Candleland (10 page)

A sudden impulse gripped him, one he had to restrain himself from carrying out. He wanted to rip the blankets off each person, see if she was there; and if she wasn't, interrogate each and every one of them to find out what they knew about her. But he didn't. Instead he just kept walking, kept thinking, and realised he was no nearer to finding her.

His walk took him down to the Embankment and over Hungerford Bridge to the South Bank. The bridge was primarily a railway track over the river with a footpath to one side. At each end of the walkway sat a beggar holding out a cup for change, a little guilt tweak for the well-heeled off to the National, NFT or the Festival Hall. It seemed to Larkin, as he tossed a few loose coins into a cup and became the recipient of desperate, but rehearsed, “thanks”, that he was crossing over a privately run toll bridge.

The view from the bridge of the Thames, with its twinkling waterfront buildings stretching far past St Paul's, looked quite spectacular. It made London seem like a pleasant place to visit, but in a strictly look-but-don't-touch way. For, as the beggars at either end reminded you, you might not want to live here.

As he crossed the bridge he had wondered why he had picked this route to walk home, but once he had reached the other side, realisation had struck him. Apart from the theatres, cinemas, art galleries, TV studios and concert halls, there was something else the South Bank used to be famous for. Cardboard City.

The roundabout in front of Waterloo Station was, when Larkin was last in London, an underground shanty town housing hundreds of homeless people. It existed on several levels and strata, with walkways, access routes and service roads running through it, all of which had been colonised. Cardboard, plastic and tarpaulin had been turned into lean-to bivouacs stuffed with grubby old sleeping bags, blankets and newspapers. Lighting was weak: occasional, diffused sunlight, the odd unbroken fluorescent tube, or one of several bonfires that dotted the area, made from old pallets, cardboard or anything else to hand, providing an unstable and dangerous source of both light and warmth.

The inhabitants were all filthy, with matted, long hair, all wearing a uniform of army surplus, cast-offs and skin diseases. When Larkin had first encountered them a few years ago, they had stared at him with suspicion, unease and, in most cases, outright hatred. He hadn't stayed long.

It had been, quite literally, an underworld. A city beneath a city. Larkin had felt like an outsider, someone from the land above. It had reminded him of H G Wells' morlocks or the stories he had heard about Mole People – subterranean tunnel dwellers in the disused tube lines and sewers of both London and New York. He had always regarded the stories as urban myths, but after seeing this place, he wasn't so sure. The people here were marginalised from the surface world. It wouldn't take much to set them on the next leg of the journey, the descent.

He could remember the feeling he'd had when he'd returned above ground. The weak London daylight had never seemed so bright, the smog-choked air of Waterloo had never appeared so fresh. But at least he had been able to walk out of there. For the denizens of Cardboard City it had seemed as if the only way out, one way or another, was down.

But that was then, this was now. He had come this way again because he didn't want to return home without a plan to help Moir find Karen. He was hoping this place would provide inspiration, direction. There was a slim chance Karen could be living here, or that someone would know her whereabouts. He knew it was an idea born of futility and desperation, and he began to realise how anxious parents felt when they came down south from some repressive northern town looking for their missing offspring, who had run away to make their fortune in London. He, like them, would ignore the official figures, the ones that tell of over thirty thousand people going missing in London alone every year, and instead remember St Jude, keep walking, and tell themselves they would be the lucky ones.

He was, of course, to be disappointed. Not only was there no one to help him, but there was no Cardboard City. The whole area had been razed, and in its place were whitewashed breezeblock and hardboard hoardings camouflaging a newly emergent, half-completed building advertising itself as an IMAX cinema. The place had been reclaimed for the surface.

Larkin wondered what had happened to the inhabitants of Cardboard City. Perhaps they had been dispersed, sicked up into the upper world of doorways and pavements, dwelling forever in the peripheral vision of citizens' eyes. Perhaps they had begun their descent to the lower depths and were now Mole People; not just passing from the surface to below, but from the land of reality to the land of urban myth. Perhaps, without shelter or means of support, they had just died.

Larkin knew he would find no answers here. His walk had yielded no inspiration, no plan, nothing. Just a reminder of the enormity of his task. He would have to go back to Clapham, talk to Moir and decide what their next plan of action would be. With dragging feet, he made his way to the tube at Waterloo.

Of course, had he known what, or rather who, was waiting for him at Faye's house he would have been in even less of a hurry to get there.

Larkin sat at the table in the small, grey room, staring first at the wall, then the barred window, and finally, the closed door. He sighed, drumming his fingers on the table. He was alone, as he had been for the last three quarters of an hour or so, and, twitchily, was beginning to wish he smoked, just to give himself something to do.

He knew what the police were doing to him. Making him sweat. Leave the bastard alone long enough, ran the famous interview technique, and they'll confess to anything. Even murder. He tried to kid himself that it wasn't working, but his shaking hands and quickening pulse suggested otherwise.

Much more of this, thought Larkin, and I'll be owning up to topping JFK.

He stood up and moved to the door, pressing his ear to it. Nothing. Beyond the door was silence. He hoped they hadn't gone and left him there for the night. It was a stupid notion, knowing how police stations functioned, but, alone in a claustrophobic room, his mind was playing tricks.

He sat down again, stretched out his legs and tried to relax. Try to think of something else, he commanded himself, you still don't know what this is about. He tried focusing on his search for Karen and what he intended to do next, but he couldn't concentrate. Instead, forcing his heart to beat normally, he replayed the events that had brought him to his present predicament.

On reaching Faye's house, he found they had a visitor. He was sitting at the kitchen table, mug in hand, talking to Moir, Andy and Faye. Moir also had a mug in front of him, Andy and Faye were working their way through a bottle of red wine. As Larkin entered they all looked up.

“Here he is now,” said Faye. She tried to sound nonchalant, but the graveness of her expression stopped her from pulling it off. Larkin began to feel uneasy.

The man stood up and introduced himself. “Detective Sergeant Irvine,” he said, showing his warrant card. His accent was Scottish and, to Larkin's ear, a little like Sean Connery. He was about six foot tall, with good bearing, dressed in tweeds, with brogues on his feet. He looked more like a country squire than a policeman. “I'm afraid there's been a murder,” he said without any preamble, “and I'd like to ask you a few questions about it.”

Larkin's heart skipped a beat. “Who?” he said, finding a chair and sitting down.

Irvine opened his mouth as if to say something important, then changed his mind. He looked at the others round the table. “I think it would be best if we talked somewhere a little more … formal.”

“Are you arresting me?” Larkin asked, trying to keep the sudden panic from rising into his voice.

“No, I'm not. But I don't think here is the best place to talk about this. Would you mind coming down to the station, please?”

“Do I have a choice?”

“You do. But it would be easier if you came with me.”

“Don't worry Stephen,” said Moir. “You're not in any trouble. You'll be OK.”

“Thanks,” Larkin replied. He looked at Moir as he did so. There was something different about him, something he couldn't put his finger on. Never mind, that could keep. “Come on, then,” he said, hoping he looked as confident as he sounded. “Let's get this over with.”

Irvine thanked Faye for the coffee and Moir for the conversation. He just nodded at Andy.

They got into Irvine's car and headed north.

“Where are we going?” asked Larkin.

“North Bridge House, Camden,” Irvine replied.

“Camden?” asked Larkin. “You're a bit off your beat, aren't you?”

“Yeah. But the crime isn't. I was just going to pop round, ask you a few questions, but I got talking to Mister Moir. He told me a few things about you I thought my boss should hear.”

Thanks a lot, Henry, thought Larkin. “I'll bet he did.”

Irvine's face cracked a smile. “Don't look so worried. You're only helping us with our enquiries.”

“Yeah, right,” Larkin replied. “So who's been murdered, then?”

“I think it's better if you hear it from my boss. He'll tell you when we get there.”

Irvine took the scenic route along Millbank, past the Houses of Parliament, up Whitehall. Perhaps it was a new tourist policing initiative for the Met, thought Larkin. As he drove, he spoke.

“I was talking to your friend Mister Moir. Terrible business with his daughter. He's got you doing the leg work, I hear?”

“Yeah,” said Larkin, not wanting to give too much away.

“You had any luck finding her?”

Irvine's apparent sincerity immediately put Larkin's guard up. “No. Not yet.”

“Well, I said to him, if there's anything we can do to help, just give us a call.”

Larkin looked suspiciously at him. “Why would you do that? Because he's on the force?”

Irvine laughed. “Not so much that. He's a fellow countryman. And you do what you can for your folk.”

Irvine seemed genuine and honest, not qualities Larkin normally associated with policemen, and he didn't know how to take him. But he'd been fooled before, so, rather than say something he would regret later, he clammed up for the rest of the journey and just enjoyed the view.

Like hospitals, Larkin had always hated police stations. And for the same reasons: once he went in, he doubted he'd come out. If he went to hospital for a check-up he was afraid they'd find something terminal. Likewise, if he went to help the police with their enquiries there was every chance he'd be banged up for the same charge. As an investigative journalist with an interest in such matters, he'd seen it happen plenty of times.

Larkin had now sat so long he was seriously contemplating screaming aloud just to get attention, when he heard a sound behind him. The door. Here we go, he thought, steeling himself, the rubber hose gang are coming to get their confession. Quickly composing his features, he focused on the wall ahead. He'd decided to play the studied nonchalance card for all it was worth.

“Sorry to have kept you,” said a lilting Irish voice. “I was under the impression I'd gone home for the evening. Some chance, eh?”

Despite himself, Larkin turned. The pleasant-sounding voice belonged to a genial-looking Irishman, quite short for a policeman, crisply dressed and with an affable air that didn't disguise the intelligence in his eyes. He crossed to where Larkin sat and extended his right hand.

“Detective Inspector Kennedy. How you doing?”

Larkin shook his hand. “Stephen Larkin.”

“And a representative of the Fourth Estate, I believe, eh? I'm on good terms with some of your associates.” He gave a short laugh, chiefly for his own benefit. “Or one, at least.” He sat down facing Larkin. “Have you been sitting here all this time? Have they not offered you a drink?”

“Nope.”

Kennedy looked appalled. “They haven't? I'm sorry, what will you think of us? Can I get you some tea?”

“I'd prefer coffee,” Larkin replied.

Kennedy leaned forward, eyes twinkling conspiratorially. “Believe me, not in this place you wouldn't.”

“Tea's fine, then.”

“Okey doke, I'll get that sorted out. Not be two ticks,” he added, and was out the door, leaving Larkin alone again.

Larkin was, to say the least, surprised. He'd expected strong-arm tactics, not a friendly approach. Don't read anything into that, though, he thought to himself. He still hadn't been given a reason as to why he was here and, until such time, he would regard everyone and everything with suspicion. He wasn't about to be taken in by one of the oldest tricks in the book.

Kennedy returned, resumed his seat. “Tea'll be along in a minute,” he said with his disarming smile. “Now to business. I'll bet you're wondering why you've been dragged along here.”

“Yes,” Larkin replied, unable to keep the exasperation out of his voice.

“Sorry about all this cloak-and-dagger stuff,” said Kennedy genuinely, “but it's a rather delicate situation.”

Larkin waited. Eventually, Kennedy spoke.

“Jackie Fairley, head of the Finders Agency and someone I know you were acquainted with, is dead,” he said.

“What?” said Larkin, looking stunned.

He could feel Kennedy's eyes on him all the time, gauging his reaction. He must have been satisfied that Larkin's shock was genuine, for he continued, “That's what my detective sergeant didn't want to say in front of your friend. We found her body this morning on a patch of waste ground just behind King's Cross station. Now, she was one of the good guys and we want to close this one quickly. When we checked her diary at her office, the last entry was you.” Kennedy sat back. “So, what can you tell us?”

Larkin sat there, dumbstruck. “Not a lot,” he said eventually. He told the detective why he had called on her. “On behalf of a friend of mine.”