by Maynard Sims
“Lightweight,” Harry said.
“And I make no apologies for it. Can I see all the relevant files?”
“I’ll get Melanie to make copies and run them down to you.”
McKinley picked up his book again. “Only three chapters to go. I’d better get it finished. I might not get the chance in the coming days.”
“I appreciate it, John.”
“I know, Harry. What are friends for?”
“Welcome to the Hotel Jägerwirt, Mr. West. Have you visited Austria before?”
The woman behind the desk was in her forties. She was wearing a flared gray skirt, a bright red blouse and a colorful embroidered waistcoat—Austrian national dress. Her fair hair was parted in the center and plaited, the plaits wound in coils and pinned to cover her ears. To Jason it was if she’d stepped through some kind of time warp and come here from the nineteenth century.
But she was very polite and her English was impeccable. “You are in room 302. If you leave your bag here, I’ll have Franz, our porter, bring it up for you.”
“It’s okay, I can manage.”
“As you wish.” She handed him a key on a large plastic fob bearing an image of the hotel. A five-story, chalet-style building with picturesque window boxes filled with vermillion pelargonium. The hotel was large but still maintained an old-world charm.
“But, one thing. I’d like to book a skiing lesson for tomorrow morning.”
“That won’t be a problem.” She took out a large appointment book from under the desk and opened it out flat in front of her. “Would you describe yourself as a novice, intermediate or advanced?”
“Intermediate, I suppose. I’ve skied since childhood, but never tackled a black run.”
“Well, they’re for expert, accomplished skiers.”
“I’m somewhere between blue and red. I suppose I’m looking for someone who can give me a refresher course. I haven’t skied in over five years.”
She stared down at the book and tapped her pen against her teeth. “I’m thinking Dieter. He’s very good.”
“A friend of mine got back from Austria last week. He had a very good instructor, a young woman. Karin…Katz?”
“Metz. Karin Metz. She takes novices through to advanced. She’s excellent.” She consulted the book again. “And you’re in luck. She has a window from eleven through to one o’clock. Would that be suitable?”
Jason gave her a warm smile. “Ideal. I can get into town and hire boots and skis. I didn’t bring any with me.”
The receptionist regarded his solitary suitcase. “Yes, I can see that. There’s a shop on Josef Herold-Strasse. They should be able to provide you with everything you need.” She slid one of the store’s advertising fliers across to him.
He folded it and slipped it into his pocket. “And I wondered if I could book a table in the restaurant for this evening.”
She tapped a few keys on the laptop on the desk. “It’s very early in the season. We’re only one-third full. You can come down for a meal anytime up until nine o’clock.”
“Fantastic. You’ve been really helpful.”
The woman smiled and inclined her head. “You’re very welcome. Enjoy your stay, Mr. West.”
“Brian, have you spoken with Kerry Green’s parents yet?” Susan said as she came back into the interview room.
“I tried. They were out. I’m going back shortly.”
“Wait for me. I’ll come with you.”
“We’ve had a result on the stamp,” Gillian said. “It matches one they use at the Abyss in Soho.”
“Good.”
“Do we go and check it out?”
“Not just yet. I’ll see if I can get a recent picture of Kerry from her parents. We’ll go to the club then and show it around. See if anyone recognizes her. Brian, you ready?”
Brian Witherspoon pulled his jacket from the back of a chair and put it on. “Shall I drive?”
“What do you think?” Susan said.
Chapter Fourteen
Susan knocked on the canary-yellow front door on the first floor of Clarkson House, a high-rise, part of a sink estate on the Hackney/Stamford Hill border.
Witherspoon looked out nervously from the window at his car, vulnerable in a parking space outside.
“If I come back and my wheels have been taken, I’m claiming compensation.”
Susan ignored him and rapped on the door again. As the door opened, the smell of marijuana smoke wafted out at her. “Linda Green?” she said to the slatternly woman standing in the doorway, regarding her with a hostile stare.
“Who wants to know?”
Susan produced her warrant card and held it out for the woman to see. “Detective Inspector Tyler. This is Detective Constable Witherspoon. We’re from Waterloo Road police station.
“A bit far off your patch, aren’t you?”
“Who is it, Lin?” a male voice drifted out.
“Police,” she called back.
“Shit!” the voice said, followed by the sound of running feet and a toilet flushing. “What do they want?”
“What do you want?”
“It’s about your daughter, Kerry.”
“What’s the silly little bitch done this time?”
“I’m afraid I have some very bad news, Mrs. Green. I’m sorry to say your daughter is dead.”
Linda Green looked at her, the hostile look replaced by one of incredulity. “Dead? Kerry?”
“I’m very sorry,” Susan said. “My sincerest condolences. May we come in?”
“Dead?” Linda said. The blood had drained from her face, and she clutched the doorframe to support herself as she sagged against it. “Yes,” she said. “Come in.” She moved to one side to allow them into the flat.
“What’s going on, Lin?” A man wearing a stained vest and a bellicose expression lurched out of a room to the left. “You let them in?” he said. “You let the filth into the flat?”
“It’s Kerry, Pete. She’s dead.”
“Dead? What do you mean, dead?”
“We’re sorry, Mr. Green. Kerry was found—”
“He’s not my husband. Kerry’s father walked out on us ten years ago. Lives with some whore up in Grimsby. Pete’s my boyfriend. Pete Roberts. Come through.” She led the way through to an untidy lounge. A large plasma TV sat in the corner of the room. There was a football match playing at full volume.
“May we turn that off?” Susan said, pointing to it.
“But it’s Arsenal, they’re playing Tottenham,” Roberts said and made no move.
“Turn the fucking box off, Pete. Kerry’s dead!”
“But they’re losing.”
“Then go down the pub and watch it there. Drown your sorrows at the same time. Drown yourself while you’re at it,” she added under her breath.
Roberts snatched his jacket from the back of the settee and threw it on. Grumbling, he pushed past them. A second later the front door slammed.
“Him and Kerry don’t get on,” Linda said, as if that excused his ignorant behavior. And then she turned off the TV, went and sat down heavily on the settee. “What was it? Drugs?”
“May we sit?”
Linda nodded and waved them to the armchairs.
“We have reason to believe your daughter was murdered. We’d like you to come and formally identify the body?”
“You mean you don’t know for certain it’s her?”
“We’re pretty sure, Mrs. Green. Kerry was fingerprinted last year during her arrest for shoplifting. The prints match those taken from the scene. When did you last see Kerry?”
“Last night. She was going uptown. A club, I think.”
“The Abyss?”
“If you say so. Once she walks out of that door, she does what she pleases. She’s sixteen.”
“Do you have a recent photo of her?”
“Murdered, you say? Who the hell would want to kill Kerry? She can be a pain in the ass at times and she dresses like a freak. But murdered? Who killed her?”
“That’s why we need your help, to try and find her killer.”
Linda was swaying in her seat and blinking furiously, as if she was trying to understand why a bomb had just exploded in her life.
“The photo?” Susan said, pressing her.
“I’ve got one. Taken at school last year. Will that do?”
“May we see?” Witherspoon said.
“Hold on.” Linda got to her feet and went across to a seventies-style teak sideboard. She pulled out a drawer and started to rummage through it. After a few moments she produced a cellophane envelope. “Here they are.” She ripped the seal from the envelope and took out a five by seven glossy color picture of a pretty girl with mousy hair and glasses, braces on her teeth. She handed it across to Witherspoon, who looked at it. “And this is Kerry?”
“Yes. She was pretty before she got into all that emo stuff. Cut all her hair off and dyed it black. Started getting all those awful piercings. Not hygienic, those things. ‘You’ll get AIDS’, I told her, but did she listen?”
“Have you got a photo of Kerry looking like that?” Witherspoon asked.
“I think so.” Linda went back to the drawer and start looking again. Finally she said, “Taken at a family party last month,” and handed it across. “Though what you want that one for? She looks bloody awful.”
Witherspoon stared at the picture. The pretty girl had gone. This one looked more like the girl they had found dead on the banks of the Thames. He handed the photo to his DI.
Susan took it and put it in her pocket. “We’ll let you have this back.”
“Keep it,” Linda said. “That’s not my daughter.” She lifted the school photo. “That’s my Kerry,” she said and started to cry.
“Apart from the Goth scene she was involved in, did Kerry mention any groups or cults she had contact with?”
Linda shook her head. “No, nothing like that.” She blew her nose loudly into a tissue.
“Is there someone you can call, to be with you?” Susan asked.
“Mum lives two doors down. I’ll call her.”
“Also,” Susan said. “Were you and your…boyfriend here last night?”
“DVD and curry night,” Linda said distractedly and blew her nose again.
“And you were here all night. Someone can verify that?”
Linda fixed them with another hostile look. “You think I killed my own daughter?” she said.
“We have to ask, Mrs. Green. To eliminate you from our inquiries.”
“My mum was here with us. It was curry night. She never misses it. Ask her. She lives two doors down. Number twenty-one.”
Susan got to her feet. “Well, that will be all, Mrs. Green. I’ll send a car for you tomorrow to take you to the mortuary. Nine o’clock.”
Linda didn’t respond. She sniffed into the tissue again and waved them away.
“We’ll see ourselves out,” Witherspoon said, and followed his boss to the door.
Once outside in the hallway, he said, “Are we going to check the mother?”
Susan shook her head. “No. She wasn’t lying. We know where they are if we need to interview them again. Check on the boyfriend though. Pete…”
“Roberts? You think he might be involved?”
“He seemed more upset that Arsenal were losing than about Kerry. See if he’s got form. Come on, let’s head back.”
“Unless my wheels have been stolen,” Witherspoon said.
Susan got back to Waterloo Road police station to find Harry waiting for her. “What can I do for you, Mr. Bailey?” she said as she walked through the swing doors.
“Call me Harry, please, if we’re going to be working together.”
“Are we going to be working together?” she said, sweeping past him.
“I certainly think we can help each other out.”
She stopped and glanced back at him. “Come through to my office,” she said.
She led him though a network of corridors until they came to an office he had been in before. He dropped the file he was carrying down on Susan Tyler’s modern-looking dark blue desk. She walked around the desk, sat down and said, “What’s this?”
“Everything we have on Anton Markos and the Children of Hecate.”
She opened the file and started leafing through the contents. Finally she looked up at him. “Why are you showing me this now?”
“In the interests of interbureau cooperation,” she said.
“Bollocks,” she said. “You want to use the Met’s resources to help you with your investigation.”
Harry smiled. “We all work for the same boss,” he said.
“The difference being that your office is three times the size of mine and your desk is oak instead of melamine-covered chipboard.”
“Agreed, but we have a lot we can bring to the party.”
She stood up abruptly. “I’ll see if I can rustle up a cup of coffee; then we’ll talk.” She left the room, returning a few seconds later. “It’s on its way. Black, no sugar, right?”
“Well remembered.”
She went back to the file. After a few moments she said, “All very interesting, but it gives us nothing new we can use.”
“I’m showing you the file to give you a clearer picture of who we’re dealing with.”
She took an electronic cigarette from her purse, stuck it between her lips and let the nicotine vapor spill into the air. “Ironic really,” she said. “I started using this to help me quit smoking. I no longer smoke, but I’m hooked on this bloody thing.” She tapped the file. “The methamphetamine he got your friend’s niece hooked on, he would need a steady supply of it. We can target known dealers, see if we can get some kind of lead there.” She picked up the photo of Markos leaving the restaurant in the West End. “Good-looking sod, isn’t he?”
“You can see why he attracts these girls.”
“A handsome face and a whiff of money. Quite a devastating combination. Have you got an address for his place in Clerkenwell?”
“Goswell Road. He has a penthouse apartment with a view of St Paul’s, apparently.”
“And his place in the Cotswolds?”
“A seventeenth-century manor house in Fairford, overlooking the River Coin. Both addresses are in the file. Last page.”
She flicked to the final page and scribbled both addresses on her desk blotter. “But nothing on this supposed warehouse in Docklands where he and his followers meet?”
“I have my best people working on it. We’ll have an address soon.”
“It still leaves us with the problem that we have nothing concrete to justify a search warrant for any of his places.” She took the photograph of Kerry Green from her bag and handed it to Harry. “She doesn’t fit into the blue-eyed blonde category.”
Harry stared at the photograph. “And this is the girl you found dead by the Thames.”
Susan nodded.
“So how does she fit into all this…unless…”
“What?”
“She’s the only dead one.”
“So what does that mean?”
“Perhaps the girls have different purposes. You said the pathologist thought the killing of this girl was ritualistic.”
“Judging from the marks on the body. And she had a two-pound coin under the tongue.”
“To pay the ferryman, Charon, to carry the body across the river Styx to the afterlife.”
“So what do we do? Arrest Chris de Burgh?”
Harry smiled. “No. What I’m saying is that she could have been a sacrifice. Maybe the blondes are serving a different purpose.”
“I don’t know. I might have more idea when I hear back from Jason.”
“Who’s Jason?”
“Jason West, he’s working for me. I’ve sent him to Austria to meet one of Markos’s former lovers. Karin Metz, a German girl. Blonde, blue eyes, like the others. Maybe we can get a handle on Markos’s motivation by talking to her.”
“What do we do in the meantime?”
“Keep digging, I suppose. Have you tracked down Kerry Green’s movements for last night?”
“We’re working on it. We think she went to a club, the Abyss in Soho. We’ll go there tomorrow evening. We’ll take the photo and show it around. If she met with her killer, someone might have seen her. We might even get a name? You never know.”
“You can’t go there before.”
“It won’t be open until the evening.”
Harry tutted. “Frustrating. The wheels of justice grind inexorably slowly.”
Susan raised her eyes to the ceiling. “Tell me about it.”
“I suggest we stay in close contact. If either of us turns up anything significant, we’ll let the other know. Agreed?”
“What the hell, yes. What have we got to lose?”
“Nothing. But we might have everything to gain.”
Chapter Fifteen
Clusky sat at the bar in the Abyss, nursing a half-drunk pint of Guinness. He was still buzzing from the thrill of last night—watching the girl die and disposing of her body, seeing it fall into the water from Waterloo Bridge.
At three fifteen in the morning, there had been no traffic on the bridge: no cars, no pedestrians. It had been an easy matter to haul her from the trunk of the car and drop her into the Thames. Traffic cameras might have recorded the incident, but Fin didn’t care. They would never recognize him, never see past the hoodie and the mask he was wearing. And the car he was driving, he’d stolen earlier in the evening. He was fireproof and was reveling in his anonymity.
He was enjoying his connection to Erik and the Children of Hecate. Not that he believed any of that occult mumbo jumbo. But he enjoyed hunting for targets and the resulting sacrifices, and especially enjoyed being given the bodies to get rid of. There had been three so far, Kerry being the best. She’d still been warm when he loaded her body into his car. Warm and dead. Just how he liked them. Dead girls never complained, no matter what he did to them.
