Suzie and the Monsters (20 page)

‘Oh, no,’ I say, seeing where this is going.

‘Oh, no, indeed, but I wasn’t as quick as you. She started telling me how her daughter knows your daughter, and all I could think to say is, “But Suzie doesn’t have a daughter.” Which of course was a stupid thing to say, and I realised this immediately, even as I finally understood who I was talking to.’

‘My mum,’ Cleo supplies with a laugh, but I can see that she’s proud of her mum for finding Alia.

‘Yes. There was this moment of shocked silence where we just stared at each other. I couldn’t think of anything I could say that would even begin to satisfy her. My job is finding people, not hiding them. When she asked me, “Please, where is Cleo?” I thought my heart would break.

‘Fortunately, that’s when the police arrived. “Please,” I told her, “I need to talk to the police now. Can you come back in an hour?” She nodded, and left. That was such a relief. The last thing I needed was for the police to connect her with you.’

‘It sounds like there was more than one policeman.’

She nods. ‘There were three. All pretty serious guys. George Roberts from the FIU, Ricky’s old partner Ian Wallace, who’s also an SIO, and the third was from the Met, Detective Inspector David Thomson, I think. And they were looking at me like I’m a career criminal or something. They weren’t arresting me or taking me in for questioning or anything, but...’ She sighs.

‘The FIU guy, Roberts, takes the lead to begin with, asking me when I last saw you. I’m certainly not about to tell them about the house in the country, but it occurs to me that they may know you were at the Renaissance, so I tell them that, and thank God, because he shows me a photo taken from the hotel’s CCTV, actually two photos, one from the night before when the two of you arrived at the hotel. It’s quite shocking how much you both changed overnight. Anyway, Roberts asks me to confirm that you are you, and then points to Cleo and asks who she is.’

Cleo leans forward, suddenly worried. ‘What did you say?’

‘That you were Suzie’s sister, Cleo, that you were ill and Suzie had called me to help her get you to the hospital, but that I didn’t really know anything else about you.’

‘It’s a pity you used her real name,’ I say.

‘I couldn’t think of another name on the spur of the moment, and I didn’t want to risk contradicting myself. Always best to tell the truth if you can. Besides, maybe someone at the hotel heard us call her Cleo. They started asking about which hospital, so I said Cleo’s doctor was somewhere off Oxford Street, but I wasn’t sure where. They weren’t particularly happy with that answer. They asked where you were now, so I repeated the story about you leaving the country, but they said you hadn’t, and I said I still didn’t know where you were or how to contact you.’

She pauses to catch her breath and sip her latte. ‘So then the Met guy shows me another CCTV photo, the one from outside Alex’s house, and asks me if it’s you. It’s a pretty awful picture, so I say I don’t think so, but maybe.’

‘It may be an awful picture,’ I say, ‘but if they start showing the photos from the hotel around at Dodgeson I’m sure they’ll find someone who remembers me.’

‘I don’t suppose it matters much with everything else that’s going on. The Met guy showed me another CCTV photo, again not very good quality, but recognisably you and Cleo in the parking lot down at the Waterfront, some guy chasing you with a knife, or so they tell me, it can’t be seen in the photo. I’m told that he chased you into the alley, and that you and Cleo walked out quite calmly a couple of minutes later, and that the man was found there the following morning, shot dead. I think they realised I didn’t know anything about this, but the Met guy asks me if I’ve ever seen you with a gun, and I’m able to put hand on heart and swear that I haven’t.’

‘Maybe that’s why they were so interested in Cleo,’ I suggest.

‘Maybe. Then it’s Ian’s turn. I’ve met Ian before. He’s a nice guy, but yesterday he’s all business. He shows me a photo of a man I’ve never seen before, and asks if I know who it is. When I say no, he explains that this is the man that was shot in the alley, that he is Valon’s right-hand man, a brutal, sadistic thug that no one would dare testify against. So I say, “I guess it’s good that he’s dead, then.”

‘To which Ian replies, “No one’s going to miss him, except Valon maybe. Can you explain to us why you were asking about Valon on Sunday, two days before this?” And that’s when I realise I’m also being investigated. It’s not just about Suzie Kew.

‘So I say it was on Sunday that you told me you were leaving the country, and that you had said something about stealing a lot of money from an Albanian gangster called Valon. And that’s why I was asking.

‘The FIU guy asks me if there’s a connection between you and Alex Graham, and I tell him I have no idea. He starts telling me how on Sunday a large sum of money was transferred to your account in the Caymans, and they had back-traced this to a number of accounts all managed by Alex Graham who was murdered two days previously. Also, that these same accounts had later been discovered to be established using false identities.

‘He starts asking me questions about you, about your life and what criminal activities you might be involved in, and I’m telling him that apart from the occasional payment from me your only source of income as far as I knew was stripping, but it becomes quickly clear that he knows about that already and he’s looking for something big. Really big. Maybe he thinks you were in partnership with Alex, or Valon maybe, laundering drug money or something. But there’s no way to defend you without implicating myself, and we get increasingly frustrated with each other.’

‘It’s really not necessary for you to defend me.’

‘No, but Valon is the real villain here and they should be going after him, not you. I think Ian and maybe the Met guy also would have agreed, but the FIU guy was more focussed on the money and you. And as if things weren’t already looking bad, that’s when the office door opened and Cleo’s mum was hovering there, embarrassed, apologising for eavesdropping, but were they looking for Mrs Suzie Kew because so was she...’

‘Oh, no,’ I say. ‘So now they know who Cleo is?’

‘It didn’t take long for them put two and two together, and now I had four people wanting answers from me, Cleo’s mum absolutely frantic about why her daughter was at a strip club in the middle of the night and what the hell had happened to her that night. I’m just sitting there repeating the same half-truths and completely exhausted by the whole thing.’

‘I’m sorry,’ I say.

‘I know, sweetheart. I’m not exactly innocent here, though. Anyway, thank God for Ian. He asked the others to leave so that he could speak to me privately, which didn’t make them very happy but they agreed eventually. “Alia, Alia,” he says to me, “you’ve really dug yourself a hole here. Ricky tells me that you and Suzie are very close, perhaps more than friends, so maybe you’re protecting her, maybe you’re protecting yourself, but I think there’s something bigger here. Talk to me, Alia. Let me help you.”’

‘So you told him everything?’

‘More or less. About Alex raping Jessie, that someone had tried to shoot you on Friday, that you had figured out that Alex was money laundering for Valon and you had transferred the money to your account, and had decided then to leave the country in case Valon figured it out. I said it was obvious that you and Cleo cared a great deal for each other.’

‘So, basically, Suzie killed Alex in an act of retribution, the money was a chance discovery, and Cleo and I are hiding from gangsters. It’s not a bad story.’

‘Ian seemed fairly satisfied by it, although I’m sure he could tell I was still hiding details.’

‘So, was that it?’

‘Not quite. After the police left, Cleo’s mum stayed behind, begging me to find her daughter.’

‘Well, I think you should. Phone her now and say that you are meeting Cleo here at one o’clock.’

Cleo jumps in shock. ‘Oh, God.’

‘Just tell her Carnaby Street,’ I add to Alia, ‘and to phone you when she gets here.’ To Cleo I say, ‘Go to the bathroom and take off the wig and all the make-up. I want you to find the Cleo your mother knows, bury the goddess you’re becoming. And when you come back, stay with Alia. Don’t look at me if you see me, and don’t look for me if you don’t see me. Whatever happens, don’t panic! Okay?’

‘Okay,’ she says.

‘Even if the police start asking questions, keep in mind you’re an eighteen year old girl caught up in events you don’t understand. Tell the truth, just be selective, and a little vague. Don’t try and protect Suzie Kew. She’s already in deep shit and nothing you say will make it worse. She’s gone now, left you behind and fled to Argentina. Do you understand?’

She nods. Fear of the police has brought a shadow of vulnerability to her, and she suddenly looks more like the old Cleo, too young to truly appreciate the risks she is so willing to take.

‘You’re what matters to me,’ I tell her. I give her a long, hungry kiss, then send her off.

‘Mrs Lane is on her way,’ Alia says, putting her phone down. ‘How is Cleo, really?’

‘Like an egg, tough and confident on the outside, but fragile, with a new life inside. Confused and excited.’

*

Sitting across the way in Zebrano, drinking tea and solving Sudoku, the main reason I like to buy the Times on Fridays, I have a good view of Sacred and the table by the window where Alia now sits with the newly resurrected Cleo. The streets and shops are busy with the lunchtime crowd, and I don’t see anyone who might be police undercover. Cleo’s mum makes impressive time, arriving at Sacred before one o’clock. She’s dressed for work, white shirt, dark grey skirt and jacket. I forgot to ask Cleo what her mother actually does, but she looks professional and capable. She also looks very rough around the edges, like someone who hasn’t slept for days and who has just raced across the city in record time.

Her relief at finding Cleo is palpable, and she crushes her daughter to her in a powerful hug. Cleo looks uncomfortable, and eventually manages to disentangle herself, then moves to make Alia a barrier between herself and her mother. The tension is clear in all three of them, and there’s a short argument that ends with Alia holding her hands up in surrender and walking out of the cafe. She leans against the wall looking exhausted, and for the briefest instant meets my eyes with a what-did-you-expect expression.

Cleo and her mum sit on opposite sides of the table. I have a clearer view of Mrs Lane, who is interrogating her daughter and looking increasingly frustrated. It’s clear that she is also suppressing a lot of anger.

I’m just beginning to get optimistic that the police will not appear, when I spy a familiar face in the crowd. It’s Ricky from the Met, no doubt here to identify me. He’s with another man, older, who I don’t recognise, and I can just see two pairs of uniforms stationed in either direction along Ganton Street. The two men make their way into Sacred, stopping briefly to talk to Alia, who just shrugs. Ricky disappears downstairs while the other man sits at the table with Cleo and her mum, introduces himself, and starts firing questions at Cleo. Ricky reappears after a minute, confers with his colleague, then comes outside to talk to Alia. I put my head down and concentrate on the Sudoku.

Before long they all leave, the police escorting Alia and the Lanes, but I order a fresh cup of tea and work my way through all the puzzles before daring to leave.

*

‘Miss Kew! Thank you for stopping by. We’ve been desperately trying to get hold of you.’

Iverson, my solicitor, looks very relieved to see me, even if my unscheduled appearance has disrupted his plans. I’ve removed my disguise for now, my dark hair rippling down over my shoulders, and I’m wearing black lace gloves to avoid unnecessary fingerprints, but it’s a classy look.

‘Have the police been causing trouble?’

‘Well, yes, the FIU put a lock on your accounts yesterday and have been asking all sorts of questions, threatening to get a warrant under the Proceeds of Crime Act.’

‘I see, so it’s only a threat at this point... Do you have, or have they given you, any evidence of money laundering?’

‘No, although they have been asking about a Caymans account.’

‘In that case, here’s what I would like you to do. Close down the Caymans account — I’ll write down the account details and passwords for you — keep fifty thousand as your fee, and transfer the remainder to the Eaves charity. See if you can get it earmarked for the Poppy project. Once that’s sorted out, you have my permission to answer all the FIU’s questions, and if they ever unlock my accounts I want you to go ahead with the original plan, sell the flat and the car — here’s the key, it’s parked at St Pancras — and give the proceeds to Refuge.’

He looks at me speculatively. I can see he knows what this means, and that it’s the only way he’s going to get paid now. ‘Okay,’ he says.

‘I’ll need that in writing,’ I say.

‘Of course. I’ll be back in ten minutes.’ And he’s off. Eight minutes later he’s back, I check and sign the contract, keeping a copy, hand over the Cayman account details, and we shake hands. ‘It has been a pleasure doing business with you, Miss Kew.’

At the newsagent and post office round the corner, I put the contract in an envelope, address it to SIO George Roberts at the SOCA post office box, and send it on its way.

Counting up in my head — the flat, the car, the original balance of the Caymans account — this whole business has cost me close to a million pounds. I’m suddenly feeling quite poor.

*

At nine o’clock, or thereabouts, I drop down from the wall into the garden behind Cleo’s house and thread my way between the rose bushes and across the lawn towards the house. It’s dark outside, and quiet, with only whispers of wind and rumours of the city, and I am clothed for stealth in newly acquired black Nike. I’ve been prowling around the neighbourhood for an hour or so now, and I’m fairly sure there are no police in the house, only the two men, Ricky and the other, in a car down the street in front.

Inside the house are Cleo and her mum, and a boy that I guess is her brother David. He’s a couple of years older than her. Cleo is clearly restless, often in the kitchen, making tea, staring at the food in the cupboards as if wondering what it is, until her mother follows her, no doubt wanting to cook her daughter a proper meal, a snack at least, until Cleo escapes into the living room again for a few minutes, her mother increasingly hanging back until she can control the tears she doesn’t want her daughter to see.