Dark Eyes of London (9 page)

Chapter Eighteen

Sebastian Fleming put down the phone.  Thoughtfully rubbing his chin, he wandered back to the window. Looked round at the phone on his desk.  Checked his watch.  Thought for a moment.  Then walked back to his desk chair, over which he had left his jacket.  He reached down to his jacket pocket and took out his mobile phone. He sat on the chair and speed dialled.

‘John, have my car ready to go in ten minutes, will you?’

‘..........’

‘No, I’m not going home.  I want to pay a visit to the facility.’

‘..........’

‘Yes, I know you did.  I just want to check things myself.’

‘..........’

‘I’m sure they are, but I want to go nevertheless. Ten minutes, right?’

Somewhat irritated, he disconnected the call, then flung the phone down on the desk.  Sebastian Fleming was not used to being questioned.

At six forty, the sleek black BMW pulled up outside the building. Smartly dressed in his driver’s uniform, John got out and opened Fleming’s door. Without saying anything, or even looking at John, Fleming stepped into the car. John slammed the door shut and returned to his seat.

The BMW purred away and headed for the A1206.  After five short minutes they were in gridlock, at the point where their road is joined by the traffic leaving the northbound Blackwall Tunnel. Fleming looked out at the traffic, shook his head and clucked irritably.

By seven they had reached the junction where the A13 East India Dock Road joins the A12 Tunnel Approach and headed north on the latter road. Traffic was slow as they progressed through Hackney, Leytonstone and they were unable to exceed twenty-five until well past Chadwell Heath.  Fleming checked his watch and clucked again: seven forty-five already.

Once they had got past the M25 the road got much clearer, and John accelerated to ninety. Fleming looked up from the papers he was studying.

‘Don’t go too fast, John. We don’t want to get stopped for speeding, do we?’

‘Right you are, Mr Fleming,’ said John as he dropped down to eighty and glimpsed Fleming in his rear view mirror. ‘Just want to make up some of that lost time, that’s all.’

Fleming grunted and returned to his paperwork.

At just after nine, John turned off the A12 and onto an unlit country road. He drove for five or six miles along a narrow, twisting route, only passing two or three vehicles travelling in the opposite direction. Soon he saw up ahead the sign he was looking for.

‘Here we are, Mr Fleming,’ he said, cheerfully.

Fleming looked up and grunted.

‘Miserable old bastard,’ John muttered through clenched teeth as he turned right off the road and pulled up at the wrought iron gate.  He wound down his window and keyed in a four digit code on the keypad by the side of the driveway. The little red light on the keypad turned green and with a click and a whirr the gates slid open. John wound the window up and proceeded up the short driveway, turned left at a junction and pulled up outside a flat roofed, two storey building, the architecture of which John had put in the fifties.

John got out, pulled his jacket tighter against the cold and opened Fleming’s door. Fleming got out and walked up to the facility door.  Then he turned to a keypad on the right of the door and keyed in another four digit code. With a click, the steel door unlocked. Fleming pushed it open and he and John stepped in.

The steel door opened into a long, corridor.  It was pitch dark inside, but the lighting system was motion sensitive, so as Fleming and John walked along the corridor, bright fluorescent lights flickered and switched on, illuminating the corridor so that it resembled a hospital thoroughfare.

At the end of the corridor, they came to a large room, a kind of meeting room. The end wall of the room was filled with drawers, resembling a bank safety deposit box vault, only the drawers were much larger, around two feet square.

Fleming looked around the room, then back at the end wall.

‘Let’s just have a look at one of them,’ he said.

Thank God for that
, thought John. Otherwise
we’d be here all bloody night.

Fleming pulled one of the drawers open, and pulled out a large, square, grey metal case.  The case resembled a toolbox. He put the box on the table in the middle of the room and opened it. Examined the contents, and gave a satisfied nod.

‘Good,’ he said. ‘Very good.’

Fleming shut the box, replaced it in the drawer, and slammed the door shut.

‘Very good,’ he repeated and strode out of the room.

John looked after him, part bewildered, part relieved, part furious.
What are you playing at, you old fool? You had me drive you all this way just for
that
?

John followed Fleming back down the corridor. Fleming locked the steel doors, and climbed into the car, this time without waiting for John to open the door.

John wasted no time in getting back to the A12 and sped southbound. An hour into the return journey, he pulled off. Fleming looked up from his paperwork.

‘Just need to fill up, Mr Fleming,’ he said as he pulled up at a service station. He filled up and leaned back into the car.

‘I was going to get myself a Mars bar or something, sir,’ he said to Fleming. ‘Can I get you anything?’

Fleming looked up and said nothing.  The expression on his face gave John his reply.

Fleming looked up again as John returned to the car, finishing off his Mars bar. Shook his head. John started the engine and returned to the A12.

After a few miles, Fleming spoke. ‘I appreciate you taking me all this way tonight, John. Especially at such short notice.’

John glanced at the rear view mirror. ‘No problem, sir.’

‘I didn’t spoil any plans you might have had for the evening, did I?’

‘No, not tonight, Mr Fleming,’ John lied, thinking of  Sheila, the little redhead at his local he was planning on getting personal with tonight.

‘Well, I do appreciate it.  You’ve missed your dinner, after all.’

‘I’m surprised you’re not hungry yourself, sir.’

‘Mmm? Oh, I had a late lunch, and I should be home by eleven.  Will have something then.’

John and Fleming said nothing else as they drove southbound back to London.

*****

Tom drummed his fingers on the table and looked out of the coffee shop window.

‘So what now?’  Amy asked.

Tom looked back at her and shrugged.

‘I’ve no idea,’ he said as he took a mouthful of latte. ‘Not at the moment, anyway.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I mean I think we’d best sleep on it. Separately, I mean. Oh, you know what I mean,’ he added, blushing slightly.

Amy nodded and finished her drink. ‘But you’re not giving up?’ she asked.

‘No way. For a start, the police theory and the inquest verdict were bullshit, as far as I’m concerned.  I knew Lisa: I was
married
to her, for Chrissake. No way did she jump in front of that train. And she was definitely worried about something when she called me.  Or at least had something on her mind. Something big. And now you tell me all her stuff has gone.  All of it?  I’ve worked in offices where people have left. Of course someone has to take over the job they were doing but there’s always something left. Not just an empty desk.’

‘No,’ Amy agreed.

‘It might be an idea,’ Tom carried on, slowly, ‘if I spoke with her sister, Jane. She’s got access to Lisa’s place.  There might be something there.’

Amy nodded.

‘Anyway,’ said Tom. ‘It’s getting late. Let’s call it a night. Like I say, let’s sleep on it, and talk tactics tomorrow.’

‘Okay,’ Amy said, picking up her bag.

‘Do you live far from here?’ Tom asked. ‘I’ll walk you home.’

‘There’s no need,’ she said as they walked to the coffee shop door. ‘I’m only five minutes away.’

‘If you say so,’ replied Tom. ‘Take it easy, and I’ll call you tomorrow. Evening, is that all right?’

‘That’s fine.  Good night. Sorry to drag you all this way - for nothing.’

‘No problem. Oyster card.’

They looked at each other for a second, saying nothing.

‘Night, then,’ said Tom, as he turned and walked back to the tube station.

He crossed over the High Road again. As he got to the tube station entrance a police car pulled up sharply outside, its blue lights flashing and siren wailing. Two uniformed officers got out and ran into a newsagent's next door to the station. Tom, and a group of five or six others, stopped and waited. After a minute or so, the two officers came out of the shop, dragging a young West Indian youth back to their car. He was screaming something at them; Tom could not make out what. They bundled the man into the police car, and drove off, without the siren and blue lights.

Tom shrugged and walked into the station.  Just as he got to the top of the escalator his phone rang.  He looked at the screen: it was Amy. He stood to one side to let the people behind him get onto the escalator, and answered.

‘Hello? Amy?’ He had to shout as the noise from the street and of a train below made it difficult to hear.

‘Tom, can you come round?  Now?’

‘I can. What’s wrong?’

She replied but he couldn’t make out what.

‘What’s your address?’ he shouted, walking back to the street. The signal got a little better.

‘One five six Devonshire Road,’ she said, and hung up.

Tom looked at the phone, then around the station entrance.  Devonshire Road - where the hell’s that?

There was a bus stop just outside the station. He ran over to it, and fought his way through the people waiting inside the shelter to get to the route map. Fortunately the map showed the names of the streets. He looked frantically for a Devonshire Road. All he could see was an Old Devonshire Road. It must be that: it looked about five minutes away.

He crossed back over the High Road and ran up the road, checking the names of the streets he crossed. Finally he came to Old Devonshire Road.  He could not see Amy.  In the light from the street lamps he could make out the number of the first house: 112.  Right side of the road, another twenty or so houses, he figured.  Running further up the road, he finally saw Amy’s slight silhouette in the distance. Slightly breathless, he caught up.

‘What’s up?’ he gasped. ‘You okay?’

She looked at the house outside which they were standing: number 156.

‘That’s my flat up there,’ she said, looking up at the house. ‘On the second floor.’

‘Okay, yes,’ he said, not knowing where this was leading. He also looked up at the house.  It was a large Victorian residence, obviously divided into flats. There was a long pathway along the front garden, with a steps leading to a basement flat. A dozen or so steps led up to the front door.  Each of the three other floors comprised a window above the front door, and a large bay window, not dissimilar to Tom’s. The light in the ground floor bay window was on, and Tom could see the picture from a large screen television. The occupants were watching a football match. The first floor was in darkness. On Amy’s floor the single window was lit up, and on the top floor both windows were illuminated.

‘When I left to meet you,’ Amy said nervously, ‘I didn’t leave any lights on.’

Chapter Nineteen

Tom looked up at the lit window, and around the darkened street.  The road was filled with parked cars, the occasional tree casting a shadow from the street lighting on the cars.  Pedestrian-wise, the pavements were deserted, except for a woman and a child hurrying along the other side of the road.

‘Are you sure?’ he asked, looking back at Amy.

‘Positive,’ she answered. ‘I know because I never leave any lights on when I go out. And the curtains definitely weren’t drawn.’

Tom was distracted by the distant wail of a police siren, getting nearer. As he looked around, he saw the vehicle responsible speed past the end of the street, along the High Road, its blue light flashing.

‘Should we call the police first?’ Amy asked.  ‘Before we go in?’

Tom shook his head. ‘No.  Let’s go in. Stay close to me.’

They both walked cautiously along the path and up the steps to the front door. At the top of these steps Amy fished into her bag and got out a set of keys. She unlocked the door and let them in.

The house was built in 1901, according to a stained glass panel above the front door. The door opened into a wide hallway. The staircase was to the left, the door to one flat directly to their right, and another again to the right, but at the end of the hallway. They could hear the noise from the television playing in the ground floor flat.  They heard two men cheer.

‘Somebody must have scored,’ whispered Tom.

They climbed the stairs to the first floor. The hallway configuration mirrored duplicated that of the ground floor. The hall light was on, and they could hear the sound of a television coming from the rear flat.

‘Here goes,’ Tom said, as he began to climb to Amy’s floor.  On the second floor, again the sound of a TV from the rear flat, but silence from Amy’s.  They stepped over to Amy’s door.  It appeared closed. With Amy standing behind him, Tom used his fingertips to push at the door. It swung open. Amy gasped.

The door opened directly into her living room.  It was in darkness, except for some illumination from the street, and a beam of light coming from an open door off the living room. Tom listened for a moment, then felt around inside the doorway until he found a light switch. He switched it on.

Amy let out a sob as the light came on. The living room had been ransacked. Amy had a white IKEA-type two door cupboard in the corner of the room. Both doors had been left open, and books and papers were strewn on the floor in front.  A tall bookshelf on the other side of the window bay was now empty, all the contents flung on the floor. Books, some magazines, and a pile of CDs.  Tom stepped over the debris to look at the CDs: puzzled he saw that all the cases had been opened, but the discs were still there.  The CD player itself was untouched.

A sofa had been turned upside down. The lining on its underside had been cut, a thin slash two feet across.

‘I’ll check my bedroom,’ Amy croaked, and went into the room where the light was still on.

‘Oh, no,’ Tom heard her cry out, and joined her in the room.

Her bed looked unmade: the quilt had been flung on the floor with the pillows. A stuffed teddy bear was lying in the corner. The doors to a white free standing wardrobe, matching the cupboard in the living room, were open, and clothes were piled on the floor in front.  The small drawers in her dressing table and bedside table were open, and the contents - cosmetics, hair dryer and tongs, jewellery, some papers, and other personal items - were lying across the floor.

‘I’ll go and check the rest of the place,’ Tom said.

There was only the galley kitchen and bathroom to check. In the kitchen, the story was the same: drawers and cupboard ransacked, the contents all over the floor.  The bathroom seemed relatively untouched: just a medicine cabinet, which had been gone through as well. Tom looked in the toilet: he noticed that it had been used. Instinctively he reached to flush it, but stopped himself just in time.  The contents might be evidence.

He walked back into the bedroom. Amy was sitting on the floor, holding her head in her hands.

‘Pretty much the same everywhere else,’ he said quietly, sitting down next to her.

‘Just my luck,’ she said. ‘All the stuff about Lisa, all the shit at work, and I have to get burgled.’

Tom looked around the room. Leaned over and picked up some of the jewellery lying on the floor.  He picked up a gold chain containing a small gold ‘A’.

‘I don’t think so,’ he said quietly, fingering the chain.

‘What?’ Amy said, looking up, thin streaks of mascara down her face.

‘If you were being burgled,’ he said, ‘then why is this stuff still here?’

She shrugged and put her face back down into her hands.

‘Do you keep money in the place?’ he asked. ‘Any other valuables?’

She looked up, sniffed, and shook her head.

‘You know what I think?’ Tom said, getting up and sitting on the bed. ‘I don’t think you were burgled. Not in the conventional sense, anyway.  Those CDs out there:’ - he indicated out to the living room - ‘every single case had been opened. All the discs are there, though.’

She looked up at him, shaking her head.

‘I think,’ he went on, ‘that whoever broke in here was looking for something.’

‘I don’t - I don’t get you.  Looking for what?’

‘You tell me.  Bit of a coincidence, though, that the day you get caught sniffing round your firm’s archive room, your place gets broken into and searched.’

She sat silently for a moment.

‘Oh my God,’ she said eventually. ‘You’re suggesting that Fleming had something to do with this?’

‘I don’t know,’ he said, standing up and walking to the front door. ‘Come here.’

She followed him and watched as he opened the front door.

‘Look at the door,’ he said, running his hand down the edge of the door. ‘Clean as a whistle. No signs of any force. Now look at the lock.’

The Yale lock was old and tarnished, but on closer inspection they could see scratch marks around where the key went in.

‘Those marks are recent,’ Tom said. ‘This was a professional job. And with all due respect, why would a professional burglar pick a second floor flat in South London?’

‘Unless they were looking for something,’ Amy said. ‘But what about the door downstairs? That’s locked as well.’

‘Easy,’ Tom said as they returned inside. ‘They could have picked it. It’s not a Yale. Or waited till someone went in or came out.’

‘If you’re right,’ she said, ‘then there’s no point calling the police. Nothing will have been taken, and they wouldn’t have left any trace.’

‘Except in the toilet.’

‘What?’ she asked.

‘Somebody took a pee and forgot to flush. I assume it wasn’t you. I’m guessing a bowlful of piss would contain their DNA.’

‘Oh my God,’ she said, looking over at the bathroom.

‘In any case,’ Tom continued, ‘you’ll need to call the police because of the insurance.  I assume you’re insured.’

She shook her head.

‘Ah. That’s different.  You ought to be, by the way. But yeah, you’re right: if Fleming was behind it, there won’t be any evidence. No point. There’s no damage.  To the door anyway. Let’s start to clear up.’

He walked straight into the bathroom and flushed the toilet.

*****

It took only an hour for them both to clear up the flat. Amy straightened her bedroom, while Tom replaced the sofa, the books and the CDs.  Tom was crouching on the floor picking up the magazines and paperwork when he heard a sound from the kitchen. Amy was now clearing up there. Shortly afterwards she brought out a cup of tea for him.

‘Thanks,’ he smiled, looking up at her.

‘Least I could do,’ she said, passing him the cup. ‘Sorry, it’s tea. Out of coffee.’

‘Tea’s fine,’ he smiled, and sat on the floor to drink it.

After he finished the tea, he brought the cup out to Amy, who was finishing off in the kitchen.

‘Thanks,’ he said, dropping the cup in the sink. ‘It - it’s all tidied up out there. I’d best be getting on my way. Last tube and all that.’

‘All right,’ she said quietly. ‘Will we talk tomorrow?’

‘Yeah,’ he said, putting his hand on the door. ‘Tomorrow.’

‘Wait,’ she said, walking arms folded into the living room. She looked around the flat. ‘I - I don’t think I could stay here tonight. Not alone, anyway.’

He closed the door again. ‘Have you got any friends you could stay with?’ he asked.

Amy shook her head. ‘Not really,’ she muttered. ‘Not at this time of night, anyway.’

Tom took a deep breath. ‘Do you want to put a few things in a bag and come back with me? On the level,’ he added hurriedly. ‘I’ll take the sofa.’

‘Or you could stop here.  If you don’t mind.’

‘But...’

‘It’s just staying here on my own that...’

‘It’s no problem,’ Tom said, as he clicked the lock. ‘I’ll still take the sofa.’

*****

They went to bed about midnight.  Amy gave Tom a sheet, and a blanket.

‘I’ve no spare pillows. Sorry,’ she said as she passed him the bedclothes. ‘Is a cushion okay?’

Tom patted the two sofa cushions. ‘They’ll be fine,’ he said, taking the blanket and sheets.

After they had both finished in the bathroom, Amy went into her bedroom and shut the door. Tom stripped down to his underpants, lay down on the sofa and pulled the sheet and blanket over him and tried to get to sleep. He shivered: the flat was cold. He got up and put on his tee shirt again.  As he did so he noticed the light coming from under Amy’s bedroom door went off. He settled back down on the sofa and pulled the bedclothes up to his neck.

*****

Tom woke up later, somehow aware that he was not alone in the room. He blinked and opened his eyes. It took a while for his eyes to get accustomed to the dark: when they did so he realised Amy was sitting on the floor by the sofa, her back leaning on it. She was sitting in the same position as she had earlier: her arms around her raised knees. He manoeuvred about on the sofa and sat up.

‘How long have you been here?’ he asked, rubbing his eyes.

‘Not sure,’ Amy whispered. ‘Couldn’t sleep.’

‘What’s the time?’ he asked, holding his watch up to the light from the street. It said 2:40.

‘Whew,’ he said, lying back on the sofa.

‘Sorry to disturb you,’ she said.

‘No problem. Your place, anyway.’

‘I don’t - I don’t want to be alone tonight,’ she said slowly, talking to her knees rather than Tom.

Tom said nothing.

She turned round to look at him. ‘Would you come in with me?’ she asked.

‘Sure, if you want.  I’ll kip on the chair.’

‘There’s no need for that. But - but no funny business. Yes?’

‘I understand.’ Tom nodded and stood up. ‘You can put a pillow down the middle if you want,’ he said as they stood in her bedroom.

Amy laughed. ‘You go that side,’ she said as she climbed in the right hand side.

Tom climbed in the other side. When he had settled, she switched out the bedside light.

‘Good night,’ he said.

‘Good night,’ she replied.

*****

Tom was having trouble getting back to sleep; Amy was quite restless as well. Silently, she moved from her position with her back to him. He was already lying on his back.  Amy wriggled over to him and put her head on his collar bone and her arm round his chest. He moved about too and put his arm round her shoulder. She was asleep in seconds.

Tom lay there in the darkness listening to the sound of Amy’s breathing. She smelt good. He yawned silently. What a day.
Didn’t see this coming
.

Neither had the man sitting in the black Chrysler parked three doors down the street.