Behind Closed Doors

  “Sorry to hear about Carl McVey,” Sam said. “Friend of yours, wasn’t he?”

  McDonnell looked uncomfortable for a second, ran his thumb over his eyebrow. “Well, not a friend exactly. But yeah, bad news. You lot found who killed him?”

  “We’re working on a number of leads,” Sam said. “Is there anything you can tell us that might help?”

  “I heard it was a robbery? Could’ve been anyone.”

  “That’s one possible motive. Do you know of anyone who might have argued with him recently?”

  He barked a laugh. “Come on, officer. I don’t do gossip. Now, is that it? You just came to offer your condolences because someone I met a few times got himself killed?”

  “Carisbrooke Court,” Caro said, leaning forward. “You own some flats there. It’s number four we’re interested in, on the ground floor.”

  Legs casually crossed at the knee, one canvas deck shoe shaking out of rhythm, Lewis McDonnell looked upward as if searching for the memory. “Can’t say I know off the top of my head. The company has lots of properties, as I’m sure you’re aware.”

  “This might help: four Carisbrooke Court was being used as a brothel until last week. Nobody in it right now. So it’ll be the one without any tenants—ringing bells?”

  The blue gaze became sharper. “Can’t say for sure it’s one of ours. You’ll have to talk to Rich or Dan; they do the day-to-day management for me.”

  “You’d think they would have told you, wouldn’t you?” Sam said.

  “I’ve been busy. But you know I trust them to get on with things. I’m sure they’ve got it all in hand.”

  “When we executed the warrant at the address, Gavin Petrie was outside watching what was going on. Another of your associates, I believe?”

  “I know him. And?”

  “Didn’t he let you know about your property being searched? I’d have thought he would have had the courtesy to tell you.”

  McDonnell shrugged. “Haven’t seen him in months.”

  Caro looked at the desk, the computers. “I’m sure you have all the information we need, Mr. McDonnell. Can you tell us who the tenants were at that property?”

  He maintained eye contact for a long moment, a muscle working in his jaw. Then abruptly he stood up, hands on his knees, and went to one of the desks. Hammering on the keyboard of the computer with both of his thick index fingers. “Carisbrooke Court?”

  “That’s right. Number four.”

  More hammering. One finger at a time.

  “Here we go. It’s not showing an income. Yeah, right, I remember now. Katie Smith.”

  “Katie Smith is the tenant?” Sam asked. She had read the intelligence reports relating to the Op Pentameter raid—Katie Smith, alias Scarlett Rainsford.

  McDonnell got up from the desk and came back to where they were sitting, drank from his mug of coffee before sitting down again. “Not a tenant exactly. More of a squatter.”

  Sam said, “I can’t imagine your company having a problem with squatters, Mr. McDonnell. Don’t you have a system for organizing evictions when you need them?”

  He laughed out loud. “You must be mistaking me for some kind of thug. I’m far from it, I can assure you. In fact, I have more of a generous nature than anyone gives me credit for. Poor girl had fallen on hard times, so I was letting her live there rent-free. Been there a while, mind you, probably should have asked her to move on by now, but there you go. And she was on the game? Goes to show, don’t it? I had no idea.”

  Caro raised an eyebrow slightly. Even her sunny nature was finding it hard to believe that McDonnell was that altruistic. “So what can you tell us about Katie Smith?”

  Once again, McDonnell paused and considered, as if racking his brains for the memory. “She was introduced to me by a friend of a friend. Said she’d been having some trouble and needed somewhere to stay for a bit. That flat had just come available, and I was waiting for my renovations guys to finish a big project over in Charlmere, so I couldn’t let it. I said she could stay until she found her feet.”

  “That’s very generous of you,” Sam said. “When was this?”

  “God, a while ago. Months.”

  “What sort of trouble was she in?”

  “I didn’t ask. Look, she reminded me of my daughter, all right? Felt sorry for the poor cow.”

  “I didn’t know you had a daughter,” Caro said brightly.

  “Yeah, don’t see her much. Lives in Spain. Her mother’s a bitch.”

  Sam cleared her throat. She’d drunk most of the coffee, which was quite good.

  “It’s a three-bedroomed flat,” Caro said. “Big old place, to let a youngster live in all on her own. You didn’t have anyone else living there?”

  “Look,” McDonnell said, “far as the books are concerned, the place is empty still. We didn’t put her on a tenancy agreement or any of that shit. It was only supposed to be a couple of weeks until I could get the place decorated and re-let.”

  “And this person who introduced you. Friend of a friend, you said. Who’s that?”

  McDonnell stared. “Can’t remember.”

  “Really?”

  He looked at his watch. “Is there anything else I can help you with, officers? Only I’ve got things to do.”

  Sam and Caro got to their feet. McDonnell showed them out, following them down the narrow corridor. Sam felt him close behind her. He wasn’t someone she was comfortable turning her back on. He had to squeeze past both women to open the door, which was deadlocked. The thought of having been locked in with him all this time was alarming.

  He held the door open and watched them as Caro unlocked the car door. “One other thing,” he said.

  “What’s that?” Caro said.

  “You can tell your boys I’m teeing off at twelve. You know, just in case they can’t find me again. Tell your Mr. Waterhouse they’re a bunch of idiots, need better training.”

  SCARLETT

  Wednesday 26 September 2012, 10:47

  They let her have the rest of the night off.

  The next morning, whether the antibiotics were kicking in or a good night’s sleep had helped, Scarlett was feeling better. She was feeling focused. Good things had happened, which she was taking as a sign. Firstly, they hadn’t found that extra money that the vampire had given her. It was still in her shoe. When they had asked her how she got the wound on her shoulder, she’d told them it was a customer, and they hadn’t pressed it further than that. The vampire—Nosferatu or whatever the bastard’s name was—might have given her an infection, but if he came back again Scarlett had already decided to let him do it again. This time she would clean the wound herself afterward, keep swabbing it until it healed. It had only been a small cut, less than a half-inch long, but it was deep and the strap of her bra kept opening it up again. She would tell him exactly where to cut, too.

  If she was going to get away, ever, she would need money. Maybe then she could find someone to bribe, someone she could trust just enough to help her get away. And once she’d done that she’d need money to get a cab to a safe place. Enough for a room for a few nights, enough to travel far away from this shithole. She hadn’t decided where the safe place was, nor how she was ever going to escape since surely she could never trust anyone to help her—they were all bastards, and watching her all the time—but one thing was certain: if she didn’t do something soon, she would die here.

  The room was cold when she got into it, so for a while she could see her own breath in the window as she watched the shoppers and the tourists—the few that there were—passing by. Four Japanese men stopped by her window and stood staring for a while, talking and laughing among themselves. She smiled at them and beckoned them with her finger, sat astride her chair and tried to look appealing. Then one of them made the mistake of trying to take her picture with the camera around her neck. She turned her face away in time, but in any case a few seconds later one of her minders had come across to have a word with the offending
photographer. “Having a word” meant removing the memory card and stamping on it. There was a brief argument—the guy was a foot taller and twice as wide—but really the tourist didn’t have any grounds for complaint. Everyone should know that taking pictures wasn’t allowed. It was in all the guide books—in every language.

  The man watching out for her didn’t so much as glance in Scarlett’s direction as the tourists walked off, arguing among themselves and gesticulating. Such a commotion wasn’t a good thing. Scarlett rubbed the chill out of her upper arms and, because no one was looking, blew into her cupped hands.

  The smashed pieces of the little memory card lay on the cobbles in front of the window. All those pictures, hundreds no doubt, of the glorious sights of the city that Scarlett had lived in all this time and scarcely knew—holiday snaps destroyed in a moment. The tourist would have to get copies from his friends. Scarlett thought about the picture the man had taken of her, framed by her window—a girl in nylon underwear, turning her face away. No matter. No one would ever see that picture now.

  LOU

  Saturday 2 November 2013, 12:10

  So much for a day off. So much for spending the day with the man of your dreams. Lou got dressed and went into work.

  Sam Hollands was the only one in the office, and she was on the phone. When Lou walked in, Sam looked up at her questioningly. Lou mouthed the word, “Coffee?” by way of a reply, and when Sam nodded Lou postponed the inevitable questions by going on ahead to the canteen with her purse. The servery was closed on weekends, but the vending machines still permitted refreshments of a sort, and it was mercifully quiet.

  Sam joined her within moments and found them a table. “So, you were supposed to be having today off,” she said before Lou had even sat down.

  “Yeah, I know, I know.”

  “And?”

  Oh, Sam, Lou thought. She just had a knack of spotting trouble. “Got bored.”

  Lou had bought a bag of crisps, a Kit Kat and a Snickers from the vending machine. All of a sudden she was ravenously hungry. That always happened when she was miserable. Never mind: if she didn’t get too distracted she would stop by at the gym on the way home—for the first time in about four months. She always carried her gym kit in the back of the car just in case the urge took her. It didn’t very often. She kept thinking it would be a good idea to cancel her membership, it was such a massive waste of money, but somehow merely having gym membership made her feel that she wasn’t a complete lard-arse.

  There was nothing like a dose of sugar and carbs at a time of crisis, Lou thought, feeling much better already.

  “What have I missed?” she said, between mouthfuls.

  “Ian is still no change,” Sam said. “I went with Ali to the hospital first thing. His mum has barely left his side. I really feel for her, you know. Whatever happens to him, his life has pretty much gone forever. Even if he regains consciousness, which seems pretty unlikely, he’ll end up needing around-the-clock care.”

  “What about McVey?”

  Sam shook her head, finished her mouthful before replying. “Still nothing. We’ve explored the connection with Nigel Maitland as far as we possibly can. Until they get some new sources on it, that one’s drawing a complete blank. Frustrating. Anyway, after the hospital I went with Caro Sumner to see Lewis McDonnell.”

  “Oh, really? And?”

  “His company definitely owns the flat at Carisbrooke Court. He had one Katie Smith down as the tenant, although he claims she wasn’t paying rent. Says he was doing her a favor because she was down on her luck. Claims to know nothing about what was going on there.”

  “You’re going to see Scarlett later?”

  “Yes,” Sam said. “Just want to check through her file again and then I’ll head over there. Caro’s gone to collect her from the hotel.”

  “I had an email from Mr. Buchanan this morning, came in on my mobile. There’s some pressure to get her out of the VVS. He’d copied in SB, so unless you can get something useful out of her I can see Waterhouse is going to be itching to pass her over to Social Services today. I can’t see her going home to Annie and Clive somehow, can you?”

  “I think they’ve been trying to find her some emergency accommodation. Want me to talk to Orla, if she’s there?”

  “Yes, please.”

  “Another thing about McDonnell. He thinks there’s a team on him—told us to let them know they weren’t doing a very good job. I don’t know if he was just winding us up—power trip thing, you know. I expect Caro has passed it on to Mr. Waterhouse by now but I thought you should know too.”

  The canteen door swung open then, taking them by surprise. A uniformed sergeant came in, had a look around, and left.

  “So . . . anything else you feel like talking about?” Sam asked, leaning across the table.

  Lou managed a smile. “I have no idea what you mean.”

  Sam nodded. “Hm, okay, then.”

  “I think I had a row with Jason.”

  “You think? What about?”

  “I’m not even sure. Last night he told me he loved me—when he was drunk, mind you—and then this morning he was all frosty, gone off in a huff.”

  “What did you say?”

  “Nothing significant. I was on the phone to Mum; next thing I knew he was out the door. I’ve got a horrible feeling it’s because I’ve invited him to come to my cousin’s wedding with me, because I was telling Mum about it. I think he’s got cold feet about meeting them all, and I can’t say I blame him—”

  “I meant, what did you say when he used the L word?”

  “Oh! I can’t remember. I don’t think I said anything in particular. Kissed him.”

  “You didn’t say it back?”

  “No . . .”

  “Do you love him?”

  Lou was about to open her mouth to say Yes, of course I do, but something stopped her.

  Sam put her hand over Lou’s, on the table, gave it a squeeze.

  “Don’t,” she said. “Don’t be kind to me, Sam, you’ll start me off. I know you all think I’m some sort of cougar. Probably all for the best if it is all over with.”

  “Nobody thinks you’re a cougar, for heaven’s sake. You’re only—what—five years older than him? What difference does that make?”

  “I know if it was the other way around nobody would give a shit.”

  “Nobody gives a shit anyway! It’s not as if you look like his mum or anything.”

  That made Lou smile. She had seen pictures of his parents: his mum was a right-on radical, white hair cropped short, neat glasses with funky red frames, university lecturer. His dad was a retired police officer. She’d even spoken to them on the phone once or twice, a little awkwardly.

  Sam said, “I think the only person who’s even noticed there’s an age gap is you.”

  “My mother will notice, believe me. It’ll be the first thing she comments on.”

  “And if she does? You don’t see them that much; does it really bother you what they think, as long as you and Jason are happy with each other? What is it you’re so scared of?”

  Lou thought about this for a long time, and unbidden a small voice inside said, I’m scared that he’ll wake up one day and think I’m old.

  “Right,” she said, getting to her feet. “Enough moping. I’ve got a good feeling about today. Scarlett’s going to tell you everything she knows.”

  “That’d be nice.”

  The crisps and chocolate had disappeared as if by magic. Lou found herself wondering what sort of takeaway to pick up later. Likely to be Indian, since the Akash Tandoori was next door to the off license, which would be her first stop. Outside the canteen they went their separate ways, Sam toward the car park, Lou back to the office.

  Her mobile started to ring as she got inside the door—not a number she recognized.

  “Louisa Smith.”

  “Oh—hello. Hi. It’s Annie here. Annie Rainsford.”

  Lou tried not to let her surprise r
egister in her voice. “Hi, what can I do for you?”

  “You said I could call. You gave me your card.”

  “That’s right,” Lou said. “Is everything okay?”

  A long pause. Lou could hear her breathing, otherwise she might have thought Annie had hung up.

  “Annie? What is it?”

  “Look, could we meet? Somewhere—I don’t know—a pub, maybe?”

  “Of course. Where?”

  “Somewhere out of town . . . the Coach and Horses, on Charlmere Road. Do you know it?”

  “I know it. Do you want me to pick you up?”

  “No, no. I can get there. Can you be there at about half-past two?”

  SAM

  Saturday 2 November 2013, 13:55

  “I don’t know where to start,” Scarlett said. “This isn’t official, is it?”

  “It should be,” Sam said. “But, if you just want to talk for now, that’s fine too. It’s up to you. You might not want to say all this a second time.”

  “Or even a first time.”

  “I’d like to take notes, if you don’t mind?”

  Scarlett didn’t answer, but she didn’t object either. They were alone in the kitchen in the VVS. Caro had gone straight back to work after dropping Scarlett off, and Orla had gone to the office to make some calls about emergency accommodation.

  “You and that Lou Smith asked me about Nico,” she said.

  “That’s right. You called him an arsehole.”

  Scarlett laughed, briefly. “I think he had something to do with it,” she said.

  “What—your abduction?”

  “Yes. I was so innocent—you wouldn’t believe it now, would you? He was older than me. He said he was sixteen but he could have been any age. I was just so miserable; he cheered me up and I fell for him. He told me he could help me escape, from my family. I would have done it, too. He said I should meet him on the last night of the holiday. I was going to go, but that day I realized I couldn’t leave Juliette behind. She was—well, you know. She was finding things tough. I needed to watch out for her, and I couldn’t go and leave her. And she wouldn’t have come with me. So I went to meet him . . . Nico. I was going to tell him I couldn’t go with him after all. Then a van came along the road and stopped next to where I was waiting. This man got out and he started talking to me in Greek; I didn’t understand what he was saying. He just kept yammering at me, and then he pushed me into the back of the van. One of them got in with me, and when I started screaming and kicking, this man in the back put his hand over my mouth . . .”