The Hollow Man (26 page)

42

I
sha Sharvani saw Belsey at the front of the Forensic Command office and groaned.

“You’re going to like this,” Belsey said. “I promise. I need image enhancement.”

Sharvani led the way through her lab to the photographic unit. The unit was two rooms between the toxicology labs and forensic dentistry; one of the rooms had a projector. Sharvani dimmed the lights and scanned the photograph. After a few seconds it appeared on a wall-sized screen, enlarged to fill it and divided into a grid by thin red lines.

“Is that a waterfall in the background?” Sharvani said.

“It’s a waterfall.”

“In a bar?”

“In a casino. It’s called Les Ambassadeurs.”

“Nice.” She admired the image. Then her expression became serious.

“That’s Jessica Holden on the left.”

“I’d say so,” Belsey said.

“What is this?”

“The reason she got shot.”

Sharvani stood back and folded her arms, casting a professional gaze across the enlarged image.

“Who’s the man?”

“He’s called Pierce Buckingham. Zoom in on his glasses.” She zoomed in. There was a lot of glare on the glass; lights from the slot machines.

“Reflected in them,” Belsey said.

“What is it?”

“It’s whoever’s taking the photograph.” She zoomed in further. “You can see the figure?”

“I can see a shape.”

“Look, down in the wineglass you can see them as well.”

She filled the screen with a wineglass. The hazy form of a man raising a camera was clear enough. It didn’t tell you much else.

“I can enhance it,” Sharvani said. “But I can’t make it show you a face that isn’t there. Who do you reckon it is?”

“A man called Alexei Devereux. He’s also dead.”

“Well, this is cheerful.”

Belsey took out the clipping from
Al-Hayat
, and replaced the photo with the fragment of newspaper. It appeared on the screen.

“Same guy,” she said.

“Yes. Can you tell me anything?”

“The photograph’s being taken from inside. It’s a large doorway for a church. Maybe a cathedral.”

“Get closer on the buildings in the background. I want to know where they are.”

The spire came into focus, set on top of old, blackened stone.

“Recognise it?” she said.

“No.”

He switched the images back to the gaming scene and looked again at the blonde girl, Jessica’s companion, on Buckingham’s other shoulder. If they weren’t close friends at school they certainly seemed to be running a tight operation outside of it. He needed to speak to her, the fourth party in this memento. He didn’t want to get through to an agent.
Someone must have information
, she’d said to the cameras, in her expensive clothes.

“Is this computer online?” Belsey asked.

“Sure.”

Belsey sat down and searched for the Sweetheart Companionship website. It arrived with its parade of youth for hire. “A girl with you in one hour!” There were a lot of blondes, a lot of girls from small-town Ukraine and Lithuania. All the beauty of the former communist world seemed to be on the game in London. And then there she was: Lucinda, “our English Rose.” Sharvani watched over his shoulder.

“Are you looking for a date tonight?”

“I just found one.”

“That’s the girl.”

“Looks like her to me.”

He called Sweetheart on the Forensic Unit’s phone and they answered on the first ring.

“Good evening, sir. Sweetheart Companionship.”

“I’ve seen a girl on your site and I’d like to arrange a date with her.”

“Yes, sir, which one?”

“Lucinda.”

“I’m afraid Lucinda’s not available tonight.”

“I’ll pay good money.”

“That’s not possible. Can I recommend another girl, very similar?”

“An English Rose?”

“Yes, sir.”

Belsey hung up. Then all hell broke loose.

Engines roared into life down in the parking lot, sirens opening up. Individuals sprinted down the corridor outside. Sharvani took a call and pulled on her jacket, grabbing a murder kit from the desk.

“What’s going on?” Belsey said.

“Showtime. I’ve got to go.”

Belsey stepped out of the office. “What is it?”

“Another shooting. EC4.”

B
elsey jumped into his car and joined the convoy. He tailed the Response Unit north across London Bridge into the City. They stopped at Monument. He jumped out.

A silver Audi sat abandoned at the junction of Cannon Street and King William Street, the passenger window smashed, driver’s door open. The burn of a motorbike tyre ran fresh alongside it. Red-and-white police tape entangled the junction. Six City uniforms guarded the scene, one on his radio—“No, no sighting.”

But it wasn’t the car that attracted the bulk of the attention.

The action was down in the darkness of St. Clement’s Court, outside the building that had housed AD Development.

“Move away,” someone shouted.

Belsey showed his badge and ducked through. Buckingham lay in the alleyway, beside an unmarked door to an empty office. He was still in his expensive overcoat and bulletproof vest. Most of his skull was missing, bone and brain splashed across the tarmac and up the adjacent wall.

“Someone cover him,” yelled a sergeant from the City Police.

Belsey walked back to the Audi. He found what was left of Buckingham’s glasses twisted by the pedals.
When they get me, I want you to remember you’ll be next
. He glanced up at the windows and roofs and ledges. Figures of Industry and Commerce stared down. An air ambulance cast its low growl over the Square Mile. He stepped out of the light and walked back to his unmarked police car.

43

S
weetheart
. He needed company.

Belsey drove west into Soho, senses open for his killer and flooded by the general brutality of Saturday night. Two cars collided at the junction of Shaftesbury Avenue and Cambridge Circus and everyone cheered. Glass broke outside a pub and everyone cheered. He never knew what they were cheering: the promise of violence, the physical fact of destruction. Shattered, he thought. It felt like he had shattered and now exhaustion had no place to cling. He had his second wind, pumped with the chaos. People moved loudly between pubs and bars, outrunning closing time; tourists marching to the strip shows, locals edgy with nine hours of drinking. Addicts weaved through the crowd. One woman lay on the pavement, unconscious, flanked by queues for cash machines.

He was ready to break into the escort agency’s office if necessary. It might have been preferable. But as he approached the building he saw a light from the top-floor window. The front door was open.

The agency’s receptionist tried to stop Belsey when he reached the top floor.

“We’re closed.”

He put a foot in the door. The main lights were off. Light came from under the door to Freddie Garth’s office.

“You left a light on.”

He pointed and moved past her as she turned. She ran to the phone and lifted it to put some warning through but was never going to connect in time.

Belsey opened the door. Garth sat alone, extracting papers from a file.

“I’m in the middle of something,” Garth said.

“This will be inconvenient then.” Belsey sat down.

“What do you want?

“To speak to Lucinda.”

“No.”

Belsey leaned across the desk, picked up the phone, pressed speaker and dialled.

“Channel Five,” the phone said.

Belsey leaned over the mike. “It’s Nick Belsey, friend of Miranda Miller. Can you put me through to the news desk?”

Garth hit the phone and cut them off.

“She lives in north-west London,” he said. He opened one of the files and read a street address and shut the file again.

“Thank you for your cooperation,” Belsey said.

T
he address was a neat slice of property just west of Highgate Cemetery: a whitewashed home on a gated development. It was eleven o’clock and a new VW Passat was twinkling on the driveway, though the house lights were out. Bedtime. This was going to be fun, Belsey thought.

He rang the bell and waited, then tried again. After a moment, a man answered in a dressing gown. He had dark hair flecked with grey and looked like he might play a good game of squash.

“Is there a Lucinda here?”

“My daughter’s Lucy.”

“That’ll be the one.”

“What is this?”

“Police. It’s nothing to worry about, but I need to speak to her. Is she home?”

“I think so.”

“Can I come in?”

The man led him into a very clean, pale, carpeted home. Belsey saw envelopes on a table in the hall addressed to Dr. Howard Grant. The living room had pink and cream sofas.

“This is about Jessica,” Grant said.

“Yes.”

“Lucy wishes there was more she could do. It’s been very hard for her. For us all.”

“I know. This must seem cruel. I just want to run one or two new developments by her.”

Belsey admired the sofas and matching armchairs with their pouffes. There were professional-quality shots of Lucy all over the walls, a copy of the
British Journal of Cosmetic Dentistry
on the coffee table, a magazine called
Smile
.

“Let me see if she’s up.”

The father went upstairs and came down a few seconds later.

“She’s in the bathroom.”

“OK. I’ll wait. Could I get a tea?” Belsey said. “I’ve been on my feet all day.”

“Of course.”

Belsey waited for the man to disappear into a newly fitted kitchen and then went upstairs. There was light from under a bathroom door. Beside it was a girl’s bedroom: a wall of photos, A-level textbooks on a shelf, clothes on the floor. He opened the wardrobe, opened the bedside drawer: contraceptive pills, address book, a bottle of diazepam and two brochures for breast augmentation clinics. Belsey flicked through the address book, then put it back.

He went back downstairs to the living room. His tea arrived a moment later.

“It’s a terrible situation,” the man said.

“Yes.”

“Lucy’s mother worries herself sick.”

Belsey leaned back on the plump sofa. He looked at the soft-focus shots of the dentist’s daughter: in ballet gear, in ballroom gear. No one ever believes the threat is in their own homes. Even when it’s them. Even as they’re bludgeoning the members of their close family to death.

“We’re going to find whoever’s responsible,” Belsey said.

“How can they live with themselves?”

Lucy came downstairs in fresh makeup, skirt and knee boots with a fake fur jacket over her arm. It didn’t seem like she was about to turn in for the night. She looked from Belsey to her father and back at Belsey.

“He’s a policeman,” her father said. She frowned.

“I’ve told you everything already.”

“I think you might have forgotten some details,” Belsey said. “I’m interested in the company Jessica kept. You know—sweethearts. That kind of thing.” The girl’s expression changed rapidly to one of panic. She turned again towards her father to read his face but caught only blissful ignorance. “Shall we talk somewhere private?” Belsey suggested.

This seemed to be a good idea. They went to her room.

“What do you want?” she said.

“Sit down.” Belsey shut the door. She sat on the edge of her bed. “I want to talk. You ever get clients who say that? They just want to talk?”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“What did you mean when you lied to the police?”

“What did you tell my father?”

“That you’re a cynical little whore. What did you tell Sky?”

“Fuck you. You don’t care about Jessica.”

“Don’t I? Do I care that you might be in a lot of danger yourself right now?”

“You’re all incompetent.” She turned away, but not very effectively, and not without having heard his last words. He sat on the bed beside her. He gave her the casino photograph. “I’d like to know about this—this night, this man. I think, the more I can find out, the safer everyone will be.” She spent a while looking at it. She seemed to be checking it was real, then it felt like she’d stopped looking at the picture and was trying to see its implications.

“He’s called Pierce,” she said finally.

“What does Pierce do?”

“He’s a businessman. Very rich.”

“How do you know him?”

“I only saw him that night.”

“Tell me what happened.”

“We were at this club, a casino.”

“Who’s we?”

“Me, Jess, Alexei.”

It felt bizarre, in this teenager’s bedroom, to finally find the person who had set eyes on him; to be at one remove from someone he had almost stopped believing ever existed.

“You met Alexei Devereux?” Belsey said.

“Yes.”

“When was this?”

“A week last Wednesday.”

“What was he like?” Belsey asked.

“Quiet.”

“Did he like to have two girls with him?”

“No. I don’t know why he wanted me there. Then, when we met Pierce, I spent most of the time with him and Alexei stayed with Jessica.”

“They were close, Devereux and Jessica?”

“They were in love.” Lucy lowered her gaze to the carpet as she said this. Suddenly she seemed young, with her defenses down.

“And what about Alexei and Pierce? Did they know each other well?”

“No. They just met that night. They got talking.”

“Really?”

“Really what?”

“They just met and started talking?”

“I think so.”

“About what?”

“Business. They wouldn’t let us hear.”

“Do you think maybe Devereux knew Pierce was going to be there?”

“Maybe. Pierce said he was there a lot. He liked playing blackjack and a game called craps.”

“Did he pay you?”

“Mr. Devereux paid.”

“Did Pierce know you were working?”

She shrugged. He figured there were scenes where everyone was working one way or another.

“What else do you remember about Pierce Buckingham?”

“He had cold hands,” she said. And she looked very young and very lost now. Belsey got off the bed and pulled a seat out from a dressing table. He leaned towards her but not too close.

“I think I can find out what’s going on here, what happened to your friend. I can make sure that you’re not in danger. But I need you to tell me what you know.”

She reached under her mattress and pulled out a menu: a single, printed piece of paper headed “Villa Bianca.” She gave it to him.

“Did you go here?”

“No, they did. She gave it to me.”

“A menu?”

“Look on the back.”

Belsey turned it over. Someone had written a short note with an expensive pen. It was the same elegant handwriting as the suicide note.

Dear Jessie

You have made me so happy. I know I can’t tell you everything and that upsets you. You say we don’t know each other. But does love always mean knowing someone? Maybe you could love someone you don’t know very well at all. Is that possible? My snow tiger, my little fighter and dreamer—whatever happens, I think we know each other now.

It was signed “A,” with a single kiss. Belsey read the note again.
Snow tiger
. It was touching. It was odd. His vision of Devereux became more complicated once again.

“When did she give this to you?”

“The night before she died.”

“Why did she want you to have it?”

“In case something bad happened.”

He turned the menu face up again. It was dated Sunday, 8 February. The day’s special was salmon tortellini. It matched the receipt in Devereux’s wallet. It seemed to Belsey something bad happened soon after.

“I think she would want you to help us find out who did it,” he said.

“That’s all I know.”

“What did Mr. Devereux sound like? What was his accent?”

“Something foreign. It’s hard to say, he spoke so quietly. He didn’t like speaking. He said his English wasn’t good.”

“It’s OK in the note.”

“I guess so.” She thought about this.

“Did Devereux mention a project?” he asked.

“What do you mean?”

“Something he was working on.”

“I don’t know. They were excited about something. They got champagne.”

“Why?”

“Something had come up. An opportunity.”

“Do you think it was this opportunity that got Jessica killed?”

“She was worried something would happen. She knew it.”

“What did she know?” Lucy shook her head, empty of everything apart from confusion. “She looked up to you. Bought the same clothes,” Belsey said.

“Yes.”

“She was a quiet kid. Then Mr. Devereux comes along and sees in her everything she wanted him to see.”

“She wasn’t quiet. Not inside.”

“What was she?”

Lucy thought about this. “She was sad. Mr. Devereux changed her. He was kind, wealthy. They were going to run away and live together.”

He was wealthy. It didn’t tell Belsey much that he didn’t already know. There are people who get called rich and there are people who get called wealthy. There aren’t many who get called kind in the process.

“Why do you do it?”

“What?”

“Turn tricks.”

“I’m on my gap year.”

Belsey laughed. He felt bad for laughing but couldn’t help it.

“That’s a big gap,” he said.

“I need the money.”

He heard footsteps: two people coming up the stairs.

“But what do you want?” He looked at her. All he saw was a young girl who’d lost a friend, or as close as things got to a friend; saw she was all alone in the world with a nice home, too many clothes, and an endless supply of men who’d pay to sleep with her. “Where were they running away to?” he said.

“I don’t know. Somewhere far, Jess said. But she couldn’t decide.”

“Couldn’t decide what?”

“Whether to go with him.”

Belsey thought once more about the letter in the handbag. She’d decided. The question was why Devereux never made the rendezvous to find out. Lucy began to cry. She reached for a box of tissues beside her pillow. Her father opened the bedroom door.

“What’s going on?” he said. The mother appeared beside him in a matching dressing gown, clutching a small white dog.

“Lucy?” she said. “Precious?”

The mother had good teeth. The whole family had good teeth.