Fade to Black (28 page)

Allie brushed some lint from her trousers. "Why didn’t you report in?”

Connors exhaled a long breath. “I’m sorry, ma’am, but I let my phone go dead and hadn’t taken a back-up radio. I completely forgot.”

Allie looked at him for a moment. “Mathew, are you coping alright? We had a brief chat about this a day or so ago, you’ll recall. It’s been a long week, God knows, but you seem flustered and a bit erratic, to be honest. What’s going on?”

Connors shifted in his seat and pulled at his collar.
Careful Mathew, she’s a smart one…
“‘I haven’t been sleeping very well, and I am trying to work that out. I haven’t been quite myself lately, for some reason.’

“Do you need a break?”

“A break? No, definitely not. I think I had better stay on this horse or I won’t get back on.” It was an interesting analogy. She didn’t quite know what he meant, but didn’t push him.

“I see. Let me know if you think you need to take recreation leave or seek some counseling.” He turned quickly toward her, but she put up her hand. “Don’t get upset. We all need help at times. This week we’ve all seen some utterly terrible things. We could all use a break. Anyway, let’s leave it there, but please let me know if you decide I can help you.”

She saw Connors smile and turn his gaze to the rearview mirror for a moment. Talk returned to the subject of Paula Armstrong.

*****

DCS Carr sat in the deep leather chair opposite an unhappy Commander Bradley Whitcombe. Carr had been summoned and she’d not been surprised.

Whitcombe leveled his peregrine gaze at her. She knew this to be an old tactic of his. He no doubt felt that his rank and tall, patrician bearing had an intimidating affect. He swept a hand through his thick, silver hair and leaned forward. It was a rehearsed move.

He held up two fingers, a gesture that could easily have been misinterpreted.

“There’ve been two brutal, ritualistic murders this week. Probably the worst we’ve seen in a decade, Ellen, and you’re still putting your faith in this St. Clair kid?”

Carr let the silence hang for a few seconds, until she saw his gaze alter. “Obviously, yes, sir.”

“Don’t get cute here. You know what I’m driving at. Are you absolutely sure you want to continue up this path? I mean, I hear that no one has
any idea
who has done these things or why! And you’ve got this toffy kid running the investigation!”

“C’mon, Bradley,” Carr said evenly, deliberately using his first name. “She’s hardly a
kid
and don’t forget, you were very happy to see her promoted to DS so early through the ranks a few years ago. You certainly enjoyed the public relations rub-off at the time.”

Whitcombe glared at her. “Be that as it may, I’ve got media crawling over me again and I have absolutely nothing to tell them. Have we made
any
progress on either of these murders?”

Carr had had enough. “It has been just three goddamn days! What do you expect? The two crimes are obviously linked, so St. Clair’s Murder Investigation Team has to run with both. There’s been precious little time, sir. And sod the media.”

“Great,” Whitcombe replied. “Sod the media. Well, thank you indeed, DCS Carr, for that sage piece of advice. I’ll call in our communications director, shall I, and apprise him of our new strategy?”

Carr leaned forward in her chair, the leather squeaking as she did so. “St. Clair will do this, don’t you worry. There might be many more experienced officers out there”—she waved her hand towards the window—“but there’s none smarter. What chance do you think Billy McBride would have had running parallel investigations on crimes like this? I’ll tell you; he’d be in the fucking pub right now pissed to the gills, while St. Clair did it for him anyway!”

“Calm down, Ellen,” Whitcombe said. “You’re getting hysterical.”

“Hysterical my arse,” she said in a shrill voice. “The killer, or
killers
, will be in custody by Monday—you have my word on it!”

Whitcombe laughed and stood up. “Monday! Really? Well that’s a change; one minute ‘there’s been no time’, now, ‘it’ll all be fixed by Monday!’” He made a play of looking at his wall calendar. “So, let’s be clear,” he said. “Monday is, let’s see...” He counted off on his fingers. “One, two,
three
days from now. We’ll reconvene here in my office at four p.m. Monday for the wrap-up media conference, shall we?”

Carr was boxed in. “We shall,” she said. She abruptly stood and walked out.

That went well Bradley. Those charm school lessons really paid-off.

Ellen Carr threw a glance over her shoulder as she left Whitcombe’s office and saw him shake his head and scowl at some unseen annoyance. She wondered fleetingly if the prick fell somewhere on the Asperger’s spectrum.

*****

Allie phoned DC Jacinta Wilkinson from the car and asked her to follow up on which company published
Gobber
magazine and who owned it.

“
Gobber
magazine?” Wilkinson asked; she’d never heard of it.

“Glad to hear it.” Allie saw Connors smile.

“Also, ask Rachel to follow up on a company called
InCamera Photograpics
. She’ll recall the name from Shepherd’s Bush. I want to know who the principal is as soon as possible, please.”

Allie had meant to get that little line of enquiry going earlier, but priorities were stacking up this morning. She still had no clear motive for the murders, other than the obvious biblical themes that were evident to all. The fact that there was direct demonic intervention was a bizarre concept that would see her laughed out of the green room at NSY. Alluding to the killers’ delusional belief in demonic possession was as close as she could get to it at briefings.

So far, that had gained some level of acceptance, thanks to Carr’s timely endorsement of the theory. But theory was one thing; finding the person or persons responsible was another and in reality, they had nothing but a blurred image on a CCTV tape. So far, the link between Paula and Georgie, other than the bleeding obvious—that they were both attractive females—eluded her.

“A penny for your thoughts, Chief Inspector?” Connors stared across the car at her.

“I’m not sure they’re worth that much, Mathew.” She studied the streets as they approached Chelsea-Kensington. She thought of Ray Riley, who, on reflection, was the one genuine thread they had. He had been at the Chinese restaurant the night of Georgie’s murder in the adjacent laneway, and she’d seen him at the Black Crow where Georgie had worked. The trouble was, fifty people could bear witness that he didn’t leave his table all night at the Golden Bamboo—not even for a pee. But, it was a connection. A thin one, but it was something. Her phone rang. It was Rachel Strauss.

“Good morning, Rachel.”

“Good… umm… hello, ma’am. I thought you’d like to know there is no listing for
InCamera Photographics
anywhere. It doesn’t exist.”

“But we know it does, don’t we?” Allie said, thinking back to her sprawling and tumbling act in Georgie’s bedroom.

“We do,” Rachel replied. “But it’s not legally registered.”

“Hold on a moment,” Allie said and punched up her call history. “See who owns this mobile number then—it’s the one from the advertisement in
Gobber
.” She reeled off the number she had rung from the Tube the night before. “I should have thought of it earlier. Oh and, Rachel, take Jacinta with you when you can and see if you find the restaurant where Paula Armstrong had lunch with her ‘advisor’ yesterday. We know it must be reasonably close to the New Oxford Street-Bedford Square area; otherwise, Paula could not have made the afternoon Matinee at the Dominion. Flash her photo around… you know the drill. Hopefully, you can find a credit card imprint somewhere. Thanks.”

Strauss rang off without further comment. Allie looked at the phone a moment, thinking that Strauss really needed some social re-engineering. Traffic was heavy and a weak sun was losing the battle with darkening clouds. They crawled past Knightsbridge toward Gloucester Road and the Royal College of Art, en route to Kensington Road. Allie’s thoughts landed on her vivid dream, from which she had been roughly awoken by Michael that morning. Some dream. She’d never before experienced one so
real
. Michael’s strange reaction also worried her. He had been defensive. She supposed her tiredness and the bizarre and disturbing events of the week were stimulating her subconscious. Her phone bleeped. It was Michael:
Check behind you. See anything?

She twisted in her seat. She could see nothing behind the car, no suspicious vehicles following… nothing. Connors asked what was up.

"Not sure,” Allie said thoughtfully. “Just a feeling.”

Connors checked his rearview mirror. “I can’t see anything unusual.”

“Forget it,” Allie said. “We can’t be far away from Paula’s flat, can we?”

Connors checked his GPS unit. “Probably ten minutes away; it’s just down left from here, past the National Dyslexic Teaching Centre.”

Allie looked at him. “You’re kidding.”

“Nope, that’s where it is.”

“Is that according to your PGS unit?” she asked, smiling.

“Yes.” Clearly, the joke was lost on him. Her phone bleeped.
Funny.

*****

DCS Ellen Carr’s mobile phone ringtone exploded into life—Dylan’s “Knockin’ on Heaven’s Door.” It was her code ring for Janice.

“Hey,” she said.

“Hey yourself.” Janice laughed. “What are you doing for lunch?”

Carr was surprised. It was a rare thing for them to be seen out during the day, rarer still for Janice to initiate it. “Nothing. What have you got in mind?”

“You know our managing partner, Jason Lock,
Lockey
, don’t you?”

“Yes,” Ellen confirmed. She had met ‘Lockey’ a couple of years ago. She hadn’t liked him.

“Anyway,” Janice continued, “he’s hosting a lunch for our top clients at Alain Ducasse at the Dorchester. Are you interested in coming with me?”

“Alain Ducasse? That’s got a heap of Michelin Stars, hasn’t it?”

“Three, in fact. You in or out?”

“In! What time?”

Janice laughed. "Be there at 12:30. It’ll go till 3 p.m., though. Get a cab and I’ll see you there.”

“Done!” Carr hung up and looked at her watch—11:05 a.m. She’d better check in with St. Clair before she scooted off to the Dorchester. A ripple of excitement ran through her.

*****

Paula Armstrong’s flat was simply magnificent. It boasted an unobstructed view of Kensington Square gardens and a peek down towards Thackeray Street. It boasted two bedrooms, a snug, but luxuriously appointed kitchen and a living room with pressed-tin ceilings and a bay window.

“Big bucks here,” said Connors.

“Yes,” Allie replied, choosing not to mention that she’d looked at a flat just three doors down herself, but Putney’s wide-open space along the Thames had won her over. Her mother had been keen for her to buy in Kensington, as it was closer to the family home. She recalled that was the other reason she had chosen Putney.

An unwashed breakfast bowl, with a veneer of cornflakes clinging to the edges, and a half-cup of cold tea sat on the kitchen bench. A huge, shiny, retro-designed toaster that looked as though it could lift off at any moment sat beneath white overhead cupboards Presumably, Paula had come home to change for lunch after the visit to the hairdresser. This was confirmed by a look into the larger of the two bedrooms—the one Paula obviously slept in. Clothes were strewn over the bed and scarves and shoes littered the floor—she had left in a hurry. Allie stepped over the mess, thinking how different it was from the one she had confronted at Georgie Konstanzo’s flat in the Shepherd’s Bush. Some messes were tolerable and understandable; some were not.

They spent the next hour searching Paula’s flat for anything that might look relevant. Her laptop computer was password protected so that would have to be cracked by the I.T. boys. Allie noticed there were no photos of family or friends on the walls, desk or coffee table. That was unusual. They did find registration papers for a Mazda MX-5 sports car that must be parked somewhere in town and various receipts and power bills. All in all, there was nothing unusual.

“Eureka!” Connors yelled. He backed out of a hall closet carrying a large black expanda file marked ‘insurances/finance’. They spread its contents on the dining table.

The mortgage for the flat was in the file, as were her life assurance papers and car and fire insurances. Allie was disappointed to note that they were all with different companies with nothing suggesting she retained an insurance broker. Her previous year’s tax return was there as was her contract renewal with
La Mode
.

“Interesting,” Allie said. “She’s only just had her contract renewed for a further three years. They must have valued her.”

Connors whistled at the salary that was printed in bold text. “Makes my salary look sick,” he moaned.

“Mine too,” said Allie, missing his skeptical look. They rummaged about for another ten minutes until Allie called a halt. Paula led an ordered, normal life. They were wasting their time. She sighed. “Well, it’s back to the Met, Mathew. There’s nothing much here.”

She glanced out through the mesh curtains of the bay window on her way to the front door. Three men, wearing identical leathers and sitting astride identical Monza red motorbikes, sat outside the flat, their faces hidden behind shiny black helmets. They stared through the curtains at her. She moved two steps to her left. Their helmets swiveled in unison. Connors came up beside her.

“Well, well,” he said. "What have we here?”

“Ducatis,” Allie said.

“I meant…”

“Trouble, Mathew, is the answer you are looking for—big trouble.”

Chapter Seventeen

Jason Lock,
Lockey
to the inner circle, was managing director of Cranston Lock and a consummate host. His law firm had grown from a team of three, based in a third-rate shopping strip on London’s outer circle, to a top twenty-five, Fleet Street firm with earnings of just under one hundred million pounds annually, in just twenty years. Not bad for an orphaned kid who’d had more fist fights than hot dinners in his first fifteen years. But talent, raw intelligence and rat-cunning had seen him blossom and gain scholarships to the best law schools. A certain sexual ambivalence had not hurt his chances along the way either, and he had gained vital ‘patronage’ from certain influential, middle-aged ‘gentlemen’ who valued discretion above all else. His dedication to honing his strong frame through rigorous physical training, culminating in a ‘first’ in rowing from Oxford, had ensured welcome attention from predatory females and profitable relationships with senior legal ‘benefactors.’