Fade to Black (20 page)

Allie’s face screwed up in thought. “The Black Crow, why does that ring a bell? Georgie was what, a waitress?”

“Yes.”

Allie made a sweeping gesture toward the clothes in the wardrobe. “She didn’t buy all this on a waitress’ wages. She was into something else.”

Strauss agreed and suggested the ‘crazy hours’ might be a clue to something grubbier. Allie thanked the still-bewildered Jeremy Watts and noticed he was a little less bewildered when Strauss said something to him as she passed.

On the way back to the Yard, Strauss reported that, to the best of young Jeremy’s knowledge, Georgie had no parents or other family in London, nor was he aware of anyone hanging about her.

“But,” Strauss said, “he doesn’t know much at all about her; she keeps to herself, according to him.”

Allie considered this. “He’s about what, eighteen?” Strauss advised he was twenty.

“Ok,
twenty
, lives downstairs from a girl most men would consider ‘red hot’ and he doesn’t know
anything
about her? Is he gay?”

Strauss blushed. “Definitely not.”

Allie smiled despite their history. “Well, I bow to your superior knowledge.

It was Strauss’s turn to gaze out the window.

*****

The long lunch at Il Forno passed in a light-hearted haze. In Paula Armstrong’s opinion, the pasta had been perfect, the veal cooked to melting point and the Tiramisu ‘to die for.’ She hadn’t had so much fun in years and it was obvious. Arthur had been charming, funny, and most importantly, he had that little element of danger about him that she found irresistible. She could not believe she had overlooked him for two years and she told him so in terms she could only use when she was liquored-up.

“You’re hot, you know, Arthur,” she slurred slightly. “Totally hot! How come I never noticed you before?” Arthur smiled like an indulgent father, or as you might imagine a spider would, once he had the fly in the web.

“I think the devil's got into you, Paula. You’re seeing with new eyes. I know I am.”

He beamed at her and she laughed again. She looked at her watch–it was 4:00 p.m.

“Well, I should put some sort of appearance in at work. The girls are working on a tight deadline for this week’s edition.”

“I have an idea,” Arthur cut in quickly. “Have you seen the show on at the Dominion? They have a five o’clock showing. We could catch that and it would put us back on the streets at, well, now let me see… time for dinner!”

Paula clapped her hands with delight. “Now
that
is evil. And you reckon the devil’s got into
me
?”

*****

Allie’s phone bleeped. It was Michael. She shielded the phone from Strauss and read the message.

He’s about to kill.

She typed back a message.
Where? Any clues at all?

She waited a few minutes, but there was no reply. She knew Strauss had noticed her agitation, so she dialed headquarters and asked Jacinta Wilkinson whether anything was going on and whether Connors had returned. Wilkinson replied that all was quiet, she had not heard from Connors, but Banks had phoned in and was on his way to interview one of the customers from the Golden Bamboo.

“Have you rung Connors?” Allie asked.

“No, ma’am. Should I?”

Allie confirmed that indeed she should and that she would like to be informed of his whereabouts as soon as possible.

“DS Strauss and I will be about half an hour, Jacinta. Who is Peter going to interview from last night, by the way?”

There was a small delay while Wilkinson consulted her list. “A Mr. Raymond Riley.”

Allie looked sharply at Strauss, then back at the road.

“What’s his address?”

“I don’t have it, ma’am, but I think Pete said he was going to Chelsea.”

Allie cupped her hand over the phone and told Strauss to pull over as soon as she could. “Jacinta, listen carefully. Phone Peter right now and tell him that under
no
circumstances should he interview Mr. Riley and that he should return to headquarters immediately. Got that?”

The concern in Wilkinson’s voice was obvious, but she confirmed her understanding without further questions and rang off.

Rachel had brought the car to a standstill.

“Are we talking about
the
Ray Riley?" she asked. “The Ray Riley who runs half the nasty stuff in London and is under investigation for just about everything?”

Allie nodded, also noting her phone must be very loud.

“
The
Ray Riley. Pretty sure he lives in Chelsea. God, the last thing I want is Peter walking into his den and asking questions. We’ll have every law firm in London on our doorstep by dinner time.”

Strauss murmured her agreement. “What are you going to do?”

“Good question. Maybe just think about that for a moment.”

Strauss pulled back into the line of traffic and Allie now stared intently out of the passenger-side window. The spring sun was high in the sky again, but clouds darkened the horizon. Michael’s message resonated.
He’s about to kill
. Allie had so many questions for Michael.
How could he know that a murder was about to be committed?
Why can’t he see where and to whom?

It was 5:15 p.m., technically forty-five minutes until the briefing. If Michael was right, and she had to believe he was, there was no time to slack off. Two murders would make things super-hot.

“Rache… I’d like us to swing by the Pub where Georgeta worked, the Black Crow.”

“Bit late, isn’t it?” she said, pointedly flexing the arm with her watch.

“It is, but I think it’s important to chase down as much information as we can as fast as we can on this one.”

Strauss laughed harshly. “Going to make a name for yourself right from the outset, eh,
ma’am
?”

Allie swung to face her, but time suddenly slowed. She looked at Strauss as she drove, but it was as if a shield of semi-transparent liquid floated between them. She could see Strauss gripping the black steering wheel as if she could squeeze the life out of it. Red colors radiated off her, only partly diffused by the silicone-like curtain. Strauss’s white-hot anger thumped at the curtain like a living battering ram. And something else was there, but she couldn’t quite grasp it. Strauss’s thoughts suddenly boomed at her as if broadcast from an unseen stage.
Jeremy. Jeremy Watts.

The curtain lifted for Allie as Strauss looked back at her. She calmed herself, pausing for a few moments before speaking.

“Rachel, apart from the obvious reasons related to this investigation, he’s a kid. Don’t go there.”

Strauss flinched. Allie knew that at least part of the target had been hit.

“
What?”
Strauss all but yelled. “What are you talking about?”

“You were going to ring him tonight and see if he was interested in a drink. I’m just saying
don’t
, that’s all.”

Strauss jerked her gaze back to the road, fortunately, in time to take the turnoff that would take them into Chelsea.

“I don’t know what on earth—”

Allie lazily waved her hand in the direction of the road. “Spare me the bullshit, Rache, just drive.”

*****

Arthur and the still-excited Paula Armstrong took their seats at the very back of the darkened theatre. Arthur had promised they’d go to a special bar he knew after the matinee performance and then to Gaucho—the Argentine restaurant in Piccadilly. Paula had squealed with delight. Gaucho was so hard to get into and she marveled at the way Arthur could so easily arrange these things. They settled into their seats as the opening chords of the show rang out. Paula reached for his hand, deliberately brushing his inner thigh as she did so. Arthur smiled back and softly took her hand, although he was fearful the revulsion he felt for her now could be seen by others—but they were thirty feet in front of them. He looked at his watch in the gloomy light. In fifteen minutes, he would excuse himself and leave the theater for no more than twenty minutes, but that would be enough.

Arthur’s enjoyment of the show was interrupted precisely fifteen minutes later by a voice he now knew well.

“Time to go, Arthur. Let’s do this.”

He leant over to Paula and explained that he had just remembered he had to ring a client at 5:30 p.m. and that he might be fifteen or so minutes, but that she shouldn’t worry. She squeezed his hand and said, "Missing you already.”

“Holy Whore-Mother, Arthur,”
the voice said.
“You’ve sure done a job on her.”

Arthur Wendell exited the theatre and ran to catch the lights across Tottenham Court Road. Turning further right, he hurried down to Soho Square and Greek Street.

“Did you know Casanova used to live here, many years ago?”

Arthur panted a reply to the effect that no, he didn’t know that.

“Knew him well,”
Mr. Black said
. “Malleable he was—very open to new ideas and Lord, what charm. He had young girls and bo—.”

A white delivery van dipped to a halt just two feet from where Arthur stood in the middle of the road, its horn screaming at him.

“Arthur! Take it easy, man. No need to run. Manny’s is close. I know it; I’ve been here before. There’s plenty of time.”

Arthur glared at the driver and completed his crossing.

“Manny’s is just here on the right... See it?”

He saw the military style sign and felt himself relax into the anticipation. Its warmth ran through him.

“That’s better—enjoy the moment. By the way, we might need some help on this one, Arthur. I’ve arranged for you to meet someone; he’s standing outside Manny’s now.”

“Whoa,” Arthur said, coming to a sudden halt. "This is
my
show!”

“Ha… I like that, Arthur—‘show’ in every sense, eh? Absolutely, you are in charge; never doubt that. But this is a complex job that calls for strength and dexterity beyond the abilities of even someone as gifted as you. Trust me, I won’t steer you wrong. Here he is now. Oh, great, I see he already has some supplies for you. Now be nice; you’ll like him.”

Arthur tentatively extended his hand toward the man. He was rewarded with a firm, no-nonsense handshake. They stared at each and knew within moments they could work together. They felt they already knew each other, understood each other without the need for words. The team was now three.

Chapter Thirteen

Strauss brought the car to a halt in Barkley Gardens—the little street running at right angles to Earl's Court Road, on the corner of which stood the Black Crow. Allie hesitated as she walked around the corner to the main entrance of the hotel. The Black Crow,
black feathers
. There was something about the place she fundamentally did not like, despite it looking so much like the Feathers in St James’ Park. It was somehow
wrong
.

Strauss pushed past Allie and breasted the front door, brushing past the menu stand and walking up to the highly polished oak bar. Allie lingered by the front door, noting that the licensee was one Ronald Blascombe.
Well, well
, she thought,
‘Rabbit’ Blascombe
. She mentally conjured his file. He had been implicated in a number of minor scams over the past three or four years, but never convicted. Quite well thought of by the boys that drank here—she reminded herself to check with them—but he danced on the margins of the law just the same.

She saw Strauss present her I.D. to a thin, young bar attendant, then read a corkboard to her left that was filled with local notices, ads and the like.

“Hmmm…”Allie murmured as she walked up behind her. “There’s lots of ‘remedial massage' places nearby, aren’t there? This must be a very, very sporty neighborhood.”

Strauss made a weird noise. Allie was reminded that she hadn’t heard that snorty laugh for a long time. They wandered the bar area of the Black Crow, waiting for the licensee to appear. The pub was nicely appointed with lots of warm English timbers, dining nooks, separate tables, and a substantial stone fireplace on the back wall. Allie picked up a menu from the bar and scanned the ‘specials’ board.

“Quite reasonable prices here, Rachel. Says here they do the best ‘spotted dick’ in Britain.”

Strauss made a face. “Nothing to do with the massage parlors in the area, I hope.”

Ronald Blascombe burst through the slatted wooden doors behind the bar. Scanning the room, his eyes locked onto Allie.

“Are you looking for me… Chief Inspector?” Allie studied him for a moment. He was pleasant-faced, but had put on about a stone since she’d seen him last. He obviously remembered her. She put out her hand as he approached.

“Yes, Mr. Blascombe. DCI St. Clair.”

“DCI now, eh? Well done, you. I’ve not seen you since you were a PC up in Islington.”

“Good memory, sir; that would be right. How is your daughter, by the way?”

Rachel Strauss looked from one to the other.

“She’s fine now, thank you, Inspector. In fact, she works for me now—here.” He inclined his head towards the bar. Allie nodded and suggested they find a quiet spot for a ‘chat’. Allie introduced DS Strauss.

“Anything wrong, Inspector?” Blascombe asked, again ignoring Strauss. “I mean, I’m not aware of anything… and I’m pretty busy. One of our staff has just decided to take the day off or something.”

Allie held up her hand. “Would that be Georgie?”

Blascombe sat slowly in the chair opposite Allie. “It would." He looked at Allie, then to Strauss and back. “What’s happened?”

“She’s dead, Mr. Blascombe,” Strauss said bluntly. Allie shot her a filthy look.

Rabbit Blascombe lowered his head into his hands. He didn’t speak for a minute. Allie put her finger up, warning Strauss not to say anything.

Eventually, he looked up. “Drugs?”