We faced one another, breathing hard, in the saloon bar.
‘You’re making a real fool of yourself,’ I said. ‘All these people watching.’
Well, two men and a fox terrier actually.
The presence of an audience did not appear to put Stefan off and he lunged at me. I jumped to one side, grabbed a full ice bucket from the bar and threw it. It hit him in the chest and ice cubes clattered into everything. I did not stay around to watch the resultant figure skating, just ran like hell through the public bar next door, regrettably jogging one drinker as he raised a full tankard to his lips resulting in him getting a beer tsunami. I thought about diving up a staircase to what was obviously private accommodation to give me a chance to phone but tore on: it was probably the only access and, again, I might become trapped up there.
Outside, the street was busy. I ran on, fuelled by adrenalin alone but rapidly running out of puff. Somewhere in my wake, and even over the traffic I could hear rapid footfalls. Huge office blocks, long boundary walls, churches and flats serenely flowed by while I pounded on. Then I saw an Italian wine bar around a hundred yards ahead and put everything I had into getting there.
Shockingly, I was suddenly grabbed from behind and hauled to a standstill. I screamed when another hand seized me by the hair. Countering this by going completely limp I slid to the ground, my hair being excruciatingly pulled even more but I clutched him round both shins and hung on. He overbalanced and crashed to the pavement.
No passers-by took the slightest notice. Not even when I had extricated myself, scrambled to my feet and aimed a kick at the last place he needed it. He moved and I caught him on the thigh instead. There was nothing for it but to run again, and I swerved through a narrow gap into a tiny tree-lined square praying he had not spotted where I had gone.
The only thing to hide behind was a large bush. It turned out to be several bushes with a gap in the middle that was filled with empty bottles, drinks cans and heaven alone knew what else. I stopped looking too hard but watched out for the used syringes.
Ye gods, if I carried on panting like this, like a steam train, he would hear me.
I found my mobile and rang Patrick’s number.
‘Where are you?’ he asked, not for the first time that afternoon.
‘In a bush, in a little park in Kensington High Street,’ I whispered. ‘Near The Unicorn pub. Stefan’s after me.’
‘Near The Unicorn? I know it. Stay right where you are!’
‘I can’t. He’s right behind me.’
‘I know it!’ someone roared in the background. ‘Go back there!’
‘Go back there,’ Patrick repeated.
Fine, go back there.
Someone was quietly patrolling around the outside of the bushes.
I picked up a handy half a brick and peered through the leaves but the greenery was too thick to see anything. So I listened instead, trying to work out where he was. This proved to be fairly impossible too. There was nothing for it but to run and head for an exit I had noticed on the other side of the square and hope to find my way back to the pub using side roads.
At which point Stefan lunged into the bushes hoping to surprise me. Well, he did and because I was holding the brick high all ready to hit him on the head he ran straight into it, getting it right in the mouth, and then floundered over backwards into the vegetation. I flung the brick, hard, with both hands, in his general direction and then bolted.
My legs did not want to run any more but I goaded myself on, not daring to waste time in looking back. There was a maze of roads but I turned right and kept going, following my nose. Before very long this picked up the smell of stale beer. I was down to a walk by now and could hear no one following me although the general hum of traffic and my own gasping for breath made this virtually impossible.
The rear entrance to the pub was on a corner; wooden gates that led into a yard. They were wide open. I hardly noticed the silver-coloured car that was drawn up by the kerb nearby and did a nervous shimmy when a man put his head out of the driver’s window and spoke to me.
‘Slump down by the gateway,’ Michael Greenway said softly. ‘Make out you’re finished.’
‘I am,’ I responded, knowing that I was to be the bait in the trap.
It was a huge relief just to flop there.
After a minute or so a woman came from a house across the street and looked down at me. ‘Are you all right, dear?’
‘It’s OK, we’re making a film!’ Greenway shouted to her from his car.
She went away again.
No Stefan.
At least five minutes went by and then I heard a small movement from behind the other gate. Patrick appeared in my line of vision but not necessarily anyone else’s in the road.
‘Any sign of him?’
‘No.’
‘Show me where you last saw him.’
‘You’ll have to pick me up first.’
ELEVEN
We were able to go most of the way in the car and found blood and a knocked out front tooth. Enterprisingly, the latter and a sample of the former were popped into an evidence bag by the Commander who then took us back to the pub where Patrick bought the still sopping but not particularly aggrieved imbiber another pint. However, it was Greenway who placed a gin and tonic in front of me, a subtlety that was not lost on the recipient. I asked him to fetch me a glass of water so I could take a couple of painkillers.
‘She’s a two-yob woman,’ I said to Patrick. ‘At least.’
He was still annoyed with me. ‘Where did you come upon the other one then?’
‘In Boyles House. I spoke to a man by the name of Fred who was some kind of cleaner. He either told someone else that I was asking questions or I was spotted.’ The G and T was going down a treat.
‘And?’
‘And nothing. I left him on the floor. Your training and all that.’
Patrick began to thaw. ‘What did he look like?’
‘Like a smallish pub or club bouncer,’ I replied after due thought. ‘Broad shoulders, beer belly, around five feet nine, shaven head but, like Fred, several days’ growth of beard, dark eyes, bad teeth, piggy eyes. He was wearing dirty jeans and a once-white sweatshirt.’
‘God, I wish all witnesses were that observant,’ Greenway said under his breath. ‘It might pay for you to look at some mugshots.’
Patrick said, ‘And perhaps I’d better go and talk to this Fred.’
‘He seems to think Alexandra’s running a brothel,’ I told him.
‘We’d better make it a priority then – when I have the time.’ He turned to his boss. ‘Thank you, sir, for helping out. But as you said, this is nothing to do with SOCA.’
‘Well . . . no,’ Greenway said slowly. ‘But something dodgy’s going on all right. We could get the Met involved.’
‘I’d like to get a little more evidence and then, if it’s appropriate, hand everything over to DCI Carrick and he can make that decision – if that’s all right with you.’
‘Delighted, as long as you don’t use SOCA time to do it. It would help if we had a photo of this woman.’
‘We have,’ I remembered. ‘Alexandra walked into shot when I was photographing the garden of the house in Bath from an upstairs window and I haven’t deleted it.’
‘Deal with it tomorrow,’ Greenway decided. ‘Can I give you a lift back to HQ so you can pick up your stuff?’
‘So does anyone live in this building or is it just offices?’ Patrick asked me later when we had had something to eat.
‘No idea. Although from the long list of outfits that operate from it I would have thought it is just an office block.’
‘I think I’ll go and have a look round.’
‘I’ll come with you.’
‘I don’t think you should. You’re still not well.’
‘No, but as you said yourself, I bring you luck.’
He did not appear to have an immediate answer to that.
It was a littl
e after seven thirty as we approached Boyles House. We had taken a taxi to The Unicorn where Patrick had been hoping to ask the barman if he knew Stefan, his friends or anyone with whom he worked. Not surprisingly, different staff were behind the bar, mostly foreign students, so there seemed little point in questioning them.
There were plenty of lights still on in the building and as we got closer several people exited through the main doors. But we did not go in that way, making our way around the side as I had done when I had first arrived earlier that day. The rear door was closed and locked.
‘It’s a fire door,’ Patrick muttered. He shook his head. ‘No, my keys are no match for heavyweights like this – it’ll have to be the front. I wonder if there’s . . .’ He carried on walking around the outside of the building.
I looked around but there did not seem to be any security cameras, only the things one might expect to find; fire hydrants, utility room-type windows with bars on them and oil tanks, plus a lot of litter that had obviously been blown there and accumulated over the years. Stairs that led down to a basement were noted in passing. Then Patrick stopped, scenting the air like an animal. Even I could smell it; cigarette smoke.
Ahead a short distance away a wall around six feet high jutted out from the building. We silently approached and peered around the corner. It proved to be one of two and actually formed a porch around a doorway. This was ajar, smoke visibly emerging. There was a dim light within and I could hear voices. Patrick jerked his head and we went back to the basement entrance.
His keys soon unlocked it but the door was immovable: it was bolted on the inside.
‘Plan Z,’ Patrick whispered, locking everything up again.
‘Which is?’ I asked.
‘Bluff our way in through the front.’
‘There was a doorman who saw me,’ I recollected.
‘It might not be the same one now. Can you describe him?’
‘Thin, round-shouldered, sallow complexion, dark, greasy, receding hair.’
‘I’ll go in alone if there’s any doubt.’
A large black man wearing a smart uniform was taking the air on the front steps.
‘Good evening,’ Patrick called. ‘Have you seen Stefan?’
The security guard nodded with a big smile on his face. ‘You want him?’
‘Yes, I was hoping to knock his block off, actually.’
A bigger grin. ‘Someone already has, man.’
‘D’you know where he is now?’
‘He said something about getting his teeth fixed.’
‘D’you know where he lives?’
‘No, sorry.’
We went up the steps and Patrick said, ‘My wife was visiting an office on the third floor this afternoon when she was attacked by a man whom it would appear is a friend of Stefan’s. Although we both work for the Serious Organized Crime Agency,’ and here he produced his warrant card, ‘I can’t investigate this officially as it is, at present anyway, outside our remit. But as you might imagine, I’m as mad as hell about it and I would very much like to have a look around up there.’
The man shrugged. ‘If you’ve got an ID card that says you’re anything to do with the police, mister, then as far as I’m concerned you can have a nose round the whole place. Help yourself. But please don’t tell anyone I said that.’
‘And I’d appreciate your not saying a word either.’
‘What did this character look like?’ asked the guard.
I gave him the man’s description.
He pondered. ‘Can’t say as I know him. But there’s hundreds of folk here during the day and I’m only around at night.’
We thanked him and went in. While this conversation was taking place I had again scanned the list of companies and organizations with offices in the building but nothing had been listed as located in room fifteen on the third floor. This was not in itself suspicious but did suggest a desire to keep a low profile.
We went up in the lift, the thought going through my mind that all security staff might have been bribed or threatened to report to certain people the presence of strangers asking questions. It had probably occurred to Patrick too, a swift glance in his direction revealing that he had tensed, his jaw taut, ready for anything.
Nothing appeared to be amiss as we emerged from the lift. Without speaking, I indicated which way we should go and we made our way across the open space and along the corridor. Other than for the hum of distant machinery it was quiet: this floor, at least, appeared to be unoccupied. We reached room fifteen.
‘I think Fred was lying,’ I said. ‘Sorry, I should have mentioned this before.’
Patrick was eyeing up the door locks. ‘Nothing too complicated here – very cheap and nasty actually. Lying?’
‘Yes, well, he must have told someone I was around, mustn’t he? I don’t think she operates from here.’
‘It might have been a coincidence and that bloke was merely checking in at HQ.’
‘And this room might be a cupboardful of nasty surprises.’
Patrick straightened and gazed at me but did not deride the suggestion, gently remarking, ‘What with gun-carrying dragons and people messing with the car you’ve had more than your fair share of nasty surprises lately. But I doubt she has the wherewithal for that kind of thing.’
‘No, but she employs pretty revolting blokes,’ I pointed out.
He smiled. ‘Do I up the security level to Red Alert then?’
‘Don’t say I didn’t warn you,’ I retorted primly.
With his keys he opened the door, turned the handle and pushed the door back as far as it would go. It was dark inside: there did not appear to be any windows in the room. Patrick carefully felt around for light switches, found one, and stood back quickly after he had clicked it down.
The room, around twelve feet square, was completely empty, not even a waste-paper basket. There was another door in the opposite wall. We went into the first room after Patrick had checked behind the door and looked around but there was absolutely nothing to see. He then walked round it tapping the walls, some of which sounded hollow.
‘This is just a thin partition, little more than hardboard,’ he said, standing over by the wall with the door in it. ‘And so is that.’ He waved in the direction of the one on his left.
‘Perhaps that’s how the place is divided up,’ I said.
‘You should have stud walls, proper wooden frames with plasterboard nailed to them. Let’s see what’s . . .’
Strong wrists wielded the keys again. The second room was in darkness as well: no daylight whatsoever. An unpleasant stale smell, like drains, only worse, wafted out. Patrick could find no light switch so he dug in his pocket for his torch. It is not designed for large-scale illumination but by the tiny beam we could see that the room was quite large and fitted out with several bunk beds.
‘Stay there,’ Patrick said and went in.
He roamed around for a couple of minutes, tapping on the walls in here too.
‘The window’s been boarded over,’ he called across to me. ‘I think you can come in but please don’t touch anything. I must be getting it from you but there’s a bad feeling in here.’
It was a horrible feeling. The little pencil of light picked out the soiled bedding, discarded bloodstained clothing, other filthy strips of cloth, scraps of food, rubbish everywhere. The stench right inside the room was ghastly.
‘This is a prison,’ I said.
‘You may well be right.’
‘There only seems to be women’s clothing.’
‘People trafficking?’
I felt sick. Why did I think women had been raped in here?
Patrick swung the torch around. There was a side room. This was not locked and the source of most of the smell; at least seven buckets filled with human excrement.
I fled for the outer door, retching.
‘To the fag smokers,’ Patrick said grimly, catching up with me after relocking both doors. ‘No, on second thoughts,
I’ll go alone as Fred’s seen you before and he might be one of them. If I end up pulverizing him I don’t want you involved.’
‘I’d rather be in scream-shot, if you don’t mind,’ I told him. ‘It’s not as though we have the car here and I don’t want to hang around outside.’
‘OK, just stay out of sight.’
We exited the building, waving to the security guard and went round the back again. By this time it was getting dark and I reckoned myself just about invisible if I waited behind one of the malodorous rubbish bins. Patrick went on ahead with the air of a man with a real grievance. All was quiet for a couple of minutes and then I heard him shouting.
‘Health and Safety at Work Executive!’ he yelled. ‘It’s been reported that people are smoking within this prohibited area!’
There was a muted crash as though someone’s chair had fallen over backwards, taking them with it, not surprising as when Patrick really shouts everything within a fifty-yard radius tends to judder. He went on talking, speaking a little more quietly but not much. I could tell that he was taking names and addresses interspersed with dire warnings of prosecution.
After all had gone quiet I peeped around my bin and saw him coming back, putting his notebook back in his jacket pocket.
‘There’s no guarantee they gave me their genuine details,’ he said, unerringly coming to where I was. ‘But they can all be put in the file. There was no one who fitted Fred’s description there.’
‘That was a good move,’ I said. ‘We don’t want anyone involved with whatever’s going on in that room to know we’re on to them.’
‘But they’re aware that you were sniffing around and they failed to catch you. If Alex has anything to do with it she already knows we’re with SOCA so for God’s sake don’t do any more lone sleuthing. OK?’
‘OK. But it served its purpose, didn’t it? – getting you to take my suspicions seriously.’
‘I’m sure I don’t have to tell you that there’s absolutely no evidence to connect what you found to Alexandra Nightingale,’ James Carrick pointed out. ‘Having said that, there would appear to be some connection in that the man by the name of Fred told Ingrid that’s where the woman has her office, which is where you discovered the room that sounds as though it’s been used as a prison.’
Corpse in Waiting Page 13
