Fade to Black (21 page)

“Actually, no, it wasn’t,” Allie said softly. “She was murdered last night. Not far from here.”

Blascombe rocked back in his seat. His eyes misted over. “God in Heaven! Why? Do you know who did it?”

Allie’s phone bleeped, but she couldn’t very well look at it now. She dreaded what the message might say. Blascombe spoke again. “The police, the tape near the tube station this morning—that was for Georgie?”

Allie nodded slowly. She looked at Strauss, who stared intently at Blascombe,
as she should
, Allie thought. He was a suspect at this point, no doubt about that, but Allie wasn’t getting any strange vibe or noting any weird colors as she had come to expect. All she could sense was genuine compassion.

“Mr. Blascombe, we know it’s going to get busy here very shortly, but we do need to ask you some questions.”

“Yes, of course. Just let me tell Sarah and warn everyone I’ll be out of action for a few minutes.” They watched him pass his hand over his forehead as he walked quickly toward the kitchen.

Strauss rounded up on Allie. “You’re being very nice to him, aren’t you?”

Once again, Strauss’ lack of respect for a superior officer was on display. Allie walked her over to the far corner of the large room. Customers were dribbling in, filling some of the tables.

“First off, he’s just lost an employee, and secondly, don’t speak to me like that, particularly in public. You know better than that. Air your grievances when we’re back in the car.” Strauss, to Allie’s surprise, looked shocked, then apologized.

“Right,” Allie said. “He is a suspect,
obviously
, as is everyone else here. I want you to start talking to Rabbit and get the names and details of his employees, when he last saw Georgie—all the usual stuff. I want to look around for a minute or so; then I’ll take over for a bit. Let’s get this initial chat over with and be out of here by 6:00 p.m., yes?”

Strauss agreed and sat at the table to await Blascombe’s return. Allie wandered deeper into the pub, rounding the far corner of the bar. The pub was larger than it appeared from the outside. She entered another dining area, which backed onto a pleasant courtyard decorated with potted plants and brick paving.

Looking across the bar from her vantage point, she could see into the kitchen through a server hatch. Rabbit Blascombe, in profile, was talking to a blond girl who was covering her face, crying. She recognized her immediately as Sarah, the same girl she had attended five years ago at the scene of the horrific car accident in North London. Her mother was killed and Rabbit Blascombe, who was driving, suffered extensive injuries to his legs. Sarah, in her final year of school, completely freaked out like no one Allie had seen before. The sight of her mother’s headless body had turned young Sarah into a jabbering mess. The drug-addled driver of a huge Toyota four-wheel drive had been trying to evade pursuing police officers when he’d hurtled through the intersection, near The Angel in Islington, against the lights and slammed into the Blascombe’s Ford Mondeo. It had been no contest. The superior weight of the four-wheel drive had crushed the barely mid-sized Mondeo like a soft drink can.

Allie stepped through the glass-paneled French doors that opened onto the courtyard. A smattering of self-important young ‘executives’ were already enjoying drinks in the area, which was bathed in the last of the afternoon sunlight. She continued through the courtyard into a small adjoining car park. Rounding the corner of the brick building, she paused. Four very expensive cars were parked there: two Mercedes, both black; a large BMW saloon; and what she imagined was a Hummer—a ridiculously large military-style vehicle that barely fit in the car park.

A fifth car wheeled in at that moment. Allie stepped back behind a potted bamboo, her curiosity piqued. It was a huge, silver Bentley with completely blacked-out windows. Immediately the car pulled to a halt. The driver got out and walked toward the rear of the vehicle. He was a hard man, if ever she’d seen one. Tall, broad-shouldered with a very short haircut and wraparound sunglasses, he exuded menace. He chewed gum and was looking everywhere but at the door handle toward which his hand now reached. Allie shrank back against the wall. The driver stood back to allow his passenger to exit.

Allie knew the face instantly—the sharp nose, mean set to the mouth and the shaved head. She couldn’t see the gold earring with the diamond inset, but she knew it was there. Nearly as tall as the driver, Ray Riley unfolded himself from the leather seats and waited for his fellow passenger to emerge. A slim young man stumbled from the car. His sunglasses were pushed up into the tangle of his bleached blond hair, revealing eyes that looked as though they had been bought in a jumble sale. He was smashed out of his brain, belligerent and not happy about being asked to leave the comfort of the soft leather upholstery. The driver ushered them to a steep set of steel stairs that lead to rooms above the Black Crow. Allie watched the young man with interest. He looked vaguely familiar. He was dressed like a refugee from nineteen seventies Portobello Road—tight blue jeans with ragged edges, a sleeveless hippy top fringed with sheepskin. Allie took her iPhone from her jacket pocket and snapped a quick pic, then retreated. It was 5:40 p.m., time to return to headquarters. She retraced her steps to the main dining room, where Strauss was in earnest conversation with Blascombe. They both turned at her arrival. Allie took an empty chair, not saying anything. Strauss resumed her questioning, looking at her watch as she did so.

“So, you say Georgie had worked for you for about two years?”

“Yes,” Blascombe confirmed. “I can check that, if you need exact dates.”

“Thank you, yes.” Strauss made a note on her pad before continuing. “What sort of employee was she—conscientious, punctual… what?”

Blascombe hesitated. “Not the greatest, to be honest. She was a bit moody and seemed very tired a lot of the time. But, by and large, she did her job.”

Allie cleared her throat and moved a saltshaker on the table away from her.

“How did she get on with the customers—any trouble there?”

“Some of ‘em loved her,” Blascombe said. “They thought she was sexy. She flirted with some, but could be rude at times, especially if she was tired.”

“Why do you think she was so tired?” Allie asked.

Blascombe put his palms up. “Fuc…
buggered
if I know. But she did slump around on occasions.”

“Did you talk to her about this?” Strauss asked.

“I did, once—she bloody near bit me head off, as I recall. She said what she did in her private life was nothing to do with me.”

Allie frowned. “Interesting. You weren’t actually asking her what she did in her private life, were you?”

“No, just got sick of her moods. Other staff had complained that she was, well, bitchy. But that was only sometimes, mind. She was ok, generally.”

“Did Sarah complain?” Allie asked, moving her seat forward on the slate floor.

Blascombe sat up straight. “Whoa now, I know where you’re going with this!”

“We are not ‘going’ anywhere, Mr. Blascombe, other than back to the office in a moment,” Allie said evenly. She handed him her card.

“Contact me if anything else occurs to you—things like any customers who might have had a grudge against her, other staff with whom she might have been involved, that type of thing.”

Allie looked at Strauss. “I’m sure Detective Sergeant Strauss has covered that territory with you already?”

“Yes,” Strauss said, “I have.”

“We’ll come back tomorrow and talk to your staff, in any case, Mr. Blascombe. Please ask them all to be here.” Strauss handed her a list of staff. Allie put out her hand and thanked him for his time. Her shook her hand and smiled uncertainly.

“Nobody here is involved in this, Inspector. I am absolutely certain of it.”

“How about the boys upstairs?”

Strauss jerked her head around in surprise. Blascombe froze and said nothing.

“Mr. Blascombe?" Allie persisted.

“Upstairs?” Blascombe finally stuttered. Allie sat back in her chair and pointed a finger skyward.

“Yes,
upstairs
, as in just about directly above us.” Blascombe looked furtively out towards the courtyard. Another car arrived.

“Look,” he said, “not here,
not now
, alright?”

Allie abruptly rose from the table and told Strauss to wait in the car. Strauss made to protest, but backed away from Allie’s glare. She turned and left the room. Allie nodded towards the bar.

“Go to the kitchen, now. I’ll follow you in one minute.”

Blascombe hustled back out of the main bar and into the kitchen. She phoned DC Wilkinson and advised she and Strauss would be late and that the briefing would be held closer to 7:00 p.m. She heard Wilkinson groan under her breath.

“I know,” Allie said, “but, Jacinta… this is important.”

Blascombe was waiting for her by the chip fryer. He put chips in as soon as Allie entered the room. The bubbling hiss was sufficient to interfere with any interested ears.

“Give,” Allie said without preamble.

“Look,” he blurted, “it’s nothing to do with me. They rent the room by the month and hold meetings every now and then. We supply food and ask no questions.”

“Do you know who ‘they’ are?” She saw a pained expression came over his face.

“Please don’t ask me that.”

Allie considered this for a moment. “Alright, tell me this, have you seen a young man with long, fluffy blond hair, like a hippy, go upstairs?”

Blascombe frowned. “No, I don’t think so. It’s usually just—”

“Just
who
?”

“I think you already know, Inspector.”

Allie smiled ruefully. “I’m just giving you the chance to cooperate. Is it the same mob every time?”

“Usually.” Blascombe glanced out of the kitchen server. “Christ,” he said, “one of ‘em’s here now to order some food.” Allie peered through the server. It was hard-man driver from the car park.

“So I see.”

Sarah burst into the kitchen. “Dad! I’m not serving those horrible—”

She stopped short at seeing Allie. Her red-rimmed eyes widened.

“I remember you, you’re—”

“Shhhh,” Blascombe said. “Keep it down.”

“Sarah,” Allie said, “was Georgie involved with those guys?" She inclined her head towards the upstairs room. Sarah looked at her father for reassurance. He nodded.

“Well, I don’t really know. I saw her talk to one of them a few weeks back and he...”

“He what?”

She looked at her father again before answering.

“He patted her bum as she walked away.”

“How did she take that?”

“She looked annoyed, but I think it was a bit of an act really. But you never know with Georgie.”

Allie chose her words carefully. “Do you think Georgie might have been a 'working girl', if you know what I mean?”

A moment’s confusion passed over Sarah’s face before she smiled in a slightly embarrassed way and brushed a loose strand of hair from her forehead.

“You know, it had crossed my mind, but I’m not sure. Maybe.”

“Christ almighty!” Rabbit Blascombe exploded. “You might have mentioned this to me before now, Sarah!”

*****

Arthur Wendell and friend emerged from Manny’s Army Disposals after just five minutes. Arthur had found exactly the right tool for the job.

“What did I tell you, Arthur? Manny has the goods, doesn’t he?”
It was Mr. Black’s voice.

“Manny is a horrible man,” Arthur said, “a complete creep.”

“And you’re not?”
Mr. Black said in a light-hearted way.

“Not like him, no. I...
we
have purpose and a… mission. Manny is a greasy rat of a thing.”

“You’re absolutely right about that, Arthur.”

The man walking beside Arthur smiled. “You can hear this conversation?” Arthur asked, not masking his surprise.

“Sure can. It’s very entertaining—a good prelude to events.”

They neared the Dominion Theatre. “Ok," Arthur said, "you buy yourself a ticket. I’ll wait just inside the big doors to the stalls.” The man turned without further adieu and approached the ticket box.

Arthur watched as an argument ensued between the man and the ticket box attendant.

“What is he doing?” Arthur said to himself and, by default, to Mr. Black.

“He knows what he’s up to, don’t worry about that.”
Mr. Black’s voice chimed.
“He’s just establishing himself as the man who arrived late and couldn’t possibly have had time to be involved in anything. He’ll buy a ticket for the front stalls as well.”

“I didn’t think of that.”

“He’s good, Arthur.”

Clutching his plastic bag to his chest, Arthur moved into the darkened theatre, waiting behind the large wooden doors. He could just see Paula if he stood on tippy toes. He noted that no one was sitting anywhere near her.
Excellent
.

The new friend appeared beside him. They waited a moment while his eyes adjusted to the lack of light.

“Is that her?” the friend asked, pointing to Paula. For a moment, Arthur didn’t want to answer. Panic and guilt overwhelmed him. He felt his heart galloping and sweat beading on his forehead.

The friend nudged him. “Well?”

Arthur looked at lovely, trusting Paula, patiently waiting for him to return and be the man she thought was going to turn her life around. Bile rose in his throat. How could he even contemplate this? He looked around frantically, something inside looking for salvation in any form.

“Showtime, my soldier, my main man. Showtime.”

Mr. Black’s voice was fatherly, encouraging, warm. Black understood he was nervous. Arthur had been like that when he tried to play football as a boy. Crossing the white line was the big problem; the rest took care of itself. He didn’t want to let the voice—Mr. Black—down, or his new friend. They had a bond, a
commitment.

He smiled at the man beside him and, rustling the plastic bag slightly, pulled out the NATO-approved, stainless steel, thirty-inch Commando saw with its ‘unique eight-strand design guaranteed to saw through plastic, wood, rubber, and bone’. It featured round steel handgrips at each end so you could loop the serrated wire around the target material and pull with both hands. Didn’t everybody have one for cutting through that problem leg of lamb or stubborn piece of pork? He turned to his new friend.