Playing with Fire

by Patricia Hall

  The sergeant followed Kate into the Blue Lagoon and bought himself a coffee at the counter before nodding to Donovan with a chilly smile and sitting down across the table from him.

  ‘I thought maybe you’d like a bevvy,’ Donovan said. ‘Something stronger?’ but Barnard shook his head quickly.

  ‘I’ve not finished work,’ he said. ‘I don’t want to be breathing fumes over my boss. I’ve got enough trouble with him already. So what is it you want to know? I assume Kate’s told you what happened to this girl we can’t identify?’

  ‘You’ve still not identified her?’ Dave asked.

  ‘No, but it’s not your girlfriend, I can assure you of that,’ Barnard said. ‘The pathologist reckons she’s no more than sixteen, if that, about five foot three, slim build. She was badly injured in the fall, she went head first, so we don’t have much chance of an ID from her face. I’ve even got someone trying to find out if it’s possible to reconstruct her features so we get a reasonable likeness, but that’s a very long shot. There are people who can apparently do it but it seems unlikely they’ll bother. It would be expensive. We’ll have to rely on an artist’s sketch from what people can recall of her face when she was alive. What we do know was that she was on drugs and must have been as high as a kite, and she carried nothing which would give us a clue who she was and we haven’t had any missing person reports to indicate where she came from. It’s unusual but kids seem to be doing increasingly unusual things these days.’

  ‘What colour’s her hair?’ Dave asked.

  ‘Blonde,’ Barnard said.

  ‘Natural blonde or bottle blonde?’

  Barnard hesitated for a moment. ‘Natural, I think, but I wouldn’t be totally sure,’ he said.

  ‘With Marie it was natural, though she was talking about dying it red. A lot of the girls want to look like Cilla. Can I see her, just to make sure?’

  ‘No chance,’ Barnard said. ‘The coroner’s office would go spare. I shouldn’t even be here telling you any of this. This is not your friend Marie. Believe me, it’s not her.’

  Dave nodded, fighting back tears.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Barnard said. He reached out to touch Kate’s hand briefly. ‘I’ll see you later, honey,’ he said, and was gone even before she could respond. She realized that she had not told him about seeing Ray Robertson. She would print the photo for him this afternoon.

  ‘What next?’ Dave asked.

  ‘You could go round all the music studios on the off-chance she’s tried looking for a better manager than that waste-of-space Mansfield,’ Kate suggested. ‘If you’ve got a couple of days here you’d have time to do that maybe. I can’t take time off work to help you but you could get round a few of the major players while you’re here.’

  ‘Maybe,’ Dave said, but before either of them could work out a concrete plan they were approached by a tall man in a duffel coat who Kate half recognized.

  ‘Hello again,’ he said, sliding into the chair Harry Barnard had just vacated. ‘So is this the boyfriend you were telling me about the other day? I’m Bob, by the way,’ he said, turning to Donovan. ‘We shared a table in here when it was packed out the other lunchtime. I hope you don’t mind me chatting up your girlfriend.’

  Kate flushed slightly, annoyed by a familiarity she did not think the man had earned.

  ‘It’s nothing to do with me, whack,’ Donovan said. ‘And she’s not my girlfriend, as it goes.’

  ‘Oh, sorry,’ Bob said quickly, and Kate realized that although he was smiling his eyes were cold. ‘I thought you must be the boyfriend. My mistake. Though you obviously come from Liverpool too.’

  ‘Have you got a problem with that?’ Dave asked, and Kate was aware of the seething frustration beneath his calm exterior. Dave Donovan wanted to hit someone. She recognized the signs and hoped that Bob did too.

  ‘No, no,’ Bob said. ‘Not at all. I love the Beatles as much as anyone, though I’m probably too old to be a proper fan. I’ve a daughter who’s begging me to take her to see them but she’s only nine. Too young, I think.’

  ‘Yeah, well, we all love the Beatles but some of us might wish they left a little bit of attention for the rest of us.’

  Kate could still see this encounter ending badly and glanced at her watch. ‘I have to go. I’ll have a think about what we were talking about before, Dave, and I’ll ring you later at Tess’s place, OK?’ she said, pulling on her coat and making quickly for the door. Bob watched her go in silence and, as Donovan stood up and picked up the bill for their coffee, he gave the musician a crooked smile.

  ‘She’s still with her copper then, is she?’ he said. ‘That can’t be much fun with all the mayhem that’s going on round here just now.’

  ‘I wouldn’t know about that,’ Donovan said, and turned on his heel and followed Kate out on to Frith Street, but she had already disappeared. He glanced at his watch and wondered if there was time to catch a train back to Lime Street tonight. For the first time he felt the sheer size of London bearing down on him and he understood how remote the chance of finding Marie was if she really did not want to be found.

  On the way back to the nick to pick up his car, Sergeant Barnard strolled past the Late Supper Club and decided to make a quick detour. The doors were not locked and he found Hugh Mercer talking to the kitchen staff upstairs. He did not hide his annoyance at seeing Barnard and waved his chefs and waiters, all impeccably dressed for the evening service, away to their quarters irritably.

  ‘What can I do for you, Sergeant?’ he asked.

  ‘We’ve still made no progress in identifying the dead girl and I just wondered if your staff had found any unclaimed items which might have belonged to her?’ Barnard said, ignoring the manager’s obvious irritation. ‘She’s not likely to have arrived here without some sort of a bag or even a coat and as we’ve not been able to identify her any other way it’s becoming more urgent that we track down her belongings. I’m sure you understand that, sir. They should give some indication of her name or where she had come from before she arrived here. Even a Tube ticket would help.’

  ‘As you requested, Sergeant, I’ve passed that message on to all my staff,’ Mercer said. ‘You can be sure they’ve got the gist and don’t need constant reminders from you, any more than I do. And my clients certainly don’t need to be told that there was an unfortunate accident here the other night that was nothing to do with them. We are taking much more care on the doors now so there is no possibility of a repeat intrusion by anyone who is not a legitimate client. So if that’s all, Sergeant, I hope we won’t see you here again any time soon.’

  ‘I hope so too, Mr Mercer,’ Barnard said. ‘But you can be sure that if we need to talk to you or your clients again we will be in touch.’ He could have said more but he knew that whatever he did say would be relayed to whoever it was he guessed the manager knew at the Yard, so he turned on his heel and made his way quickly downstairs to the street. He knew that the search for the dead girl’s identity was being pushed down the list of priorities at the nick by the mayhem which had broken out on the streets, and that he was unlikely to be able to change that. Even in his own mind, the possible fate of Evie Renton already loomed much larger than the frustrating hunt for the name of the girl already past saving or even, it seemed, past returning to her family for a decent burial. He knew that she would languish in the mortuary’s freezer indefinitely if she was never identified and eventually be consigned to an anonymous grave.

  He drove fast out of London to the west where the Chiltern hills eventually rose up ahead and the roads to the north of the A40 became progressively more constricted and winding. The last lap took him down a lane so narrow that it was difficult to work out how two cars could pass between the steep banks on each side, but there was no other traffic to be seen and eventually the road widened out to run alongside a village green, past a Victorian school and eventually down a steep hill to where a cluster of stone cottages stood on each side of the road. Number 11 stood
on the left and the curtains were already drawn at the windows against the dusk. He had found Evie’s mother by checking court records and finding her details noted as next of kin. He parked and knocked on the front door, which was opened surprisingly quickly by a plump, grey-haired woman who was closely followed by a small, skinny girl in pyjamas clutching a book in one hand and a biscuit in the other. She stood half hidden by the woman Barnard assumed was her grandmother, who was looking anxious, but there was little doubt that she was Evie Renton’s daughter.

  ‘I’m not even sure what to call you,’ Barnard said. ‘But are you Evie’s mother?’

  The woman glanced at the child, whose bright eyes watched both adults with a certain grave suspicion. Barnard guessed she must be about ten years old, which would fit with what Evie had very occasionally revealed about her child. The woman stooped down to give the child a hug.

  ‘Go and have a little read by yourself, petal,’ she told her. ‘I’ll be indoors in a minute and we can read a couple of chapters together.’ She came out on to the doorstep and pulled the door shut behind her.

  ‘Is Evie all right?’ she said sharply, already looking years older than she had when she had opened the door. ‘Who are you? Are you from the police?’

  ‘Yes, but off-duty,’ Barnard said carefully. ‘My name’s Harry Barnard. And you are?’

  ‘Mrs Renton, Nancy Renton.’

  ‘I’ve known Evie a long time, Mrs Renton, and she seems to have gone missing. I’m worried. I wondered if you had seen her recently?’

  ‘Not for a couple of weeks, and I thought there was something wrong then. She often comes out on a Sunday to see Rosie, but she didn’t come last week and she usually rings me if she’s not coming. She paid to have the phone put in here so she could contact me and talk to the child. And she sends me money for Rosie’s keep if she can’t get here herself. She’s a good mother.’

  ‘When did she first go to work in London?’ Barnard asked.

  ‘After the baby was born. There was no future for her here. There’s no work for a girl in her situation and a lot of spite and bullying. She was a young mother so I’m a young grandmother – and a widow – and I reckoned I could cope with the baby. Evie sends money every month. It pays the rent. She must have a good job.’

  Barnard could see the fear in the woman’s eyes and guessed that she did not know for sure how Evie earned her money and probably did not want to know. But she obviously had her suspicions.

  ‘Has she mentioned any reason why she might want to go away somewhere? A new boyfriend maybe, or anyone she might be frightened of?’ Barnard persisted. ‘Or anything else she might have been worried about, anything that’s changed recently?’

  Mrs Renton shook her head and her eyes filled with tears. ‘I’m not a fool, Mr Barnard,’ she said. ‘I can guess what Evie’s doing in London but she has always looked well and happy. She still had the lovely smile she had when she was Rosie’s age and Rosie has it too. But the last time I saw her she looked poorly, very pale and anxious, and I guessed there was something wrong. But she didn’t say anything about it. She wouldn’t say anything to me, would she? She’d know it would only worry me. She got the bus back to Amersham as usual. That’s where you can get on to the Underground and go to London. And that’s the last time I saw her.’

  Barnard knew that smile too and had seen it fade, but that was something he dare not share with Evie’s mother.

  ‘If I give you a phone number, will you ring me if you hear anything from her?’ he asked. He rooted through his coat pockets, pulled out an old envelope and wrote down the numbers of the nick and his flat. By now Rosie had pulled the door open again and was looking anxious.

  ‘Ask for Harry Barnard,’ he said.

  Mrs Renton glanced at the child. ‘Go indoors, sweetheart,’ she said. ‘You can take another biscuit out of the tin.’ She turned back to Barnard, took the envelope and the pen out of his hand, wrote another number down and tore off the corner she had written on.

  ‘That’s my number,’ she said. ‘When I saw you on the doorstep I thought you’d come to tell me she was dead. I hope you never have to do that, Mr Barnard. I hope and pray you find her safe.’ Nancy Renton had tears in her eyes, but she turned away without a backward glance, her shoulders rigid, and closed the cottage door behind her.

  Barnard sat in his car outside the cottage for five minutes before he started his engine. He had thought that seeing Evie’s daughter and seeing that at least she was safe and well would make him feel better, but the opposite had proved to be the case. The sense of dread which had been sparked when he had seen the single smear of blood beside Evie’s bed was only reinforced by this idyllic rural landscape such a short drive from the city. He drove back into London at a more sedate pace than he had left and was relieved to see that the lights were on in his flat when he pulled into the parking place below the windows. He found Kate in the kitchen with the fridge door open.

  ‘Have you eaten?’ he asked, and when she shook her head he closed the fridge door for her.

  ‘Come on. We’ll go out. It’s the least you deserve.’ He put his arms round her and kissed the back of her neck.

  ‘I hardly ever see you,’ Kate said, her frustration suddenly boiling over.

  ‘I know, but you know why,’ he said. ‘Someone is running rings round us. I’ve never known anything as ruthless as this before. Ray Robertson in his pomp was a pussy cat compared to whoever is behind this new campaign.’

  ‘Are you quite sure it’s not him trying to prove he’s still a force to be reckoned with?’ she asked as she put her coat on. ‘I know how ruthless he can be when it suits him. He almost got me killed, Harry. You can’t forgive him for that.’ She pulled a couple of photographs from a folder lying on the kitchen table.

  ‘I saw him today,’ she said. ‘Look.’

  Barnard looked at the shots she had taken and put his arm round Kate’s shoulder.

  ‘Are you sure he didn’t see you?’ he asked urgently.

  ‘Pretty sure,’ Kate said. ‘It was very busy. But you did say you thought he was still around. I thought you might like some evidence.’

  ‘I would,’ he said. ‘But I have to convince the DCI as well. I’ll never forgive Ray for what he did to you, I promise. But exactly what we can pin on him, if anything, I’m still not sure. I’ll take these pictures in to work tomorrow but I don’t think anyone there will be trying very hard to find him while we’ve got all this other violence and murder on the streets. That will take priority. And there’s no evidence he’s involved in that. All we’ve got is vague sightings. But the pictures will prove he is actually around. We’re not imagining it. And if the DCI approves we can take it from there.’

  ELEVEN

  Barnard left his car at the nick and took his time walking through the narrow Soho streets towards the Grenadier. It was early and most of the night-time haunts and some of the shops and cafes were still closed up. He stopped for a moment at Evie Renton’s front door and pressed the bell, but no one answered and the curtains at her window were still drawn exactly as he had left them. He would check again later in the day, he thought, but the hollow feeling in his gut told him that the longer she was missing the less likely she was still to be alive. It was the same rule which applied to missing children, he thought, but the desperate search they caused was almost always absent in the case of the working girls. Street girls got swept away like flotsam on the beach, picked over for anything useful and discarded and forgotten as the tide went out.

  As he approached the queer pub, which was still draped with police tape and had a bored-looking uniformed constable outside, he noticed the familiar figure of Vince Beaufort loitering on the opposite side of the road, slightly more inconspicuously dressed than usual, his take on a low profile, Barnard guessed, and he also guessed that he was waiting for him personally. He crossed over and offered Vince a cigarette, which he took eagerly and drew on deeply.

  ‘So what’s new?’ Barnard ask
ed. ‘Have you been keeping an eye out for me?’

  ‘There are two new kids on the block, apart from the bog-standard thugs who are doing the terrorizing but don’t look in the same league as these two,’ Beaufort said, glancing around the still, quiet street anxiously, his voice barely audible above the noise of a delivery van dropping off groceries at the Italian delicatessen a few doors down from the pub. ‘I told you about a dark-haired bloke, tall, swarthy? Looked a bit Spanish, though not in a bad way. Remember?’

  Barnard nodded, also recalling that Beaufort had said he fancied him. ‘You didn’t make a pass at him, did you, and get thumped?’

  ‘Not as such,’ Beaufort said coyly. ‘Just a little encouraging look, but it wasn’t appreciated. I did pick up his name, though. I was told he calls himself Minelli, which sounds Italian. He’s around a lot and I saw him watching when the bastards who are threatening people were busy trashing the bookshop by Soho Square yesterday. Why is there never a copper about when you really need one? He took a very close interest, though not so close that you could say he was actually involved. Wore a dark raincoat, black trilby, leather gloves. Very trad.’

  ‘Could he be Maltese, do you reckon?’

  ‘Could be, I suppose, somewhere down south in the sunshine anyway. But I haven’t heard him speak so I don’t know about a language or even an accent.’

  ‘OK, and the other man?’

  ‘Younger, heavier, dressed more casually in jeans and a duffel coat, not so dark but not exactly a blond. Longish hair, though, not short back and sides. I’ve seen him a couple of times in Frith Street but he doesn’t seem to work anywhere, just drifts about, stopping for a coffee or a pint, sitting around a lot watching the scene go by. Sitting too long, I reckon, as if he’s watching for something or someone.’

  ‘Right,’ Barnard said. ‘No chance of a name, I don’t suppose?’