said, “What do you want from me?”

  “We’re looking into the disappearance of a young woman.”

  “Oh.” despite himself, Fred Oakland perked up, interested.

  “She attended the academy next door,” Mackinnon said. “Her name was Anya Blonski.”

  Fred Oakland frowned. “Never heard of her.”

  Collins fished around in his suit jacket for Anya’s photograph. “Perhaps you knew her by sight.”

  Fred Oakland took the photograph of Anya and studied it. Henryk had brought that photograph to the Wood Street Police Station when he reported Anya missing. It was a good photo. A close-up shot of Anya from her chest upwards. Her fair hair was pushed back, giving a clear view of her pale face, and she was smiling at whoever had taken the photo.

  Mackinnon hoped she was still smiling, wherever she was.

  “I’m not sure,” Fred Oakland said, frowning at the photo. “She looks vaguely familiar, but I’m not certain. Sorry.” He handed the photograph back to Collins, who stared down at it for a moment before tucking it back in his pocket.

  “That’s all right, “ Mackinnon said. “Thanks for looking. I suppose you don’t have much to do with the Star Academy?”

  “It’s not really my cup of tea,” Fred Oakland said. “I’m more into practical things.” He gestured around the shop. “Carpentry, making things, that’s my kind of art, not all that nonsense they get up to in those studios.”

  “You make this stuff yourself?” Collins asked, looking around

  Fred Oakland shook his head. “Most of it’s imported nowadays. It’s more economical. I keep my hand in though. It’s a family tradition. You should have seen some of the stuff my father made,” he said, running his hand along the grain of a smooth oak table. “Now he was an artist.”

  “Did your father set up the business?” Mackinnon asked.

  “We go back further than that. My great-grandfather started the business, and my grandfather bought this store. It’s been in Oakland hands ever since. Although,” he looked around sadly, “things aren’t quite what they were.”

  Mackinnon looked down at one of the red sale stickers. “This recession’s hit a lot of people.”

  Fred Oakland nodded. “People just aren’t interested in proper furniture these days. They buy all that flat-packed rubbish from the big chain stores.”

  He shook his head. “When my father was alive, we owned the whole building. But with the downturn, I had to rent out half the building. I couldn’t stay afloat otherwise.”

  “Are the Cleeves family with their Star Academy your only tenants?” Mackinnon asked.

  Fred Oakland nodded. “Yes, thank God. I couldn’t handle any more. They’re bad enough.”

  “Bad in what way?”

  “Oh, just wanting more space, renovations, that sort of thing. I suppose it could be worse.”

  “Now,” Fred Oakland said, smiling, “Are you sure I can’t interest you in a handmade piece of furniture from Oakland’s?” His plummy vowels returned as he launched his sales pitch. “I’ve got an exquisite high-backed chair, with longer legs than usual. Perfect for someone of your height.”

  18

  Mackinnon didn’t buy the chair, but he returned to Wood Street Station the proud owner of a new bookcase.

  “Tell me the truth,” Collins said. “You bought it because you felt sorry for him, didn’t you?”

  “It’s very well made,” Mackinnon said.

  Collins shook his head. “Who would have thought it? You’re a soft touch, Jack,”

  “Yeah, yeah. Now back to the case in hand. We need to have a word with Henryk’s last employer. Where did he work again? A pub?”

  Collins grinned. “Yeah. A pub called The Old Griffin on the Shoreditch Road. Doesn’t sound like the most salubrious establishment.”

  “Salubrious? That’s a big word for you, Nick.”

  Collins pulled a face.

  “How are we doing with that list of cruise ships?” Mackinnon asked.

  “DC Webb is trawling through them now,” Collins said. “The DI needs to authorise the checking of passenger lists as well as the staff ones. At the moment, we’re relying on the good will of the cruise ship companies.”

  Mackinnon nodded. “We’ll speak to him about it in the briefing. I’m pretty sure this whole case will be out of our hands soon.”

  Collins’ head snapped up. “What do you mean?”

  “DI Green will have to hand over the case to MIT eventually.”

  “What?” Collins’ face glowed red. “He can’t do that. Not now after we’ve been working on it. I know the details. He can’t take me off it.”

  Collins must have seen the expression on Mackinnon’s face. He turned away, then mumbled. “I mean, it’s our case. We’ve worked the background.”

  “Yes, and we’ll be able to brief MIT, thoroughly. We have to pass it on to the Major Investigation Team, Nick. It’s murder.”

  Frustration clouded Collins’ face for a moment, then he put his elbows on the desk and rested his head in his hands, clutching clumps of his short, fair hair in his fingers.

  “Nick,” Mackinnon said. “You do know there wasn’t anything you could have done to stop this, don’t you?”

  Collins didn’t look up, and when he spoke, his voice was quiet. “I rushed him. I just wanted to get home.”

  “It wouldn’t have made a difference,” Mackinnon said.

  Collins pushed himself out of his chair. “Yeah, well, I’ll have to live with the fact that I’ll never know for sure.”

  19

  Mackinnon and Collins walked along Shoreditch High Street.

  “It’s around here somewhere.” Collins looked down at the map on his mobile phone. “We must be nearly there.”

  As they trudged past a Tesco Express store, Mackinnon took off his jacket and rolled up his shirtsleeves.

  “That’s it over there, isn’t it? On the other side of the road.” Mackinnon nodded at a modest pub called The Old Griffin. It was surrounded by scaffolding.

  Collins frowned. “Doesn’t look promising. Do you reckon it’s open? Maybe they’re renovating?”

  “The door’s open,” Mackinnon said. “Let’s take a look.”

  “It’s a pub for locals, rather than tourists, that’s for sure,” Mackinnon said as they passed a market stall and started crossing the road.

  The Old Griffin had a tired and grubby feel to it. The black and gold sign stuck high above the windows had faded over the years, and the windows were dark, dirty and impossible to see through.

  “It’s a girly pub.” Collins said.

  “Really? You’ve been before, have you?”

  “No.” Collins tapped his phone. “Googled it.”

  As they entered, the smell of stale beer flooded over them. Mackinnon blinked and took a quick look
around, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the gloom. The pub was complete with wooden décor, tables and stools. The bar ran the length of the room. A pool table stood opposite the bar. Over by the far end of the room, near the toilets, was a small, elevated stage equipped with a chrome dancer’s pole. Posters labelled “Girls, Girls, Girls!’ adorned the walls, offering free entrance before five pm and a fiver entrance fee afterwards.

  Maybe they got busier later, but this afternoon, the place was dead. A lone drinker sat at the bar, staring down into his pint glass. A girl walked out of the ladies’ toilets, wearing Perspex heels, and a spray-on, short, red dress. She smiled broadly at Mackinnon and Collins and began to totter over to them. How she managed to walk in those things was anyone’s guess.

  Mackinnon shook his head and held up his warrant card.

  The effect was instantaneous. The woman’s face soured. “What do you lot want?”

  Her reaction wasn’t really a surprise. The relationship between the police and workers in places like this wasn’t exactly harmonious. Enforcing rules, and maintaining distance between the dancers and punters was just one of the many reasons for clashes over the years.

  “Is the manager about?” Mackinnon asked.

  She gave a surly nod, then click-clacked on her heels over to the bar.

  “Brian,” she yelled. “There’s police out here.”

  A giant beast of a man entered the bar. He wore a tight t-shirt, and the underarms were stained with sweat. His hair was cropped close to his scalp.

  He scratched his couple-of-days-old stubble.

  “All right, can I help you?” he asked, his low rumbling voice sounding like the last thing he wanted to do was help them.

  Mackinnon sensed Collins bristle with frustration beside him. He was spoiling for a bust-up. Nothing would make him happier right now than making an arrest.

  Mackinnon walked up to the bar, determined to take charge of this one. Collins could simmer away, blaming himself. But Mackinnon couldn’t let him mess this up.

  “I hope so.” Mackinnon said. He showed his warrant card to Brian.