by Lee McGeorge
He was about to close his email client when a new message appeared. The sender was Sue Lynch, the friend of Nisha who reported her missing.
‘Detective Latis. Thank you for visiting today. We’re still waiting to hear from the police but in the meantime I wanted to send you some photographs of Nisha.’
Corneliu responded instantly saying he had spoken with Scotland Yard and that they would also investigate Nisha’s disappearance as part of the McGovern investigation. He opened the photographs and felt his heart sink. Nisha was beautiful. Most of the images were of her in group pictures, girls hugging close with glasses of wine. One of the pictures was Nisha alone in a Queen of Hearts party dress. She looked fun, lovely. Another picture was her in a pale blue bikini sitting on the back of a powerboat on a tropical sea. Jesus. She was gorgeous.
Corneliu took a drink, a big one.
“I hope you’re nowhere near Paul McGovern,” he said to Nisha’s photograph. “I hope you’re safe and having a nice time somewhere.”
----- X -----
Corneliu sat on one of the picnic tables outside The Talbot pub in King’s Cross. This was the place McGovern connected to the internet from. He’d decided whilst eating breakfast he should visit the pub rather than begin making calls. He was curious about the place. McGovern used it frequently so perhaps the staff there knew him. He’d brought a picture of him to show.
What made him curious was the server logs showed McGovern using the internet around the clock. Lunchtime, evening, three in the morning. He might have been living there, not just using it as a drop-in place to use the internet. The data showed McGovern had used the internet here every day until a few weeks ago.
Check the pub. A logical next step.
It was the usual chipped paint and empty hanging basket type of place he’d come to know London for. The moment you stepped a few yards away from the tourist pathways, pubs were either nice places to eat or grotty drinking holes. This one was grotty and closed, making him wish he’d called ahead. It was due to open at half past ten and he figured the staff would arrive a little before that. He’d bought coffee and found himself playing with his telephone, killing time and wondering about what McGovern was doing right now at this moment. Would he realise people were looking for him? Probably. He seemed switched on and had covered his tracks since he’d arrived. The thought of him using the internet to research disease and mental illness was eye opening; he wasn’t the lunatic that Noica suggested. He was travelling, hiding, researching. Doing the exact opposite of what Noica said vampires did. McGovern had a brain.
There was movement inside the pub. A girl in a heavy metal T-shirt and piercings through her lips and nose had turned on the lights. Cornel climbed out of the picnic table and rapped on the glass of the door.
“We’re closed,” the girl called.
“Yes, I know... I need to speak with you. It’s quite important.”
The girl stopped for a moment and stared at him before approaching the glass. “What do you want?” she asked through the glass.
Corneliu took his wallet and opened it to show his Romanian Police warrant card and also held up Blackwell’s Scotland Yard business card. “I’m a policeman from Romania, I’m working on a missing person case. I’m not a policeman in Britain but you can contact Scotland Yard if you wish.” The girl nodded to show she accepted his credentials. Shouting through the glass was undignified and Cornel shrugged and motioned the glass. “Can I speak with you, please?”
The girl walked to the bar and returned with a bunch of keys to unlock the door. She stood in the frame but didn’t invite him inside. “I’m open in about half an hour and I need this time to prepare the bar.”
“That’s OK, I don’t want to take up much of your time... I didn’t see you arrive, do you live here?”
“Yes. You say you’re looking for a missing person?”
“I am. The reason I came is the person I am looking for has used your internet connection. In fact he was using it a lot until a few weeks ago. Tell me, do you rent rooms here?”
“No, we don’t rent rooms. We have a flat upstairs that I used to share with my girlfriend. We had a falling out recently. I’m on my own.”
“Nobody else lives here?” Corneliu scrutinised her. McGovern had used the internet at all hours of the day, even when the pub was closed.
“Nobody else,” she affirmed without betraying any suggestion of a lie.
“And what about your internet connection, do you allow people to use it?”
The girl thumbed a sign on the wall beside the door, ‘Wi-Fi TalbotOnline, Password getonline’. Anyone could use it. The sign was big and permanent meaning they didn’t even change the password.
Latis pulled a folded sheet of paper from his coat pocket, it had McGovern’s passport picture blown up large. “This is the man I’m looking for, he is about your age, British.”
The girl looked it over carefully, scrutinising whilst slowly shaking her head. “I don’t recognise him. When did you say he was here?”
“He began using your internet a few months ago and stopped using it in the last two weeks.”
“You know that we have a lot of leechers close by.”
“Leechers?”
“Internet thieves. People who live in the street log on to our wi-fi because it’s an open hub. Your guy might have been accessing it from one of these bedsits.” She nodded towards the neighbouring building. “There are a lot of immigrants live around here. They’re poor and they don’t stay very long. They log on to our internet connection.”
Corneliu nodded in understanding and wrote his mobile number on the bottom of the picture of McGovern. “Thank you. Could you keep this,” he gave her the picture. “If you do remember him, or perhaps if anyone who you work with recognises him, you could give me a call.” As an afterthought he handed over Blackwell’s card. “Better still, call Scotland Yard directly.”
“I don’t have any staff at the minute. The brewery are promising to send someone but for the last week it’s only me. Morning ‘til night. Do you want me to show it to the regulars?”
“Please, if you would.”
The girl locked her door and went back to her preparations.
Cornel took his mobile phone and connected to the Talbot’s internet connection. Full power, plenty of signal strength. He crossed the street and saw the power level drop by two bars. He walked further away and lost the signal at about forty yards distance.
Street canvassing. That was a good next step. Every home within forty yards of the pub. He would need to print more pictures of McGovern. Normally this would be a job for uniformed officers, but with such a short distance to cover he could do it himself in a few hours.
He was still looking at the telephone when it rang. Peter Blackwell calling him.
“Hello, Peter.”
“Corneliu, I just thought you might be interested in something. That girl you told us who was missing...”
“Nisha Khumari.”
“Yes. We’ve checked her mobile phone usage. Her telephone travelled from her workplace and got to right outside her front door. It then moved across London by car towards King’s Cross. Then it turned off, then back on, then got on a train for the Midlands. The interesting part about this is where it changed state, it turned off and on within fifty metres of that pub McGovern had used the internet from.”
“When was this?”
“Three nights ago.”
“I’m here,” Cornel blurted. “I’m here at that pub right now. I’m actually standing outside checking how far the internet signal reaches. It gets about forty meters or so from the pub. There is a lady who works there, she says her internet is used by people living in the local apartments. I was going to canvas the area.”
“I’ll send uniform to do that. They’ll be there in an hour or two.”
“That’s amazing. Thank you Peter.”
----- X -----
The wait for the uniformed police was excruciating.
All Corneliu could do was buy another coffee and patrol the streets. He walked around the pub looking at the windows of the opposite buildings, wondering if in one of these terraced homes Paul McGovern was sitting unawares.
The place was miserable. The buildings should have been nice but they were too unkempt, too decayed to be comfortable. Almost every building looked derelict but was in use. All except the one that was burned out. It caught his eye. There was an alleyway to the side. He walked in sipping his coffee.
It looked like a garage had gone up in flames and taken the neighbouring building with it.
He entered the narrow back alley and was about to leave just as quickly when he noticed the shiny brass lock. The back gates to these buildings were old and chipped, the locks had been painted over, yet one of them had a brand new shiny pin-tumbler barrel. It was like seeing a piece of gold amongst coals.
Derelict buildings.
If I were on the run, where would I hide?
If I wanted to get off the grid, where would I sleep?
Intuition.
Corneliu came back out of the alley to check the street. It was on the rear of The Talbot pub. He went back into the alley and hoisted himself up onto the back wall just enough to peer over the edge. Nobody would live there. The house was a shell, a burned and hollowed shell held together by scaffolding.
As he dropped he saw something. A staircase leading to a cellar. He climbed back up and looked again. This building was little more than rubble and an outer shell, but under it all, was a staircase that led under the broken bricks and charred woodwork to a cellar.
Cornel dropped down and tried the back gate. Locked but flimsy.
Was it worth checking?
Yes.
He backed up and slammed his foot hard into the gate. There was too much leeway, too much flexibility. The door wobbled at the lock rather than cracking. He was kicking too low. He tried it again, this time hitting it with his shoulder, slamming his weight into the door. It didn’t matter if he broke it, the place was a burned out wreck, what possible damage could he do to make it worse?
Crack!
The door broke but opened only a few inches to press against the rubble on the other side. It took some back and forth pushing to sweep the rubble away until Latis could squeeze his shoulders through the gap and enter the yard.
He examined the staircase. Dark. There was a horrible smell as though the sewers had cracked open and flooded the space. He was worried he would find vagrants huddled in their own filth. He couldn’t imagine McGovern living in this hole but he still turned on the light from his phone and shone it into the hole.
Rats scurried in the beam.
He descended a few steps and noticed the potency of the smell. There was a known element to the stench; the same smell of gutted girls in a car boot. He retreated the instant his mind matched the smell with the memory. God only knew what the smell really was but there wasn’t anybody hiding in this hole.
Latis took a few deep breaths to purge and looked up to the sky. He stared at what was left of the building. Four walls and that was it. No roof. Nothing. The building next door had fire damage to the roof. From the street it looked fine, but back here the damage was obvious.
“This is nothing,” he mumbled to himself.
He squeezed back through the gate and into the alleyway and was about to leave when again he noticed the brand new lock barrel on the gate next door. He examined it. There wasn’t a single key scratch on it. He looked back up at the building. He checked his watch. The uniformed police would still be some time.
Was the building next door worth checking?
He squeezed himself back through the gate of the fire gutted building and levered himself up on the wall adjoining the yards to see into the next home. He could see an empty yard. Nothing of note. No signs of life. There was a kitchen, plain, boring steel draining board. Some clothes or...
Jesus... Jesus H. Christ...
Cornel wobbled on the wall and dropped. His heart was suddenly thumping in his chest. He had to check again. He climbed once more up the wall and looked through the kitchen window. There were some folded clothes. Wide beige buttons. It looked like a coat, a mackintosh folded neatly. There was a flash of purple on top of it.
He dropped back from the wall and reached for his phone, about to call Blackwell when he stopped himself to catch a breath.
“What am I saying...”
Pause...
Wait...
He wasn’t sure. Nisha was said to wear a purple beret. Was that a beret under the window? He dropped the phone back in his pocket and climbed the wall again to check. There was something purple but it was impossible to tell what it could be. It was probably nothing... but still...
Latis was trapped in the moment, worried to raise a false alarm. He stared up at the building looking for a clue, looking for some way to try and piece together what he was thinking. When the uniformed police arrived he could point it out, they could investigate. The building looked derelict but he couldn’t risk breaking in. The burned out shell was a pile of rubble, there were no repercussions against trespassing here, but he couldn’t break into a house, derelict or not.
His eyes dropped. He looked at the cellar leading under the charred remains of this building. He could smell it just by looking at it. There was something stinking up that cellar. A smell that he recognised.
He turned on the light from his phone and shone it into the hole.
He walked a few steps deeper and heard the scratching of rodents in the dark.
He moved in a way that was ready to run back out if McGovern was there.
He swept the torch and saw the decaying corpse, slumped in a plastic orange chair, its face chewed away by rats.
----- X -----
The first police car was cruising the area looking for Corneliu. He didn’t bother with Blackwell as the first contact, the 999 call was enough. He didn’t know the exact address but told them he would meet officers at The Talbot. He was so hyped he waved his arms like a clown when he saw the car.
“Hi, I made the 999 call,” he said to the two uniformed men. “There’s a decaying body in the cellar of this building, but I think a murder suspect has been using the building next door.”
“Is he in there now?” one of the constables asked.
“I don’t know. I...” Corneliu was already walking them to the alley when he stopped to think about what he was saying carefully. He wasn’t sure how to discuss McGovern. Talk in facts, stick to what you know for sure. “Let me show you the body first.”
The officers followed him. One was a thin and tall blonde young man, the other was closer to his age. He led them to the gate and squeezed through before holding it open for the officers. It was harder for them to fit through the gap in their stab vests.
“The body is down there.”
The two officers looked to one another.
“The controller said you’re a police officer from Romania,” the older constable said as a question.
Cornel nodded. He was feeling hyper, probably acting hyper. He took out his wallet and showed his warrant card and Blackwell’s business card. “I’m doing deep research, with information sharing through Europol. I’m looking for a British man wanted for double homicide in Romania.”
The elder constable addressed his young colleague when he said, “Stay here,” and descended into the basement. His little flashlight was far more powerful than Corneliu’s and lit the whole staircase as he descended.”
“Jesus Fucking Shit!” he cried out when he reached the bottom. He came back up the stairs quickly and began talking on the radio attached to his shoulder, his voice faster, more animated. He said they had a body, most likely a murder, they needed to close the scene and bring in forensics.
Corneliu stepped away and hoisted himself on the adjoining wall as a burst of radio traffic put things into action. He wanted to look again at the clothing by the kitchen window. “Please,” he said. “I can see clot
hes through the window next door that look like they belong to a missing girl.”
The elder policeman hoisted himself up, then dropped down and addressed his colleague. “Steven, see if you can climb over and unfasten the back gate.” The younger, more athletic officer made short work of the wall and had the back gate open before Cornel could even squeeze into the alley.
They entered the yard. Cornel dashed for the kitchen window. It was a mackintosh, neatly folded with a purple beret on top. He nodded to affirm and pointed at the garments through the glass. “Those clothes look like they belong to a girl who went missing a few days ago. She is connected to the man wanted for murder.”
“Six nine to control.”
“Go ahead six nine.”
“Control we need to force entry to the adjacent property, possible suspect on site.” Both officers took small extendable batons from pouches on their belts. They flicked their wrists, the steel beams shot out and locked into place. He asked Cornel, “Is the front of this building boarded up?”
He nodded as the radio reply came acknowledging that the officers were about to force entry. “Yes, it’s boarded up, there’s no way out from the front... at least not from the ground floor. I think the first floor is open.”
“Steven, get round there just in case.” The young officer took off into the alley, rushing to the front of the building. Corneliu could hear an approaching siren. Backup, perhaps.
The constable banged his fist against the back door. “Police, open up.” He tried the door handle, locked. He swung his baton and smashed the glass of the kitchen window and climbed in and onto the draining board. “OK, you need to stay here,” he said to Cornel. He went through the kitchen and opened the next door to a pitch black room, he turned on his flashlight and began to explore, calling out that he was a police officer until finally disappearing from view.
