Fade to Black (29 page)

Ellen Carr had to acknowledge that Jason Lock was an impressive individual. She could see why Janice was slightly in awe of him. He was warmth and charm itself—even inviting Ellen to sit beside him, which, with some hesitation, she did. Janice raised her eyebrows at her in a ‘fancy that’ way, chuckled and sat opposite her. Alain Ducasse restaurant surpassed her expectations. The staff was attentive and thoughtful and the food, simply magnificent. Never one to really bother too much about wine, she was caught unawares when Jason Lock suddenly turned to her and, in a booming voice calculated to capture the attention of the entire coterie of guests, asked her opinion of the white wine. She was mortified and dropped her napkin, leaning in to Janice, hoping for help.

Janice caught on and whispered, sotto voce, “1967 Lessiere’ Frontignac—crisp, stylish.”

Her life saved, Ellen sat up and smiled at the guests. “I always enjoy a crisp Frontignac. I’ve not seen the bottle, but I would hazard a guess that it’s one of Paul Lessiere’s… perhaps a ‘67’?”

“Bravo, Ellen!" Lock cheered. He raised his glass. “May more of our constabulary demonstrate style, sophistication and an appreciation of the finer things in life!”

The twelve guests arranged carefully around the table raised their glasses and smiled. Janice whispered, “How did you know it was
Paul
Lessiere?”

“Aren’t all Frenchmen called Paul?” Ellen replied through clenched teeth.

The main courses all arrived at precisely the same time, as one expects of a world-class restaurant and conversation confined itself to muttered asides and little exaltations of praise for the food. Ellen was aware of Jason Lock’s gaze. She cocked an eyebrow at him.

“Tell me, Ellen,” he said smoothly, “how are you going with these ghastly murders? The headlines are like something out of White Chapel in the nineteenth century.” Carr set her fork down.

“Well, its early days, of course. Some crimes of this nature can take a year to solve—others a matter of weeks. Hopefully, it’s more the latter than the former.”

“So, no leads then, eh?”

Carr smiled. “I didn’t say that. We are working lines of enquiry as hard as we can. We’ll see what the next few days bring.”

“Aha,” Lock said, cupping his hands together. “I sense that you’re on to something!”

“Perhaps. The young Murder Investigation Team is hard at it.”

Lock laughed. “Are they now? Will that help?”

Carr realized she’d made a double entendre gaff. She replied in true
Carry-On
style. “Well, it can’t hurt, can it?”

Lock laughed loudly. “No indeed. Well said!” She was relieved to return her attention to her swordfish; it really was superb. But Lock persisted. “How’s this young DCI of yours performing—the good looking one—St. Clair?”

Carr now saw that she hadn’t been seated next to ‘Lockey’ for nothing. Once again, she lowered her fork. “She’s going very well, in my opinion. I seem to get asked this a lot, in fact. It’s a big test for her. Many DCI’s who’ve spent thirty years on the force have never had to deal with crimes this confronting.”

Lock nodded his understanding. “Of course, but she’s not exactly cut out for the brutal stuff, is she? I mean she’s a Sloane Ranger really—more used to fighting crowds in Harrods than in council estates.”

Carr decided she’d return to disliking Lock, her brief flirtation with the idea of liking him now abandoned. “DCI St. Clair is the future of this town’s policing, I can tell you right now. She is Cambridge educated, has a third-degree black belt in karate and mentally, is as tough as they come—but she doesn’t advertise any of that.”

“Is that so?” Lock asked, dabbing at his mouth with a silk napkin. “I suppose she lives somewhere unprepossessing these days and dresses down as well?”

“No, in fact she lives in…” Carr stopped herself just in time. Her internal warning system was clanging away. “…quite nice surroundings really.”

Lock smiled slowly. “Nice catch, Detective Chief Superintendent. Would you care for another drink?”

*****

Allie eyeballed the motorcycle riders assembled on Kensington Avenue and they stared back. She saw a green glow emerging from them and looked at Connors to see if he noticed it. If he did, he said nothing.
Tricky
, she thought. Obviously, Michael had felt something when he’d texted her.

“What are we going to do?” asked a nervous Connors.

Allie looked at him. “Do? We’ll walk out, get into our car and go back to headquarters.”

Connors stared at the riders. “But they’re obviously waiting for us!”

“Well, let’s not keep ‘em waiting too long, then,” Allie said, reaching for the doorknob.

“Wait,” Connors blurted, a hand cupped to his ear. “Listen!”

The thump of a big engine echoed down the square. A moment later, a massive man on an equally big, black motorbike flashed into view. He rode straight at the three riders who were stuck in his path. Allie held her breath.

The riders looked at the big bike and, as one, realized they were under threat. They tried to maneuver themselves into a position to evade the rider. But it was all for nothing.

They were stuck in a chorus line as the man on the bike flashed past and flung a long right arm out. It connected with the helmet of the first rider, knocking him into the second and then third. The riders and their bikes were knocked twenty feet sideways in a clattering, jarring jumble of machinery and men. Motors roared and died, except for the colossal black bike. It was now out of sight, but Allie and Connors heard it turn at the end of the street and begin its return, much slower this time.

“Holy shit!” Connors said. “Have you ever seen anything like that?”

“He’s coming back,” Allie said, knowing full well who it was. They watched as the bike came to a rumbling halt. The rider turned the engine off, dismounted and walked slowly over to the smoking jumble, his long black coat stretching to his boots.

“Let’s get out there,” Connors said, making for the door.

“No,” Allie said, flinging her arm out. “Wait.”

Connors frowned and returned to the window beside Allie. They watched as the big rider picked up a bike from the top of the pile and flung it thirty feet to his left.

Connors was ecstatic. “
Oh my God!
Look at that! Who is this guy?”

Allie did not enlighten him. Bikes were heaved out of the way like child’s toys to expose the three riders. The black rider picked them all up in one hand.

“That’s impossible,” Connors breathed.

Allie felt a rising panic. What was Michael going to do? She saw him stop and look around at her. He’d heard. In response, he delicately removed the helmet from one of the riders with his right hand. Allie got the message. A rat-like face poked out of the motorcycle leathers. She looked at Connors—there was no reaction. Allie marshaled her thoughts and tried transmitting to him.
You can’t kill them, Michael. Connors is a witness!

He shrugged, then bashed their heads together like rag dolls and threw them on the grass.
Ok?

Ok,
she confirmed.

He walked to his bike and mounted. Connors bolted for the door. “C’mon, Allie, get his registration number!”

Get out of here fast, Michael!

He waved. The big bike rocketed off its stand in an instant. Allie groaned. He’d forgotten to start the engine. The bike had just
gone.
She heard the engine finally start, but he was a hundred yards down the road. She made a show of sprinting out of the house towards Connors who stood confused in the center of the street.

“Is it my imagination,” he said, scratching his head, “or did that bike not make any—”

“Never mind that!” Allie barked. “Let’s see if these guys are alright. Ring an ambulance, Mathew.”

*****

Once more, Detective Sergeant Rachel Strauss found herself pounding the beat—this time trying to locate the restaurant where Paula Armstrong and her lover-boy had dined at lunchtime the day before. She and DC Wilkinson had split up and were taking different sides of Tottenham Court Road and Oxford Street near the Dominion theatre. It was awkward trying to ask questions of restaurant staff—it was one fifteen and the lunch rush was on.
It is amazing
, she thought,
how so many people can just piss off for lunch on a Friday
. She wondered how many would make it back to work. It would be nice to have a few drinks and take the afternoon off.

“Can I help you?” Rachel turned around to see the voice came from a tall, severe middle-aged woman. She held menus to her chest like armor plating and regarded her as if she were something just scraped from the footpath.

“Yes, I’m…”

“Do you have a reservation?”

“No, I’m from—”

“You can’t just push your way in to a place like this, you know!” the woman spat out, turning away.

“Hey! Excuse me!” Rachel raised her voice. “I don’t think you understand. I’m—”

“Ronnie!” the woman yelled, flapping a hand in the air. “Please
escort
this pushy trollop from the premises right now!” A mountainous, T-shirted gorilla with close-cropped blond hair lumbered towards Strauss.

“Whoa, whoa here!” she said in a raised voice, reaching for her warrant card.

Mountainous Man grabbed her upper arm and pulled it away from her pocket. “No you don’t, dearie; I don’t know what you’ve got in there,” he said in a thick Belfast brogue.

Rachel was furious. “I’m a police officer, paddy,” she said, wincing in pain. “Let go now or there’ll be real trouble.”

“Well now, of course you are,” he said. “I’m an astronaut myself, but I work here just for the lunchtime banter. Now bugger off!” He shoved her out onto the street.

Furious, she phoned for Wilkinson. She’d have this fat Irish prick and the skinny maître d on her own platter. Jacinta’s phone rang out. Rachel looked back into the restaurant and up at the sign above the door—Il Forno. She tried Wilkinson again. Still, there was no answer. She looked across the road, hoping to spot her. Five minutes later, there was no sign of Wilkinson.
Sod it
, Strauss decided; she’d go it alone. Pulling out her warrant card, she marched back into the restaurant. Spotting fat Paddy standing by the restrooms, she beckoned him over. He stormed towards her until he saw the warrant card thrust at him.

“Oh shit,” he said, putting a hand to his face.

“Get the skinny bitch back here,
now,”
Rachel demanded
.

*****

Arthur’s father had always said ‘luck was a fortune’ and he’d been right. He knew why he’d come back to Tottenham Court Road today. Paula. The time they’d had over lunch the day before was one of the best experiences of his life. She had been warm, funny and attentive—he’d never had that before. He’d liked her very much. He now sat at a corner table by the window in a perky little café over the road from Il Forno. Paula had introduced him to macchiato coffee yesterday and he’d just ordered one from the woman who ran this café. He missed Paula. Why did she have to go?

The conversation at the counter seeped into his consciousness. A young woman was asking the café owner, ‘Tippy’, whether she’d noticed a woman wearing a green skirt and white top yesterday. She flashed a photo of Paula.

“So, Arthur, the game is afoot!"
his inner voice advised
.

“
What are you now—Sherlock Holmes?”
Arthur barked inwardly.

“Ooh, touchy today, are we? Like to spend some time, no wait… a long time in Wormwood Scrubs prison, would we? Personally, I don’t.”

Arthur looked at the young woman asking the questions. A detective, no doubt. She turned and glanced at him, then at others in the small café. She had perfect coffee-colored skin and, despite being a tad overweight for his liking, was attractive. He looked in the mirror behind the counter and saw her smile at Tippy. She had beautiful, straight, white teeth. All in all, very nice, he decided. The police were raising the bar.

“She could raise your bar alright, Arthur! In fact, if I’m not mistaken…”

“Shut up!” he said, a
loud
. Jacinta Wilkinson whirled around to face him. Arthur hurriedly held up his phone. “Sorry,” he said, hunching his shoulders in a gesture of helplessness. “My girlfriend… she does go on about things!”

Jacinta studied him for a moment, then turned away.

“She’s picked up on you, Arthur,”
the voice warned.
“She just memorized your face…”

Panic swept through him. She had focused on him intently he decided. Now she was being cool until she sneaked away and rang for backup. He looked across the street and saw her backup enter Il Forno. Shit! They were on to him.

“
Stay cool, my man. Stay cool,”
Mr. Black soothed.
“There’s fun to be had here...”

Arthur watched the young detective shake hands with the smiling Tippy.
She clung to the café owner’s hand for just a little bit too long
, he thought.
She was coming on to her! She was using her position as a trusted public employee to seduce women. That was just wrong! People had to have faith in the police, not have them abuse your trust
… like his mother had.

“That’s it, Arthur. You remember what she did to you—and you trusted her and loved her so much!”

Arthur twitched in his seat. Something hot and prickly danced across his skin. He could see people for what they were. This ‘detective,’ with her arse too big for her pants and long, black, crinkly hair—it was all a trap. A carefully made up and preened
bait
. They lull you into thinking they care for you, but it’s just about using you! He checked across the road; the other detective had not emerged from Il Forno.

He looked again at the dark detective. She was leaving the café. He made his mind up. “Excuse me, Detective. I couldn’t help but overhear your conversation. I think I might be able to help. Is there somewhere we can go for a chat?”