The Hollow Man (8 page)

12

H
is passport wasn’t in the CID office. Obviously he’d used it when he went to Sicily. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen it.

Belsey had been searching for a few minutes when a phone call came in. “Belsey?”

“Yes.”

“Mike Slater. We’ve got word there’s been a body found on The Bishops Avenue. A suicide. Any idea about that?”

Belsey caught his breath.

“None at all, Mike. Tell me about it.”

“I’m serious, Nick. I’ve been holding off running a feature on your recent exploits. Now I need a story.”

“A body’s not a story.”

“It is on The Bishops Avenue.”

“Let me get back to you, Mike. Keep me out of the paper. I appreciate that.”

Belsey put the phone down, cursing loose-lipped paramedics and overeager journalists. Mike Slater was editor on the
Hampstead & Highgate Express
, a man whose crumpled charm and air of world-weariness disguised a passion for journalism that had kept the
Ham & High
a respected local weekly for two decades. Slater was on friendly terms with Belsey but he could smell a story in NW3 when one was ripening. Trapping entered the office.

“Nick.”

“Rob. That stabbing suspect, Johnny Cassidy, have you found him?”

“Not yet.”

“You said he was Niall Cassidy’s boy.”

“That’s right.”

“Is the old man still a fence?”

“Well, he’s not head of neighbourhood watch, put it that way.”

“Still in Borough?”

“Nowhere else would have him. Used to be your neck of the woods, didn’t it, Nick?”

“I passed through.”

“Best not to stop, eh?”

He picked up a file and walked out. Belsey pondered. Lack of funds was holding him back. The violent homecoming of Niall Cassidy’s son could be a stroke of luck. He needed to shift a lot of stolen goods very quickly and he wasn’t going to use one of the high street’s new pawnbrokers.

He grabbed his coat and the keys for Devereux’s Porsche and decided on a trip down memory lane.

13

B
elsey crossed the river on Blackfriars. The sun was setting. Halfway to the Old Kent Road it felt like he began to fall. The elastic of time had snapped and he was falling backwards through his once-promising career, down through Borough towards Elephant and Castle.

He left the riverside glitz behind him. Beyond the redevelopment, in the timeless Victorian shadows, the landmarks had not changed: the estates in which he’d learned his trade, the pubs where he’d tried to forget it again. But the pubs were boarded up now. Places that had been derelict to start with and whose survival had seemed testament to something perverse and unyielding in life were gone. The Eagle, which had been a copper’s pub, bore anti-trespass threats on every window. His favourite memories of himself, bathed in an amber light of whisky and lager, had been boarded up. Barely out of his twenties when he’d last worked these streets, fresh to CID and high on it.

By some grimy miracle the Wishing Well had survived. It stood alone beside a railway arch, on a backstreet of mechanics and lock-ups. The legend “Take Courage” remained faint on its side, painted onto bricks still blackened by nineteenth-century smoke. Handwritten sheets promising “Live Music Saturday” obscured its front windows.

Belsey parked the SUV and walked in.

Niall Cassidy and his gang sat around a tin of cigarette filters, a transistor radio and a
Racing Post
. They were metal thieves—that was the current game, at least: they stole manhole covers and electrical cable to be melted down and sold abroad. Previously they’d connected to low-key amphetamine importation, and still did as far as Belsey knew. Most operated a complex portfolio of crime. Light from streetlamps trickled in through dirty strips of glass above the taped sheets. A sign said “Welcome Home Johnny,” but Johnny wasn’t home. What had Trapping said? Two years in the Balearics, comes back and stabs the man who ratted him out. Now lying low, it seemed. The Well had been robbed of its celebration.

“Afternoon, lads,” Belsey said.

“Bellboy, my son.”

“Nicky, long time.”

“Not long enough.”

“How’s the land of the rich?”

“Better than in here,” Belsey said.

The snug bar was dingy. There was a pool table in a separate room behind it, in the deep end of the gloom. Cassidy nodded a greeting but kept his mouth shut. He looked like a man who’d been trying to get drunk and failing, a man whose jewellery was weighing him down.

“What have I missed?” Belsey said.

“Nothing. It’s been shit.”

They grinned toothless grins, stroking faded tattoos. The landlord, Rod Thompson, was a wreck of a man with emphysema. He was pale as a corpse now, but retained the residual instinct of a wise publican. He set Belsey’s drinks up with a wink.

A pint of Stella and a shot of Jameson. Belsey drank the whisky at the bar, watching the group. He’d interrupted a discussion: doubtless about Johnny and his unfortunate chain of events. Conspire literally meant to breathe together. He considered this as he watched the Well. Now they sat in the clear air like fish out of water: Dell Patterson, one of the half-dozen postmen from the Nine Elms depot sent down a few years ago for skimming credit cards; Trevor Hart, who dealt in untaxed tobacco and diesel; Brendan McCarthy, who had just got out of Wandsworth having served two years for Grievous Bodily Harm on his brother-in-law. These were individuals shrunk so far back into themselves that you saw a no-man’s-land behind the eyes, an undecorated space, then a shut room with furniture piled against the door. Porridge heads. And Wandsworth was hard time by all accounts. In the old days Belsey would have made a point of checking in with Brendan, having a probationary chat. You got the prison gossip, of course, but these were also the ones to watch, the newly free, spasming.

“Belsen, boy. Pull up a seat.”

“Is that a new suit, Nicky?” Trevor asked.

“I just bought it.”

“One of us must be doing something wrong.”

“Both of us, I imagine,” Belsey said, drawing up a stool.

“What happened?”

“I got promoted.”

“To what?”

“El Presidente. I’m the boss now.”

“You look more like a pimp every time I see you.”

Belsey sat for a moment and enjoyed being back in the Wishing Well. He did not like to think about what wishes were made here. People threw small change into the urinal with an irony he found hard to gauge. He admired the cigarette-burnt surfaces and yellowed posters of County Kerry tourist attractions. Once upon a time the Well had been an IRA pub, an outpost of that underground network that sheltered beneath the Westway. It was still a good pub for hiding. The old boys were in at 11 a.m.—you’d see them lining up outside, punctual as clockwork. With discipline like that you could hold down a good job, Belsey would tell them. Hypocrite.

“We heard the crap.”

“What have you heard?” Belsey asked.

“Trouble up North.”

“We heard you had some inquiry. Sounds like nonsense.”

“It’s not nonsense.”

“It’s a different force now, the Met.”

“Different world. An honest copper like you . . .” How word spread, Belsey thought. Cassidy had remained silent. Now he stood up with his pint and his phone, his keys and his fags. He looked towards the door.

“Fancy a game, Niall?” Belsey said.

Cassidy turned and stared hard at the detective.

“If you say so.”

They turned the lights on in the back and racked up. Cassidy lit a cigarette from a fresh box of Marlboro Golds and balanced it on the edge. No council inspectors were going to make it to the back room of the Well. Its own landlord never made it. Sticky glasses crowded the woodwork. Belsey broke and potted six. Cassidy took his shots badly. Belsey was on a roll; he was surprised by his form, all things considered.

“Where is he?” Belsey said.

“Who?”

“Who do you think?”

“I don’t know.”

“He’s your son. Why’s he skipped his welcome-home party?”

“I don’t know.”

“What’s this talk about a stabbing outside the job centre?”

“No idea, Nick.”

“Other people have an idea.”

“They haven’t fingered him for that.”

“Like fuck they haven’t.”

Belsey cleaned up. Cassidy’s mind wasn’t on it. He lit a second cigarette off the first and Belsey watched his face in the light of the cherry. Belsey had met the son once or twice. Johnny had been a good footballer, trials at Arsenal, and when that didn’t work out a cage fighter, part of a crew that trained at Legend’s Gym behind North Lambeth tube station. That was before he went to Ibiza and discovered ecstasy. A few months later he was smuggling it from Holland. Belsey fed fifty pence into the table and racked up again.

“What are they saying?” Cassidy asked.

“Three witnesses.”

“With a name?”

“With his full postcode, Niall. It was 3 p.m. outside the job centre. Not quite the perfect crime.”

“He was just joking about.”

“Fucking funny. I remember last time someone stabbed me. I couldn’t stop laughing. I thought I was going to wet myself, Niall. Know what I mean?”

“What do you want?”

“I heard it was a fancy knife. Not the sort of thing he would have had on the plane. Where’d he get that?”

“I haven’t got anything to say, Nick. I haven’t seen him.”

“Where did you get the cigarettes?”

“What?”

“The health warning.
Fumar puede matar
. That’s Spanish, isn’t it? Filthy habit in any language.” Cassidy’s face fell. “Want to put some money on the next game?” Belsey said.

Niall Cassidy chalked his cue. Other times he would have been calling Belsey pig scum by now and describing the delights that awaited him when he ended up in Pentonville Prison. But the wind had gone out of his sails. It happens, even with the dedicated.

“It’s the paperwork I’m worried about,” Belsey said. “It’s all paperwork these days. Mountains of the stuff. It’s why you never see us on the streets anymore.”

“I know. I reckon you need a holiday, Nicky. Look, how’s this?”

He took a roll of dirty notes out of his back pocket and put three hundred in twenties on the table. “Reckon you could do with getting away for a while. Treat yourself.”

Belsey counted it, kept twenty and returned the rest. “I
am
going away. But I’m going to need a fuck of a lot more than this.”

“What are you after?”

“Six grand.”

“Don’t treat me like a cunt, Nick.”

“You haven’t heard what I’ve got to say. Because I’m asking if I can do
you
a favour.” They weren’t playing anymore: standing with their cues upright on the ground. The light above the table caught the lower half of their faces but not the eyes. There was no sound from the pub. “Put a tune on the jukebox,” Belsey said. “Something lively.”

Cassidy did. That alone told Belsey he was in control. Interview-room practice, get them cooperating on small things, dancing with them, leading them. He figured Cassidy had reached a point. And besides, the things you can do to someone are nothing compared to what you can do to their family.

The music came on. “Careless Whisper.”

“I said something lively.”

“What’s this about?”

“There’s a brand-new Porsche Cayenne parked outside. I’m going to give you that with a TV and a DVD player.”

“What are you doing?”

“Because you’re my millionth customer, you see, Niall. And now I’m out of here. I do you a flat-screen TV, video, blender, microwave. Everything a modern home requires. Porsche thrown in, and an amazing trick where Hampstead CID lose all Johnny’s paperwork. I’ll make sure no one touches him. I need six grand in cash by the end of tomorrow.”

“Six grand? Jesus Christ, Nicholas, what are you up to?”

“I’m going on my toes, Niall. I’m starting again.”

Cassidy stared at him. “I’m straight now. The whole family’s straight.”

“I know,” Belsey said. “I know. Me too.”

14

A
regulation 163 notice sat in his in-tray: notification of the Internal Affairs investigation. It didn’t mention any suspension. Beneath it was an envelope from the Mental Health Assessment Team. He removed the items and dropped them in the bin. Trapping walked into the office with his arms full of old Offender Profiles.

“Nick. IPCC trying to get hold of you. And a lawyer, from Riggs.” He dropped the files on his desk.

“OK.”

“What’s that about?”

“I’m being headhunted. They want me to lead a new anti-corruption squad. What’s the paperwork?”

“Have you not heard? We just got John Cassidy in.”

“In here?”

“He’s downstairs. Our friend Tony’s giving a statement.”

Belsey walked down to the cells, swearing. He checked the board: John Cassidy, number 5. He walked to the cell door and slid the shutter. Johnny was sitting cross-legged on the floor with his back against the wall. The pose took Belsey by surprise. He had his eyes shut. He looked in good shape. How long had he been out of cells? A day in Spain waiting for the flight, two in London on the run. Belsey could hear Johnny’s brief arguing with the custody sergeant at the end of the corridor. He went over. The legal aid was an obese, raw-skinned man called William Balls, or Billy Balls-Up, depending on whether he was present. Balls wore a shiny navy suit and always stank of stale smoke.

“Detective Constable Belsey,” Balls said, spotting a more pliable representative of the force.

“Boss.”

“You know Tony, don’t you? Mad Tony? You wouldn’t call someone like that a reliable witness.”

“Mad Tony’s not his real name. Where is he?”

“Waiting outside the interview room,” the custody sergeant said.

Belsey found Tony Cutter sitting bent over his knees in the corridor. He was shaking. He used to steal steaks from Tesco and sell them to women on the estates. Every few days they’d bring him in with his coat stuffed and the station filled with the smell of thawing meat. Now he made his money begging and selling on prescription drugs. Psychosis and alcoholism contended for the upper hand. The corridor reeked.

“Nick.” His face lit up. Tobacco smoke had stained one side of his face and the teeth that remained.

“Tony. How’s life?”

“I saw it, Nick. I was just having a beer. I didn’t want to get involved. It looked like God’s work.” Belsey checked his ink-black pupils.

“Is that right?”

“God’s own handiwork. It’s evil, Nick.”

“Certainly sounds it.”

Belsey walked back to the cell corridor. The custody sergeant was nowhere to be seen. Balls sat on a plastic seat, wiping his forehead with a blue hand towel.

“Let’s get some air,” Belsey said. They stepped out to the parking lot. “Tony’s not going to be a problem,” he said.

“It’s not him I’m worried about. They found twenty grams of ketamine and a converted replica handgun in the freezer of Johnny’s girlfriend. She’s rolling over, washing her hands of him.”

Belsey groaned. “How did Johnny know he was ratted out?”

“It’s not rocket science.”

“He knew where to find him.”

“The job centre was an OK bet.”

“Why don’t you claim that police leaked the informant’s name to him. Make some noise about it. Mix things up.”

“Did they?”

“I don’t know. I doubt it. Is he getting bail?”

“Trying.”

“Does his old man know?”

“Not yet.”

He returned to the office and sat down, shattered. The best laid plans of mice and men . . . It was not, on reflection, the best laid plan. He washed a ChestEze down with some cold coffee. It would be very important to divide his mind, to watch out for what he was doing. Sleep on the plane—that would be his mantra. He went to the front desk.

“I’ve locked myself out of the office,” he said. “Can I get the master key?” They gave him the master key. He went upstairs, let himself into Gower’s office and sorted through the day’s post until he found the IPCC envelope. He took the envelope and locked up and returned the key.

He’d be fired when he chose to be fired.

He called the Well but Niall wasn’t in. There was nothing else he could do for now. He drove back to The Bishops Avenue. There were no more footprints outside the mansion, not as far as he could see in the glare from the security lights. Belsey hung back, watching the house, walked past it twice, then entered.

Home sweet home.

He walked into the safe room and stared at the solidified convex drips, the streaked map of blood on the wall. He sat in the swivel chair and picked up the Reflections Funeral Plan and admired the swans. Swans sing their own funeral song—wasn’t that what the legend claimed? Never sing a note until they are dying, then they begin. Belsey unclipped the cheque and held it, then slipped it back into the brochure and left them on the desk.

He went to the living room and began unplugging the electrical goods. He worked methodically: hi-fi, cabinet speakers, DVD player. He left the TV in the living room for the moment and took a smaller model from upstairs. Then he took the microwave from the kitchen and the trouser press from the bedroom. He found a screwdriver and stepladder in the utility room and started unscrewing the smaller chandeliers. The curtains were open and Belsey went to draw them. At the window he saw he was too late. The security guard for the house opposite stared back at him through the darkness.

On The Bishops Avenue, neighbourhood watch came with a uniform. Belsey crossed the road. The house facing Devereux’s own was built from pink marble, modelled on the Acropolis. It had its own name—“Summer Palace.” Belsey showed his warrant card to the security guard.

“How long have you been working here?” Belsey said.

“Five years. Why?”

The guard had an Israeli accent and sharp, grey eyes.

“The man who lived opposite, we’re investigating his death. At the moment it looks like a straight suicide but I’d like you to keep an eye out for anyone acting suspiciously.”

“OK.”

“Did you ever see him around?”

“No.”

“You’d notice.”

“Right.”

“Vehicles coming in and out?”

“Cleaners, gardeners. That’s all.”

They both watched a moped idling at the roadside, checking a map, trundling on.

“Is your boss in?” Belsey said.

The guard waved him towards the front door and lifted a radio to his mouth. Expensive set-up for a doorbell, Belsey thought. The owner answered in a camel-hair coat and silk scarf, holding his car keys. He was thick-set, broad-shouldered, with a lot of children running around in the background.

“I’ve got some questions about the man who lived opposite,” Belsey said, badge out.

“What happened?”

“He died.”

The neighbour glanced briefly at the sky and muttered Hebrew. He bounced his car keys but didn’t say anything, looking at Belsey, waiting to hear what the proposition was.

“Did you know him?” Belsey asked.

“No. I only spoke to him once. He seemed a very cultured man. He said I should come over for drinks, but I’m rarely in the country.”

“Do you know his name?”

“Mr. Devereux.”

“What do you know about him?”

“He had a hard time of it.”

“Why’s that?”

“All his family, I believe, perished in Russia many years ago.”

“Perished?”

“Prisons. I don’t know. I heard this from Russian friends of mine. Everything he had he made himself. Every penny.”

“How did he make it?”

“He was an entrepreneur. I’m not sure of the details. But he believed in capitalism.” The neighbour gave a slight smile. “Before it became fashionable over there.”

“When did you last see him?”

“I haven’t seen him since that first time. I’ll ask my wife, she sees everything on this street.” He went to ask his wife and came back shrugging.

“Never seen him. Have you asked the guard?”

“Yes.”

“Let me know if I can do anything else to help.”

B
elsey walked to the shops and bought superglue, Sellotape and talcum powder. It left him eleven pounds of Cassidy’s twenty. He asked for a shopping bag. That was everything he needed for a DIY fingerprint kit. Back at the house he took one of the jars from the fridge.
Glass is every detective’s dream
, as an instructor at a CID forensics training day had put it. Belsey had never forgotten the phrase. He took the desk lamp from the study and covered the bulb with glue, then switched it on and wrapped the bag around the lamp with the marmalade jar inside. The glue vapours would stick wherever there was grease, and then you could dust the surface with a little talc and it was as good as anything a lab would send you.

Nothing. Belsey checked another jar, then a toothbrush, then the cover of a catalogue. He peeled Sellotape samples of lamp switches and TV screens. There were no prints. Devereux didn’t like using his fingers. Belsey took a flashlight from the garage and patrolled the house, searching surfaces, anywhere he knew he hadn’t made contact himself: the handles of drawers, the rim of the Jacuzzi, window frames, the underside of toilet seats. There wasn’t a print in the place.

He sat in the living room and thought. Maybe death was not enough for Devereux. Maybe he had to wipe all traces of himself from existence.
I have tried to ensure that all paperwork is in order so that you have no cause for further aggravation.
The Marquis de Sade left instructions in his will: he was to be buried in a copse, in the woods of his property, the ditch covered over and strewn with acorns—
in order that the spot become green again and my grave may disappear from the face of the earth as I trust the memory of me shall fade out of the minds of all men . . .

Bullshit. The place was scrubbed clean. Someone had done a job on it.

The cleaner would be a place to start. Belsey called three cleaning companies in Hampstead. Eventually he found the company that employed Kristina—Sprint Domestic Cleaners—and reached her on her mobile.

“Mr. Devereux’s home, on The Bishops Avenue—did you clean it before you called the police?”

“I didn’t.”

“When did you last clean it?”

“I mean, I didn’t call the police.”

“You didn’t?”

“No.”

“Who did?”

“I don’t know.”

“What were you doing there?”

“I was trying to decide what to do. Then you arrived.”

This threw him. Belsey called the control room.

“Do you have details of the person who called in a missing person report on the morning of Thursday the twelfth?”

It took them three minutes to get the record up.

“Yes, the details are here.”

“Was it a cleaner?”

“No.”

“Who was it?”

“Detective Inspector Philip Ridpath.”

“It was called in by police?”

“Yes.”

“Who’s Ridpath?”

“Someone in the Yard.”

Belsey felt himself pitched deeper into uncertainty. He wrote the name on the back of an envelope.

“What department?”

“The Financial Investigation Development Unit.”

“Financial Investigation?”

“That’s correct.”

Belsey thanked the control room and put the phone down. Things suddenly felt a lot more dangerous. He had walked into a scene that already had Yard attention. His first instinct was to walk away again, fast. But a deeper, more insistent voice told him he had a lead to follow. Finally he reasoned that he would be safer knowing what he had stumbled upon. It was seven-thirty. He tried the number for the Financial Unit, just in case anyone was still around. A man answered with a nasal drawl.

“Sergeant Midgley speaking.”

“I’m looking for an Inspector Philip Ridpath. Is he still in the office by any chance?”

“I believe so.”

“Can you put me through?”

“Not right now.”

“Why?”

“He’s not answering his phone.”

“He’s not answering his phone?”

“He’s busy.”

“We’re all busy,” Belsey said. “What the hell is this?”