Good Bait (2 page)

At her desk her stomach rumbled; coffee aside, no breakfast. Maybe she should give Mike Ramsden a call: Ramsden, for years now her bag man, aide-de-camp, her sergeant-at-arms. Mike, if you're coming in, you might stop off at Pret and pick up one of those egg and tomato baguettes. Pain au something while you're about it.

She wondered if he'd spent Christmas alone like her or whether he'd found company; Ramsden, who seemed to be permanently between wives, usually other people's.

Pushing back her chair, she walked to where the detailed map of the area where the body had been found was pinned to the wall.

The road from the Whitestone Pond down towards South End Green allowed access to that side of the Heath at several points, none of which – Karen had found this almost impossible to believe – were directly covered by CCTV. The only cameras on that stretch of road belonged to private individuals intent on protecting their valuable property and focused accordingly.

‘Most of them locked up and shuttered,' Ramsden had said in disgust. ‘Wintering in fucking Mustique.'

As far as they'd been able to determine, the actual killing had taken place off the path to the north of the pond: traces of a struggle that had been brutal and swift, branches broken, hard earth kicked up, filaments of blood that had proved, discouragingly, to be the victim's own and nothing more.

There was no sign of the victim's clothes in the immediate vicinity; stripped from his body, they'd likely been bundled into bin bags and burned or else been transported to some far-flung field, a contribution to the national landfill.

The area around the pond had been fingertip searched, bins, drains, bushes, everything. The pond itself had been drained. Thirty-one large bags of debris to be sifted and listed; at the last count, seventeen were still in storage, slowly festering. She had asked for volunteers to sort the remainder – no overtime, just a sign or two of her endearing love and respect – but with half the world still on holiday, takers were few.

Through the square of window, the sky was a resolute grey.

The snow had faltered to a halt.

Perhaps she would call Mike Ramsden after all. They could get miserable together, curse the world.

Even as she was thinking that, the phone rang at her desk.

‘Mike?'

It was Gerry Stine, Intelligence Support. Karen listened, made careful notes, confirmed the information and thanked Stine profusely, wishing him the happiest of new years. After checking against UK Border Agency records, he had come up with a name. Petru Andronic. Country of origin: the Republic of Moldova. Date of birth: 27 November 1994. Seventeen years old.

Almost unbelievably for someone his age, he had no account traceable on Facebook or any of the other social networking sites, nor on Twitter. Even more remarkable, an initial check of the major networks failed to register him as the owner of a mobile phone: presumably he used a cheap prepaid model or, if the need arose, borrowed a friend's.

Karen shook her head: the Republic of Moldova. She didn't think she even knew where Moldova was. Not enough to point to it on a map. She had heard of it, at least. Or was that Moldavia? The same country, different names?You say Moldova and I'll say Moldavia.

She looked again at her notes. Andronic had applied for a student visa in the summer of the previous year.

She speed dialled Ramsden's number.

The background noise suggested he was engaged in a one-man Status Quo revival.

‘Leyton High Road, Mike, you know it?'

‘Back of my hand.'

The college was squeezed between a discount DIY store and a halal butcher's and, even though it was doubtful the new term had started, a dozen or more putative student types were standing around on the pavement outside, heads down, plugged into their iPods and MP3 players; smoking, most of them, occasionally stamping their feet but otherwise feigning not to notice the extreme cold.

A narrow corridor led to some narrow, uncarpeted stairs.
This college is fully recognised by ASIC
, read a poster on the wall,
the Accredited Service for International Colleges
. The
No Smoking
sign had been decorated with the smiley face of someone enjoying a large spliff.
Please do NOT bring food into the building
had been handwritten on a sheet of A4 and pinned alongside.

There was a door on the first landing labelled
General Office
, another poster, purple and gold, fixed to the wired glass:
OTHM
in big capitals –
Registered Centre for the Organisation of Tourism and Hospitality Management, supporting the tourism and hospitality industry throughout the world
.

‘Who'd have thought it?' Ramsden said. ‘The centre for tourism and hospitality, here in downtown Leyton.'

The woman behind the desk – middle-aged, spectacles, brown hair dislodged on one side from the combs intended to secure it in place – scarcely glanced up from what she was doing. ‘If you want to enquire about courses, enroll a student, prospectuses are all online. Keeps the print costs down. Application's the same.'

No immediate reply, she half-turned in her chair. There was another door behind her:
Dr D. G. Sillet, College Principal
.

‘Is it the gas? It's not the gas? Gas and electric? Public utility bills, all paid, direct debit, straight from the bank. If payments are delayed, I'm afraid that's not of our doing.'

Karen took out her ID and placed it on the desk.

The woman shook her head and another strand of hair slipped astray. ‘I've told them till I'm blue in the face, we've all told them, don't block the pavement outside, it constitutes a public nuisance. But do they listen?' A small grunt. ‘Do they understand?'

‘Petru Andronic,' Karen said. ‘He was a student here.'

The woman removed her glasses and looked them up and down. Ramsden in well-worn leather jacket, stomach resting easily on the belt of his jeans. Karen, thanks to her boot heels, taller by a couple of inches; black trousers that accentuated the length of her legs, black woollen belted coat, sweater, scarf loose about her neck.

‘Was he?' the woman said.

‘Apparently. He applied, at least. Summer of last year.'

‘Ah.'

‘Ah?'

‘Many apply. Few are chosen.' Pleased with that, she allowed herself a little smirk.

‘Keep records?' Ramsden asked.

‘Of course.'

‘Matter of minutes, then, if that. To check.'

The door to the inner office opened and a man stepped through, late forties, balding, a suit that had been to the cleaner's too many times.

‘Mrs Dawes?'

‘The police, Mr Sillet, just a routine inquiry.'

‘Very well.' He paused, a moment, no more; a quick glance towards Karen and Ramsden, an inclination of the head and he was gone.

‘Busy man,' Ramsden observed.

Mrs Dawes' fingers clicked briskly on the computer keyboard. ‘Yes, here we are. Andronic, Petru. Date of birth, November 27th, 1994. Passport number. Date of entry. Place of residence in this country. He applied to take three courses: ESOL, Administration and Office Skills, Computing and ICT.'

‘ESOL?'

‘English for Speakers of Other Languages.'

‘Of course.'

‘According to this, he was offered a place in September, September last, but never seems to have enrolled.'

‘Is that unusual?' Karen asked.

‘Oh, no.'

‘And in that event what happens?'

‘We send a letter to the address we've been given. After that, a follow-up, if necessary, warning the student that unless the place is taken up by a certain time it will be forfeited and offered to somebody else.'

‘And that would have happened in this case?'

‘I assume so.'

‘After that? If you hear nothing after that?'

‘We're obliged to inform the UK Border Agency of his failure to attend.'

‘Which you would have done?'

‘We take our responsibilities seriously.'

‘Give or take the odd gas bill,' said Ramsden quietly, an aside.

‘I'm sorry?'

‘Nothing.'

September, October, November – by the time the Border Agency had been informed, Karen thought, Petru Andronic didn't have so very long to live.

‘His details,' she said. ‘UK address and so on, you can print us out a copy?'

No sooner said, almost, than done. The address was in Green Lanes, off St Ann's Road. She knew the Salisbury pub.

3

The main street was awash with Kurdish and Turkish bakeries and cafés; mini-markets whose stalls, laden high with fruit and vegetables, stretched down across the pavement towards the kerb. Windows advertised cheap calls to Africa and the Middle East, secure ways of sending money home.

‘My old man brought me here once,' Ramsden said. ‘Up the road from here. Dog track. Harringay. Couple of years before it closed down. I was still at school. Tucked a fiver into my top pocket. See how long it takes you to lose that.' He grinned, remembering. ‘Couple of races. Three, maybe. Neither of us had a winner the whole night.'

‘Miss him?' Karen asked. ‘Your dad?' He'd died, she knew, the year before, cancer.

Ramsden shook his head. ‘Don't give it much of a thought.'

He looked away.

‘He saw all this now, poor bastard'd be turnin' in his grave.'

The street they were looking for ran off to the left, two rows of small terraced houses, flat-fronted, some showing signs of recent renovation, others dwindling towards decay. The address they'd been given was stranded midway between two extremes, work started and abandoned; a new window in the front downstairs, fresh paint, new curtains; the first-floor window had been removed and not replaced, a sheet of tarpaulin flapping in the wind and failing to keep out the snow that had begun, once more, to fall. Tiles had slipped from the roof and lay like crazy paving across the bare patch of garden. A coat of primer on the front door.

Ramsden rang the bell and, when nothing seemed to be happening, knocked loudly twice.

The woman who came to the door was wearing a black burkha, impossible to guess her age; a child of no more than a few months asleep in a sling across her chest. Seeing Ramsden she took a step back inside; stood impassive in the face of Karen's questions, then called back into the house. The boy who sidled towards them was twelve or thirteen, dark-eyed, hair grown long.

‘You speak English?' Ramsden asked.

‘Course. So does my mum. She don't like to speak to no strangers, yeah? My dad, he goes crazy.'

His mother had retreated into the hall, a hand cupped round the baby's head.

‘You from the council?' the boy asked. ‘No. Police. Police, i'n it?'

Karen nodded. ‘We're looking for someone who might know a Petru Andronic.'

‘Who?'

‘Petru Andronic. We were told he lived here.'

The boy was shaking his head, shifting his weight from foot to foot. ‘Just me an' my brothers, my sisters, mum an' dad, that's all.'

‘And where are you from?' Ramsden asked.

‘Tottenham. South Tottenham.'

‘Before that?'

‘Iraq, i'n it?'

‘How long have you been living here? This house?' Karen asked.

‘I dunno. Ages. Long time. A year? More'n that. 'Fore my birthday. Yeah, more than a year, got to be.'

‘And there's been no one else living here during that time? No one staying with you? A lodger?'

The boy shook his head. Behind him, the baby cried, just once, and was shushed.

‘You're sure?'

‘Course I'm sure.'

Karen showed him the photograph. ‘You ever seen this person before?'

‘No.'

‘Please look at it carefully.'

‘I did.'

‘So look again,' Ramsden said.

The boy scowled and murmured something beneath his breath, then, with exaggerated deliberation, did as he was asked.

Nothing.

Karen thanked him for his help.

They tried the other houses in the street. Three people thought they might recognise the face, without being a hundred per cent certain; one man – slow to the door with the aid of a stick, lived there the best part of forty years – deliberated carefully and then said he'd seen him for sure. ‘Last year, hangin' round, that house over there. All them plants in the window. That's the one.'

They'd tried there already: no reply. The other end of the street from the address they'd been given, but numbers can become confused, misread, misheard. There were plants clearly visible between slatted wooden blinds, luxuriant, shiny and green. The blinds themselves were white and expensive, the kind Karen had enquired about getting for her flat, then baulked at the cost. There was a small painting visible on the wall – painting, Karen thought, not poster; a standard lamp left softly burning.

‘Raising the tone of the neighbourhood single-handed,' Ramsden observed.

They walked back to the main road, sat in a café and ate borek with feta cheese and spinach, shortbread dusted with powdered sugar, drank strong sweet coffee. Fortified, they took the photograph from door to door, shop to shop. Blank faces, suspicious looks: some eager to be helpful, some not. Andronic? Andronic? A lot of shaking heads. You tried Turnpike Lane, maybe? Finally, they went back to the house with the plants.

This time there was a cat on the window ledge, ginger and white, waiting to be let in. When Ramsden reached out a hand to stroke it, it arched its back and hissed.

‘Not very friendly, I'm afraid. Still hasn't really settled in.'

He was white, thirties, rimless glasses; neat, short hair. Tan chinos, grey T-shirt, grey sweater in a different shade. The cat slipped past him into the warm interior as, with some care, he looked at their ID.

‘Adrian Osborne.' He held out a hand. ‘No sense catching your death out here, why don't you come inside?'