Chasing Innocence (10 page)

For all his rough edges Brian had whittled the detail down to the fundamental issue as quickly, if not quicker, than Boer and Ferreira. Adam laughed nervously. ‘What can I say, she’s a motivated woman when she gets going.’

‘You got that right.’ Brian set his glass on the table. ‘You haven’t heard from her since?’

‘Nope.’ He decided not to say anything else. Thirty minutes had to be up soon. ‘So your last name is Dunstan,’ he offered, trying to move focus away from Sarah.

‘Sure is.’

‘So, Andrea Dunstan. That’s a cool name, kind of makes her sound like a Saxon princess.’

Brian drained the remainder of his drink before answering. ‘Pity that’s not her name then. Her mother didn’t give her my name. I’m only on the birth certificate so she can shaft me for child support.’ He looked down at his watch and then back at Adam. ‘I gotta go, where do you live?’

Adam was shocked. ‘What, I…um, why?’

‘We still have things to talk about.’

‘We do?’

‘Of course. For a start you haven’t told me everything, but I’m not going to hold that against you. I wouldn’t have either. Me and you have a lot in common though.’

‘What’s that?’

‘Something missing, of course. Andrea is a small ray of light in a world of fucking dark. I’ve let her down. So I’m going to think a few things through, factor in what you just told me. Might as well do that at work as anywhere. Then I’ll head over, then we’re going to decide what’s to be done about it.’

‘Do, done what?’

‘Your address?’

‘But, the police. They are…’

‘Just give me the bloody address, Adam, it’s not like I’m asking you to hand over the sodding keys.’

Adam stammered but relented, as much from not having a viable reason to say no.

Brian hoisted his wet coat as he stood. ‘See you later then.’ He walked out of the pub and across the street. By the time Adam finished his second whiskey Brian had re-emerged outside the club in a smart white shirt, dark trousers, and the obligatory long overcoat. Adam checked his phone, no missed calls or messages. He was still reluctant to go home but where else could he go? He walked back into the night and the rain, nodding in reply to Brian’s wave and heading towards the deserted taxi rank.

TWENTY-ONE

The entrance to the alley was lit by street lighting that quickly faded to inky dark, with a line of trees silhouetted at the back of the houses. Sarah stood in shadow beside Simon’s garage. Breathing shallowly, trying to stay the tremor in her hands, the fluctuating beat of her heart, her eyes slowly adjusting to the gloom while she listened to the changing rhythm of the night. The voices in her head all screamed
turn around!

Another five steps and she stopped between two gates, the rain resonating off a million different surfaces. She reached up to the gate on her right and on tiptoe peered briefly into the neighbour’s garden. White light suddenly flooded the expanse, exposing garden furniture, a baby slide and a collection of children’s plastic toys. She ducked back down. Nothing happened. No back door pushed open, no shouted voice. Seconds passed and then minutes and then the light blinked off. She turned and stared at Simon’s gate.

She took the handle in one hand and used the palm of the other to push. There was some give but the gate stuck at the base. She shifted her stance and levered it upwards, pushing and turning the handle. It gave a little more. She leaned in with her shoulder, using all her forty-five kilos and the tired wood cracked open. Rusted hinges protested and the gate opened wider. Sarah stepped through into a long narrow garden.

On her left was a small greenhouse of clear plastic panels, distorting light and the shapes within. To her right, open grass ran to the trees at the rear. She turned her attention to the back of the house. She had read you could evade security lights by moving in small increments towards the light, but she had no desire to spend all night doing that in the rain. Instead she poked her head around the greenhouse and ducked immediately back. Nothing happened, no white light. So she popped her head back and took a good look.

A narrow patio stretched the full width of the house, the slabs at the right illuminated by light escaping through curtains and twin patio doors. Set to the left of the doors, a square window obscured her view inside with a roller blind, a pot of utensils and washing liquid between the glass and blind. Above on the first floor a bathroom window and its bubbled glass. To the left the house gave to the garage.

She kept to the left, passing the greenhouse in a crouch, to the back of the garage and a single dirty window. Rising slowly, she used the cuff of the fleece to wipe away grime and rain, and then peered through. She could make out faint outlines that made the space inside seem empty and clean. Tools hung from a wall shared with the house, beneath them sat a work bench. At the far end light seeped from beneath a door, probably the hallway. From somewhere inside, upstairs, she heard a loud bang that made her flinch, sounding like a door slammed by the wind, except there was no wind. Whatever caused the noise doused the light at the end of the garage. She waited through tense seconds, ready to run, her jeans by now wet through, her hair clinging damply to the side of her face.

With little to be seen inside the garage she crouched low and scuttled beneath the kitchen window to the edge of the patio doors. She set herself against the wall and craned sideways, looking through the gap between glass and curtain. Inside was a dining room, a stairway on the right, double doors opposite leading to a living room. She smelt the rich aroma of a neighbour’s takeaway and her stomach rolled with hunger. She moved across to the next door and peered through another narrow gap between the frame and curtain, a thin sliver that allowed her to see more of the dining room. She saw the box on the floor, and squinted, forgetting to breathe. It was a hi-fi box, not a microwave after all.

She wrapped her fingers around the door handle, ready to see if it was locked, when Simon ducked into the dining room and scooted the box to the middle of the room. He leaned over it and did something inside that made the sides fall away. Sarah’s heart skipped a beat and she gasped out loud. A smudge of pink and mousey hair, a small body in a tight foetal curl. The girl appeared asleep, her body limp as Simon lifted her and hoisted her carefully over his shoulder and back into the living room, away from view.

Sarah stayed crouched for several seconds, thinking what to do. There really was only one thing to do now. She stood, turned and saw a vague stocky outline, not much taller than she was. In one hand he held a white bag, a Chinese takeaway it occurred to her. She didn’t see the other hand, coming from the right. She turned straight into it, the force of the blow spinning her around and into the patio doors, her head bouncing with a resonant thonk off the glass and she slid unconscious onto the wet patio floor. Defeated in an instant. Then there was only silence, save for the sound of the rain.

Hakan stood staring at Sarah’s body for long seconds. She was definitely a woman, although he had not been sure initially. The large top she wore made it difficult. It had left him with a moment of dilemma until the gasp, which left him with no choice. They had been lucky this time. Simon was getting careless.
Who was she?
Nobody local would even dare come into the garden, not
his
garden. He used his keys to unlock the door, with his free arm scooping up Sarah, using the other hand to pull open the door, the white takeaway bouncing off the frame as he stepped in. He closed the door, scuffed his feet on the mat and called out. ‘Simon!’ His voice was accented, Nordic, with the sound projected from the base of his throat. There was no answer. He repeated, ‘SIMON!’

Simon appeared, standing just beyond the dining room door, wiping his hands on a cloth, his hairline obscured by the frame. His expression annoyed. ‘What?’

Hakan wordlessly carried Sarah into the living room, making Simon step aside. He dropped her onto the sofa. Simon’s eyes following, mouth agape.

‘Jees, where’d you find her?’

‘In the garden watching you, that is where. You have been sloppy, she must have seen.’

‘No way, nobody would around here. Nobody could have anywhere. It went perfectly. Nobody could have seen.’

He leaned over the sofa and looked at Sarah, brushing the damp strands of hair from her face. ‘Hambury went just as expected, Delamere checked out, nobody followed me, nothing happened.’ He moved her head from side to side, examining her face. A realisation dawned.

‘Fuck!’

TWENTY-TWO

Brian’s head ached but all things considered it was worth it. There had been a time when jumping the queue outside a club validated instant retribution. Nowadays the rules dictated bouncers escort troublemakers off site, and if they came back you escorted them away again. Aggression, especially outside MadHatters, was the absolute last recourse.

Which had been Brian’s intention as he walked with Paulo to the queue, to extract three guys jumping the queue. He had even asked nicely three times as per the local police directive. When that had failed he put one of them into an arm lock ready for the short walk across the road. Paulo did the same with one of the others. He deliberately avoided the short stocky one, the one most likely to put up a fight, as per the directive, which dictated you remove the supporting cast and you removed the threat. It sometimes worked and sometimes not. On this occasion it did not. The short stocky one had pushed him, quickly followed by a brief flash of metal.

Technically the push was a punch and Brian knew instantly the knife was little more than a couple of inches long, probably a fishing knife by design, now an accessory for posturing. The kid was holding the damn thing all wrong. That annoyed Brian more than anything, reduced now to disarming idiots with no comprehension of consequences. This, along with the hopelessness he felt of the day, the guilt he felt for Andrea, provoked his reaction.

He twisted the guy he had away, howling, into the street while blocking the incoming knife with his left forearm. Immediately grasping the wrist and snapping it around, opening up the guy’s body as he stepped forward with his weight rolling from heel to ball, using the power through his shoulders and neck to drive his forehead forward. He connected with the bone just above the stocky guy’s left eye. There was blood but no crunch, just a sound not dissimilar to fresh coconuts crashing together. The stocky guy went straight down, a cut freely bleeding above his eye. A reminder not to jump the queue at MadHatters the next time he looked in the mirror. Apart from a few screams that had been it, over in less than two seconds. Brian wiped the blood from his forehead and ten minutes later watched the three forlorn figures climb into a police van.

That had been over an hour ago. Now it was one thirty and most of the overspill had gone home or were already consumed by the thumping bass behind. A burst of static filled his ear, then nothing. He pulled out the earplug and gave it a flick, pushing it back in again. Another burst and he made out a voice. ‘Brian…wants…office … Dmitri.’

Which he translated to mean Dmitri would be replacing him outside and he was wanted in the office. Which was not good. He turned and looked into the club, as the massive frame of Dmitri pushed through the double doors towards him.

MadHatters was the building’s second incarnation as a club. Before that it had been Hambury’s one time cinema, which meant it had a lot of stairways and narrow corridors. The walls were painted dark mauve over ancient wallpaper, the floors and stairways covered in the same industrial carpet of dark swirls and curls. The
office
was the old projection room and the base during business hours of Ali, the club’s owner and only surviving son of first generation Nigerian immigrants.

Brian knew the legends around Ali’s financial standing, the stories of drug running, protection and extortion, internet scams and ongoing investments in the online porn industry, were just myths, mostly of Ali’s creation. They were propagated with the high turnover of staff and compounded by the machete Ali kept on the wall behind his desk, and the long necklace of pickled human ears he kept in his drawer. Brian had known Ali for over a decade, they had served together. He had never seen Ali do anything outright illegal.

He knocked twice and stepped into the office, pushing the heavy door closed behind him. The deep bass of the club faded to a distant thump, the occasional strobe of lighting the only evidence of the masses dancing below. Ali was sitting behind an oak desk wearing a fitted blue suit, waistcoat and white shirt. Taller than any man Brian had known and not carrying that much excess weight. Opposite the desk was a sofa and sat on the sofa was one of the dancers, all lean glistening limbs and a dark fringe cut straight across her forehead. Brian only knew her name was Yana, and that she and Dmitri were seldom apart outside of the club. Ali gestured Brian to a chair, two long steps from the door.

Brian did not move. ‘I’ll stand if you don’t mind boss.’

Ali nodded as he pushed his large frame back into his protesting chair. ‘You OK there Brian?’ His voice was deep and measured.

‘So, so, you know boss.’

‘I do. It’s been a quiet night, everybody hunkered down at home. Nobody likes the rain, do they Brian?’

‘No boss, a lot of bad tempered people out tonight and they don’t like queuing.’

‘They don’t, that’s for sure. And Brian?’

‘Yes boss?’

‘Cut the boss crap will you, I hope you’re not showing off for the good lady here.’

Brian glanced across at the girl. She returned a smile that flashed jade eyes and freckles. Ali’s deep voice pulled him back to the matter in hand.

‘For such a quiet night it’s good to see at least one of my staff has been busy. I hope your head is not too sore, my friend.’

Shifting his weight, Brian leaned back against the door. ‘Holding up, you know.’

Ali nodded. ‘I do.’ He stretched long legs beneath the desk, two parallels tipped with shiny brogue shoes. The fingers of his right hand splayed on the arm of his chair. ‘I assume, Brian, you are going to tell me why you assaulted one of my customers?’