‘I fancy the family. In fact, I’d put money on it. Nine times out of ten, the murderer is the next of kin.’
‘But this is missing persons. We haven’t got bodies, Olaf. All we can go on is facts and right now, we’ve got sweet F.A., as the English say.’
‘As that girlfriend of yours might say.’ Kamphuis had rearranged his mouth into a leer. He’d leaned forward and touched the nipple of the naked lady statue. ‘Actually, I’ve been thinking of her.’
‘Oh, you’ve crossed a line—’
‘No, I mean in a professional capacity. I think you should get her in. Get her to look at the case and profile the family.’
At that point, George had been drafted onto the payroll, though she had hardly needed any encouragement at all to fly over to see him.
Sitting on that dismal toilet in the disabled cubicle, Van den Bergen remembered the sound of her voice at night as she lay in his arms in bed. Night after night at summer’s end, remaining at his apartment as the falling rain and dropping temperatures had issued in autumn. The feel of her embrace. The smell of her skin. The wisdom of her counsel. She had helped him to heal. She had chased the spectre of the Butcher away. And though he had been reluctant to begin a fully-fledged relationship with his much younger lover, he had. Even he, miserable old bastard that he was, had readily admitted to himself that stifling his feelings for George had almost led him to his grave prematurely. And, at a point where he was too close to the case, George’s insight had been valuable.
‘I don’t think the family has any part in this,’ she had said, having trawled through hours of TV footage, files full of information and having met those who had been left behind. Shaking her head as she sat cross-legged in just her pants on his bed, surrounded by paper. Pulling on one of those corkscrew curls until it was straight. ‘They’re reacting in the way you’d expect them to react. I think Kamphuis is like the Internet trolls. He’s using the relatives as convenient hate figures to make him feel better about his own helplessness and perceived uselessness. He’s a prize cock.’
‘That’s what I thought,’ Van den Bergen had said, tracing the outline of her belly with his index finger. Round and round in ever diminishing circles to her belly button, where she had no unsightly scarring. Unlike him. His wounds had still been a livid purple all those months ago. Stitched together like a mailbag. But George’s skin was smooth. Just a few stretch marks from weight gain and weight loss. Otherwise young and unsullied. Except one day she would almost certainly want to grow a child inside that shapely belly and he felt too old to give her such a gift.
The memory of George, sitting semi-naked on his bed, enthused about the case and their romance, suddenly twisted and distorted to become a recollection of her standing in the doorway to his office at the station glaring at him, telling him she was leaving and that he was a bastard. When that unwelcome memory popped unbidden into his head, he started to gather the paperwork up off the disabled toilet cubicle floor.
‘I never make promises I can’t keep,’ he said under his breath. He slotted the case notes back into the lever arch, feeling that the ache in his chest was so much more than indigestion.
They had argued over the long-term potential of a forty-six-year-old from Amsterdam conducting a childless long-distance relationship with a twenty-six-year old from London.
‘You’re a prick, Paul,’ she had said. Anger setting her soft face into hard lines. Animated hand gestures like a vengeful ninja, aiming to decapitate him, perhaps. ‘Find your own missing persons. I’ve given you all the pointers I can. I’m going home to not have babies and not be a domestic drudge and not give up my dreams to wash your underpants on my own. Don’t phone me. Don’t write me. Shove it up your hairy arse.’ Tears had stood in her rueful brown eyes. And then weeks passed before they had spoken properly again – only then, because of the Jack Frost murders and their child trafficking implications.
‘Why do I always screw everything up?’ he asked himself.
Emerging from the cubicle, carrying the heavy file, he was horrified to see Elvis standing right in front of him.
‘How long have you been there?’ he asked, grimacing at his protégé. ‘Have you got nothing better to do than stalk me in the toilets?’
Elvis smiled fleetingly and then looked at his feet. ‘I wasn’t listening, boss, if that’s what you mean,’ he said.
Clearly he had been listening, and now everyone would know that Chief Inspector Van den Bergen talked to himself on the toilet. Great.
‘You’ve got a visitor in reception, boss,’ Elvis said. ‘Your daughter.’
The corners of Van den Bergen’s mouth twitched upwards. ‘Good. And I wasn’t talking to myself. I was … er … recording a memo on my phone.’
Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Elvis grinning. Little shitehawk.
In the foyer, Tamara was sandwiched between what appeared to be a homeless man and a harried looking woman who toyed with rosary beads. His daughter spotted him and stood awkwardly, straight-backed, bending at the knees. Burdened by the extra weight.
Van den Bergen strode briskly over to help her, struck by how much bigger she had grown in only three weeks.
‘Good to see you, Dad!’ she said, kissing him on the cheek. Taking his hand and putting it on her hard, swollen stomach. ‘Or should I say, Granddad?’
CHAPTER 26
The City of London, 16 March
‘I’m here to speak to Rufus Lazami’s PA,’ George told the incredibly well-groomed receptionist. A pin-stitched navy skirt suit; hair in a chignon; flawless make-up and sparkling blue eyes that said this woman had not drunk a bottle of merlot last night in a club in Brixton and stayed up until the small hours, watching the room spin. Bloom Group plc clearly demanded perfection even in its admin staff. Or perhaps for this giant international conglomerate, it was all about image, even down to those who signed you in and out.
‘Bloom Group, good morning,’ the receptionist said into her headset, smiling inanely at George.
George leaned over the gleaming beige counter and felt the smooth granite, devoid of all dust and fingerprints, also immaculately presented. ‘I said, I’m here to speak—’
The blonde girl touched her headset. ‘Putting you through.’ Tapping on a computerised phone system with long, blood-red nails. Then she refocused on George. Sized her up blatantly. Perhaps Puffa jackets didn’t cut the mustard here, even when it was Arctic conditions outside. The smile was still fixed in place, though.
‘Can I help you?’ she asked. Pearly white teeth like a child’s.
‘Rufus Lazami’s PA.’
‘Have you got an appointment?’
‘Yes.’ She glanced at her discreetly elegant Raymond Weil watch, a gift from Van den Bergen when they had been on better terms. ‘Now.’
‘Sign in, please.’
George entered her details onto the visitor’s badge. Dr McKenzie, Research Fellow, Cambridge University. Sounded respectable enough. The receptionist beamed and raised an eyebrow when she read it. Clearly the title had convinced her that George was not some anti-capitalism protestor. Judgemental cow.
After George had spent a good ten minutes observing the beige corporate sophisticates coming and going in this bland, glittering foyer, a thick-set woman, wearing a skirt that was too short for such lumpy red knees, approached the reception desk. She beckoned George over, gesticulating that she should follow through the security rigmarole of turnstiles and men bearing metal detectors.
‘Glenda Cameron,’ the woman said in a Scottish accent. She stuck out her hand and grasped George in a tight, clammy handshake. The inoffensive taupe twin-set and pearls she wore and her naff helmet of backcombed short hair belied the almost military aura she had about her. A no-nonsense ball-breaker from the Gorbals of Glasgow, by the sounds.
Sitting in the almost-empty office of Rufus Lazami, dabbing the coffee spillage in her saucer with a clean serviette, George had fed Glenda a line about conducting research int
o the heightened risk successful business people ran of becoming victims of violent crime, kidnapping and terrorism. The Scottish Rottweiler seemed to have swallowed it thus far. But now George wondered how she should broach the subject of his connection to paedophiles and drug pushers.
‘So, do you think there was anything in particular in Mr Lazami’s business affairs that might have led to the murder?’ she asked.
Glenda dabbed at her eyes, making a fair fist of grief. Not a tear in sight.
‘He was a good man,’ she said. ‘A very generous boss.’ She touched her pearls. ‘Well-liked by everyone.’
Sipping her coffee thoughtfully, George tried to read Glenda’s body language. She was blinking too much. Looking at the wall behind her, rather than making genuine eye contact. Something about her downturned mouth and crossed arms.
‘Did he have business interests outside of the realm of Bloom Group?’
‘I don’t know what you mean.’ Any warmth in her tone of voice had chilled down to hard frost. ‘Look, Rufus Lazami was a revered entrepreneur. Lord Bloom’s right-hand man. There was no gossip about him. No tittle-tattle. Nothing shifty. He was a pillar of the community.’
Glenda was still staring beyond George so intently that she was compelled to look round. Framed photos hung on the wall behind his empty desk, as though the ghost of the plundered Rufus Lazami was watching over his loyal PA, even now, peering out from eyes family snaps, mainly – judging by the glamorous trophy wife on Lazami’s arm, and the overweight children who looked like her, positioned artfully in front of the couple. But in the middle of the wall was one large photograph in a gold frame. A photo of Lazami, standing with someone clearly of note in a room furnished with ostentatious red curtains and a red patterned rug or carpet. Shaking hands.
Feeling that she was getting nothing from the impenetrable Glenda, George set down her drink and strode over to the gold-framed photo.
Lazami had been a reasonable-looking man with dark hair, greying at the temples. But then she’d seen his photo plastered across the front page of every British newspaper at the time of his murder. Nothing new there. And the man whose hand he was shaking looked like a civil servant of some kind. She saw enough of those regularly in Westminster. A diplomat, perhaps.
‘I haven’t quite had the heart to take those down yet,’ Glenda said, approaching the desk. ‘I said I’d box everything up personally for his wife. But it seems so final.’
George moved to turn away, feeling heaviness in the pit of her stomach. Despite her best intentions, this interview had revealed nothing useful whatsoever. Perhaps Lazami’s murder had been an anomaly or a copycat. Who knew? But just then she spied a flag in the background of this gaudy, self-congratulatory photo – a red flag with a black double-headed bird on it. Tingling in George’s stomach and tightening in her chest told her she’d stumbled across something of note.
‘Rufus Lazami was of Italian descent, wasn’t he?’ she said, turning to Glenda, who was standing just by her shoulder now. She smelled of sickly, floral perfume. ‘Is this him at the Italian embassy or something?’
Glenda smiled. ‘Oh no. That’s the Albanian ambassador he’s with. Lazami’s an Albanian name – from Mr Lazami’s father’s side. He was quietly proud of his heritage. Did a lot of charity work.’
Nodding. George steeled herself to ask the question, though she hardly needed to. ‘Is that a phoenix on the flag?’
‘An eagle.’
George was breathless; she felt light-headed with anticipation. She knew what she was about to ask would get her into trouble and bring security thundering down these corridors of power. But what did she have to lose?
‘Was your former boss into drugs, Glenda? Did he like children?’
Trudging down the street in thick snow, George acknowledged that she was lucky not to have been arrested. She couldn’t help herself from grinning as she started to thumb out a text to Van den Bergen.
Put money on it that …
As she crossed the road, making her way towards Bank tube station, she almost walked straight into the slush-splattered bonnet of a black cab.
‘Watch where you’re going, you dopey cow!’ the cabbie called at her through his window. He honked furiously, as if the reprimand hadn’t been enough.
George stepped back onto the safety of the pavement, tapping into her phone with one hand, giving the cabbie the finger with the other.
‘Fuck you, wanker!’ she shouted, not bothering to look up. Texting with fervour.
… Albanian, Lazami was the Son of the Eagle. Just been to …
She was so lost in reporting back to her partner that she wasn’t paying attention to the world around her: a traffic warden advancing towards her; people barrelling out of a sandwich shop at her side; cars, splattering her boots with slush; icicles falling from above and shattering only feet away from her; the man three paces behind.
But still she texted.
… the Bloom Group offices. Very swish. PA obv didn’t rate her boss. Photo on the wall of …
Glancing up, she opted to cut down Lothbury – a back street that would bring her out by Bank tube’s entrance with less splash-back from mouthy cab-driving arseholes. The hubbub of City of London life stilled, and presently, she was surrounded by silent old buildings on one side, the monolithic high wall at the back of the Bank of England on another. She pictured the red circle slashed through with the blue UNDERGROUND sign up ahead. Not far, now, girl. Do a left at the Bank of China. Down Princess Street and you’ll be there. Keep going!
Walking through this shit was hard work, but the council had run out of grit. White stone buildings round here were starting to look dirty against the brilliant white blanket that covered everything. Thaw was on its way, apparently. Thank God. Back to the text.
… his office at the Albanian …
George sensed that something was wrong but she was so wrapped up in the Lazami revelation to identify precisely what that could be, and she shrugged the niggling feeling off. Walking. Walking. Texting.
When the man grabbed her from behind, she dropped her phone into the deep snow. Kicked. Struggled. There was barely time to register that her attacker wore a dark woollen overcoat. His fingers smelled of cigars; his grip was pincer-like. But George’s mouth was covered. She couldn’t scream. Nobody around. She braced herself to feel the icicle breaching the soft skin of her neck.
CHAPTER 27
City of London, then, Aunty Sharon’s house, South East London, later
George struggled against the grip of her attacker. Thrashing this way and that like a small water buffalo trying to throw off a rolling crocodile. Trapped, she bit her assailant’s hand. No time to balk at the bitter taste of second-hand tobacco. He released his grip immediately, yelping.
‘I’m gonna kill you!’ she screamed. She spun around and punched the man squarely in the face with her leather-gloved hand. She watched with split-second satisfaction as his head flicked backwards, then kneed him squarely in the groin.
The man crumpled, clutching his crotch. George pounced on him, knocking him to his knees.
‘You’re not Jack Frost!’ she shouted, picking her phone out of the snow and cuffing him on the ear with it, before drying it on his coat.
‘No, I’m not Jack Frost,’ the substandard assailant said, rubbing his reddening jaw. He looked up at her, wincing visibly.
She tried to melt him with her scowl. ‘Well, who the fuck are you, then, you pervert?’
Wanting to test this bastard’s metal, George feigned another swipe at his head. The man held his hands up in front of his face.
‘Please don’t punch me again!’ he cried.
Grabbing him by his collar, George pulled the mewling figure to his feet channelling the strength of a woman far larger than her diminutive stature suggested. She was running on pure adrenalin and anger, blood running hot and fevered pulsating in her ears.
‘I said, Who are you? What do you want?’ she screamed.
&
nbsp; ‘Dobkin,’ he said in a small voice. ‘Professor Jim Dobkin from UCL.’
‘Dickwad Dobkin?’ George asked, rubbing her neck. She stared at the beady-eyed man, with his increasingly swollen jaw.
‘Not Dickwad. Jim. I’d like to speak to you about your research.’
‘It was horrible.’ George wept, pushing Letitia’s feet off the sofa as her mother tried to use her as a footstool. ‘H-he just came up behind me, a-and—’
Perched on the arm of the sofa, Sharon clasped her sobbing niece into her ample bosom. Consoled the girl in the only way she knew how: plate full of homemade Swiss roll on the coffee table; a nice shot of brandy to warm her up after her ordeal.
‘Darling, you gotta be more clued up when you’re out. Know what I mean?’ she said, kissing the top of George’s head, eyeing Letitia as she tried to perch those pig’s trotters on her daughter’s thighs yet again. ‘Your line of work attracts nutters, yeah? You’re supposed to have street smarts. I think you’re going soft, all that living in Cambridge with the posh white people.’
‘B-but this wasn’t a nutter. I was sure h-he was going to kill me.’ George hiccoughed. ‘I thought he was that Jack Frost, but it turned out it was—’
‘Danny,’ Letitia said, finally sitting up and lighting a cigarette, eyes narrowed, nodding as if she knew the way the world worked better than anyone. ‘Danny bloody Spencer finally catching up with you, girl.’
George shook her head. ‘No! Are you not listening?’
‘Thought you was dying,’ Sharon said to Letitia, standing to locate a clean ashtray for her sister. ‘You shouldn’t be smoking if you’re that ill.’ She wafted the blue-yellow cloud away, unable to open the window because of the cold outside. Yellowing nicotined condensation poured down the panes.
Letitia the Dragon blew smoke through her nose onto George’s hair. Flick, flick with her ash that missed an ashtray the size of her dinner plate. Almost like clicking her fingers, since she knew her younger sister would come running to wipe up.
The Girl Who Walked in the Shadows Page 15
