The Smiling Man

by Joseph Knox

  ‘Oh, by the way.’ I turned to see Constable Black leaning against the wall watching me, smiling. She’d changed into her own clothes and was going off-shift, happy about it. ‘Had someone asking about you today, Detective Constable …’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Pretty little thing. Ann something? I’d have to check my notes.’

  I frowned and saw her face change in reaction. ‘Ann, you say? Why did you see her?’

  Constable Black moved backwards, along the corridor, and I realized I’d taken a step towards her.

  ‘There was a break-in,’ she said. ‘At her place on York Road—’

  Ann. Annie. My sister.

  ‘Is she OK?’

  ‘Yeah, she was out when it happened. Someone kicked the door in and trashed the place. Kids probably—’

  ‘What did she say?’

  ‘You know, was it common in the area …’

  ‘About me? What did she say about me?’

  I could see Black regretting that she’d opened her mouth.

  ‘She just asked if I knew you …’

  ‘What did you tell her?’

  ‘I said I knew of you, I’d seen you around. Look, I didn’t mean to get between you or anything.’

  ‘No,’ I said, trying to breathe. ‘I’m sorry. Thank you for letting me know.’ I could feel her looking after me as I thundered down the corridor. It felt like the walls were closing in. I walked out into the suffocating heat. Pulled out my phone and scrolled back through various missed and received calls.

  Looking for Bateman.

  He’d always withheld his number but now we needed to talk. He’d sent me a warning. I stared at the screen, willing him to call me there and then.

  ‘See ya,’ said Black, passing me.

  ‘Constable,’ I called after her.

  She turned. ‘I’m off duty …’

  ‘Naomi. What are you doing now?’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I need a favour.’

  I told Black that I was down for surveillance on the Palace Hotel, but something urgent had come up. I must have looked desperate, because she agreed to cover it for a couple of hours.

  ‘If anyone goes in or out, call me. Don’t go near them.’

  I wanted to be there, to watch it unfold, but it had sunk to the bottom of my list. Bateman had broken into my sister’s house and trashed it. As far as I knew, Ann’s only connection with me since childhood had come a year before, when she’d seen my face in the papers. My name next to words like corruption, drugs and disgrace. She’d tried to reach me then but I hadn’t responded. I’d been ashamed. I thought of her speaking to Constable Black earlier, probably nervous, daring herself to ask about someone who’d gone out of his way to ignore her.

  Bateman had put us back in touch.

  I tried to think of anything I had on him. Anything at all. The only connection that came to mind was so objectionable I almost rejected it out of hand. Then I thought of my sister, asking about me after a psychopath had kicked her door in. I hoped she didn’t know what kind of danger she was in. I hoped she never would. I took a breath, got in the car and drove.

  8

  The first time I’d come to this house it was the beating heart of an empire, and I’d been drawn, briefly, into the orbit of the untouchable monotone man who owned it. He was young, handsome and charming. He had no past that anyone could point to, and a calculating, salesman’s eye for human weakness.

  He wore his brilliant white smile like a mask and had a series of questions hanging over his head. Why were the police always so interested in him? What was the source of his incredible, independent wealth? And what happened to the string of young women who chose to spend their time in his company? At first they were worshipped and celebrated, displayed on his arm at restaurants and nightspots, until they said or did or thought the wrong thing and then disappeared from view. Sometimes they’d re-emerge in the sad, industrial satellite towns they’d originated from, perhaps with a black eye or a broken sternum. Sometimes they were never seen or heard from again. The house had been famous for its parties, the bass-driven music pounding through windows and walls like a pulse, but it was quiet now. I was surprised when a young, heavily pregnant woman opened the door. She was beautiful. Black, with the clearest complexion I’d ever seen. She must have noticed my surprise because she was forced to prompt the conversation.

  ‘Yes …?’ she said.

  ‘I’m looking for an old friend.’

  The house had been transformed from the moody bachelor’s pad I’d known and into something lighter, more respectable. Original artwork hung in the hallway and when the woman took me through to the living room I saw there was no television. Neoclassical music played from an unknown source and the walls were lined with bookcases.

  ‘I’ll go and find him,’ she said with a smile. I sat and waited, trying to believe what I was doing. When the man entered the room he paused in the doorway for a fraction of a second. He was trying to believe it too. Then he came towards me, pressing a hand into my shoulder, smiling.

  ‘Aidan Waits,’ he said. ‘How long’s it been?’

  ‘Feels like a lifetime. I’m sorry to intrude …’

  ‘No, not at all. Nia,’ he said, turning to his partner as she came in behind him. She smiled in answer. ‘Aidan’s an old friend. Would you grab us a couple of drinks?’

  ‘Of course. It’s nice to meet you, Aidan. What’s your poison?’

  I smiled. ‘I only ever drink what he’s having …’

  The man’s look contained every moment of our history.

  ‘If I recall correctly, Aidan’s a cognac man,’ he said.

  ‘Two cognacs coming up,’ said Nia, leaving the room. ‘You’ll have to have one for me, Aidan.’ She drew the door closed behind her and the man sat opposite me.

  ‘Congratulations,’ I said. ‘She seems nice.’

  ‘The fuck’s it mean,’ he said, flatly. ‘You coming here?’

  ‘I didn’t know you’d settled down.’

  He smiled. ‘You didn’t know about her because I didn’t want you to. That doesn’t change because you show up here unannounced. Tell me what you want.’

  ‘I need your help,’ I said.

  There was no other way to put it.

  He was thoughtful for a moment. Unlike most criminals I’d met, Zain Carver didn’t operate out of emotional stupidity, but from a comprehensive understanding of it. A terrible empathy. He understood immediately. ‘Things must be bad for you to have come here,’ he said. ‘Obviously, that’s appealing to me. But as you can see, I’m not running with that kind of crowd any more.’

  ‘What are you doing now?’

  ‘This and that.’

  ‘It’s about an old head. I just need to know how to find him.’

  He considered this. ‘What was it in our last meeting that made you think I’d be talkative?’ He leaned forward. ‘Was it when I told you about Cath? Was it when I left you crying on the street?’ Catherine had been one of his best girls, once, until she saw the man behind the mask. His lies were such a success because he genuinely believed them, so when his disguise failed, when he saw a reflection of the real Zain Carver in someone else’s eyes, he was as shocked as the rest of the world. His solution wasn’t to fix himself, to feel regret or remorse, it was to fix those people who’d caught a glimpse of his true nature.

  ‘This isn’t work-related,’ I said. ‘If that’s what you’re asking.’

  ‘You’re in trouble again, aren’t you?’ The door opened and Nia came back into the room, carrying two cognacs on ice. Carver’s face changed like a screen switching channels. We accepted our drinks and she leaned into the doorframe. ‘So come on, how do you two know each other?’

  ‘Aidan’s got to tell it …’ he said, like he had as much control over my words as his own.

  ‘He’s too modest,’ I said. ‘At the time I was working for a local charity, a homeless shelter in the city. Month after month our highest d
onation came from one man.’ I pointed at him. ‘This guy. I wanted to meet him, to thank him personally. When I did, we hit it off.’

  Nia turned to her partner. ‘You’ve never told me that. Wow …’

  ‘You should check his bank statements,’ I said. ‘All kinds of things coming and going.’

  He looked at me, amused, raised a glass and smiled. ‘To the less fortunate.’ We drank and he went on. ‘That’s how Aidan got his nickname,’ he said. ‘Charity Case.’

  ‘I won’t tell you what we used to call him,’ I said to Nia. ‘And I’m sorry for intruding like this.’

  ‘It’s no intrusion at all. I’ve still met so few of Zain’s friends.’

  ‘Well, a lot of them have dropped off the radar,’ I said. ‘In fact, I’m trying to look up one in particular. Luckily it sounds like the big guy’s got a lead on him …’

  ‘Remind me of his name,’ said Zain flatly.

  ‘Nicholas Fisk.’

  ‘The thin man?’ he said. ‘Now that really has been a lifetime. I didn’t think you’d met each other …’

  ‘Just the once, but I think he’ll remember me. I want to look in on him, make sure he’s doing all right.’

  ‘Same old Charity Case. Sure. I can give you the last address I’ve got for him, anyway.’ He took another drink, got up. ‘Excuse me,’ he said, leaving the room with an affectionate squeeze of Nia’s shoulder.

  ‘How did the two of you meet?’ I asked her.

  ‘I was working in the Light Fantastic, in town. After he met me, he bought a stake in the club. Kept coming back until I said I’d go on a date with him.’ She touched her bump. ‘Things progressed from there, as you can see …’

  ‘Do you know if it’s a boy or a girl?’

  ‘We want it to be a surprise but I think we’re both hoping for a girl. He’s got girls’ names for days …’

  ‘Good luck with it all,’ I said, with more emphasis than I’d intended. I saw a question starting to form on her face, but before she could say anything else Zain re-entered the room with a slip of paper.

  ‘Best I can do,’ he said, holding it out. ‘He used to own this place.’

  ‘Thanks,’ I said, accepting it. ‘Listen, I should really get going. Nia, it was great to meet you, and congratulations.’

  ‘Thanks. You too. Next time we’ll have to make a night of it.’

  ‘I’ll see you out,’ said Zain.

  When we reached the door I turned to him, lowered my voice. ‘Is this genuine?’

  He nodded. ‘I don’t play games, if you recall correctly. You might as well shit into a desk-fan as go out there, though …’

  I started to leave.

  ‘I know you won’t believe me,’ he said. ‘But I never wanted to see you hurt, Aidan. It was you who wanted that, it really was. The worst part is that nothing’s changed.’

  ‘Is that why you put a price on my head, Zain? To give me what I wanted?’

  He smirked. ‘I wouldn’t know anything about that.’

  ‘Go through with it,’ I said. ‘I’m sure they’ll let you see the kid once or twice a year.’

  He stopped smirking. ‘Doesn’t like you, y’know, your boss. Said he’d crucify the lot of us if it happened while you still had a badge. But if you got fired there’d probably be no arrests …’ He tailed off. ‘How are things at work, Aidan? They must be really bad if you’re coming here.’

  ‘As I said, this is personal.’

  ‘It always is with you. Tell you what. Because I don’t want Nia opening the paper seeing you’ve gone missing. I could talk to some people. I could make all those hit conversations go away. Probably give you your first decent night’s sleep of the year …’

  ‘And how would that benefit you?’

  ‘Just tell me where Cath is. I’ve been wanting to catch up with her …’ Part of my deal with Cath was that I’d never know where she went to when she finally got away from Zain. For the first time, I was happy about it.

  I smiled. ‘What was it about our last conversation that made you think I’d be talkative?’

  He shrugged. ‘It’s your funeral. Good to see you, though, Aid. I was starting to think you’d forgotten …’

  ‘That’s the rest of the world, Zain. Not me.’

  ‘Good luck,’ he said, closing the door.

  9

  The address that Carver had given me was on the outskirts of Rochdale, half an hour from Fairview if I really went for it. I knew I couldn’t trust him but had no choice. I was testing the speed limit when my phone started to vibrate. I picked up, hoping for Bateman. The thought of him inside my sister’s house had rattled me. I was ready to agree to whatever he wanted.

  ‘Detective Constable Waits?’

  ‘Hello …’

  ‘This is Constable Black, reporting from the Palace. I wanted to let you know that an IC4 male just entered the building.’

  ‘Dressed as a security guard?’

  ‘Correct. Can I ask when you’ll be arriving?’

  ‘As soon as I can, Constable, I’m following a lead. If you need relief, call someone you can trust, but don’t leave the building unattended.’

  ‘… Received,’ she said.

  ‘If you see anything unusual, don’t approach the building without calling me first.’

  ‘What exactly am I doing here?’

  ‘Surveillance,’ I said. ‘Keep an eye on the top floor. If a light goes on in any of those rooms, let me know.’

  My plan for the Palace had been a gamble, committed to in the heat of the moment. Now I was starting to have my doubts. Learning of the smiling man’s profession, and speculating how it might have brought him into contact with certain people, I’d looked anew at Sutty’s theory. That his place of death had been a conscious act.

  A pointed finger.

  The problem was that so many people were involved with the Palace that the finger could point at anyone. The owners, Natasha and Freddie. Their solicitor, Aneesa. Freddie’s lover, Geoff Short. Short’s wife, who could still be behind the notes sent to Natasha, whether she was out of the country or not. And the two security guards, Ali and Marcus. Of the three hundred or so rooms in the hotel, 413 was the only one I’d seen with the light switched on since the murder. Twice now. In both instances, by the time I was able to investigate who was inside the room, that light had been switched off.

  Someone was drawn to 413.

  Someone was nervous about it.

  By asking Aneesa to inform the owners that a forensic team would be re-examining it the following day, I’d been hoping to flush that person out. But now the tangle of who could be responsible, or why, seemed impossible to navigate. Worse, Bateman’s move against my sister meant that I couldn’t be there. I hadn’t been able to intercept Ali, and he was already inside. There was nothing outwardly suspicious about him arriving early for work, but because of Cherry’s testimony, of Ali hitting himself over the head with the fire extinguisher, he was the prime suspect for the smiling man’s murder. I tried not to think about the case sliding down the drain. I pressed my foot flat on the pedal, it didn’t matter any more anyway.

  10

  I pulled up outside Nicky’s, the address that Carver had given me. It was a boxing club built into the alcove beneath a viaduct. I killed the engine and watched a freight train passing over the tracks. When it had finally gone by, everything fell silent. It was the tail-end of another humid day, of hanging, muggy air, and when I climbed out of the car my shirt was already pasted to my body. I went to the front door not knowing what to expect and I was surprised by the silence from inside.

  Something was wrong.

  The boxing clubs I’d known had been about community and continuous movement. They were impossible to imagine without the sight and sound of young people perfecting stances, head weaves and mitt drills. Without rap blasting out from the speakers. I walked past an unmanned front desk and into the gym itself. There was no one in the ring, and no one working any of the bags that I c
ould see hanging from the ceiling. It wasn’t completely abandoned, though. The air was thick with the smell of fresh sweat and testosterone. My shoes echoed off the gleaming parquet floor, which I could almost see my face in. I was about to call out when I heard the staccato blast beat of someone working a speedbag.

  Walking slowly around the ring I saw a young black man, naked to the waist, and streaming with sweat. He was striking the bag in small circles, rolling his shoulders and bouncing, minimally, on the balls of his feet. His stance was loose and easy, leading with the left, chasing with the right, laying a foundation and then steadily increasing his rhythm. He didn’t stop as I came into view, but began embellishing the drill with elbows and double-strikes, his eyes glazing over in total commitment to the bag. His speed and technical timing increased until he was a blur. He held this pitch for a minute before slowing and steadily decreasing his hit rate, finally coming to a stop. Steam rose off his body through shafts of light from outside and, breathing deeply, he looked like a man coming back down from a high. He’d tuned out his surroundings and only looked in my direction when I cleared my throat.

  ‘You’re fast,’ I said.

  ‘Could be faster,’ he muttered, grabbing a towel, getting his breath back. ‘Help you?’

  ‘I wasn’t sure you were open …’

  ‘We had a fire alarm earlier, cleared the place out.’

  ‘I’m looking for the owner.’

  ‘You’ve found him.’ He frowned at the scrapes and bruises on my face. ‘Not sure this is your game, though …’

  ‘Nicholas Fisk?’

  ‘Nicky Fisk,’ he said. ‘Junior.’ I knew from the old newspaper articles that Fisk, the thin man, had two sons. They’d been the ones who reported him and his wife missing. It felt incredible to interact with a character from this time in my life, like it proved my sanity. He pulled off his gloves and held out a hand. I’d wanted to keep him at arm’s length but I went forward and shook it.