Fade to Black (34 page)

“That’s it?”

“For now, yes.” Michael shrugged. “Are we gonna catch the bad guys now or what?”

“Are you ok, dear?” The shrill voice came from the woman she’d noticed a moment ago in the passing car.

Allie stepped away from Michael and smiled at the woman. “Yes, all good, but thank you!” Allie waved and the woman rolled up her window as the car accelerated away. Allie looked at Michael. Time was up. The rain came again.

Ten minutes later, Allie had received intelligence to suggest Wendell lived in Notting Hill. She authorized an assault team to apprehend him and, hopefully, find Jacinta. She advised that she would go to Wendell’s Earl’s Court office address, seeing as she was nearby. She had rung Ellen Carr and apprised her of developments.

Carr had been excited, but not as much as she should have been. Allie felt something else was preying on her mind. She looked again at the results of her internet search. It had a phone number for BizTax, Inc. She rang it. The answering machine message said, ‘Hello, thanks for phoning BizTax, Incorporated. I’m Arthur Wendell. I am unable to come to the phone, so please leave your name...” It cut off before the message ended and she heard the beeps indicating recording had begun.

She hung up. At least she had heard his voice. It struck her as totally innocuous—thin, slightly nasal and harmless. It told her nothing. Remembering Connors, she rang his number. There was still no answer. She hissed in frustration. There was no point ringing Strauss, she decided; she was in no shape to return to work.

Michael stood outside as Allie made her calls from a back room in the Black Crow, the misty rain beading on his woolen coat. Allie emerged from the hotel and spotted him. “Do you have your bike nearby?” she asked.

He pointed further down the lane. “Probably a hundred yards away."

The ride to Earl’s Court took just three wet minutes. They could have walked it. Allie clung to the tinier-than-they-should-have–been handgrips on the giant motor bike and was drenched before they had reached Fulham Road. It struck her during the short journey that Georgie’s murder, Ray Riley, the Blackbird and Arthur Wendell all had connections to the general Earl’s Court/Kensington-Chelsea area. Paula Armstrong was murdered in Camden, technically, but lived in Kensington; Ray Riley lived and operated around Chelsea. She recalled with a flinch that Billie McBride last drew breath in the Chelsea Hospital. It had all revolved around Arthur Wendell, his favorite ‘boozer’ and his well-heeled local clientele.

According to the plastic plaque on the wall of the three-story building, the Biztax office was on the first floor. The street door was locked, of course. Michael merely turned the handle and pushed. The door sprang open, splinters of dark wood littering the linoleum-covered floor. They listened for a moment. There was no sound from above. Allie placed her feet carefully upon each stair tread until she realized Michael was tramping like a rhinoceros. Abandoning stealth, she found the appropriately branded glass-paneled door. It was locked. Michael opened it. A pattern was developing. She felt for the light switch and turned it on. They were standing in a shabby reception area. Two pale yellow, vinyl-covered chairs and a veneered coffee table, with just three dog-eared magazines strewn on it, filled the tiny room.

They moved through to what had to be Arthur’s office. Not unexpectedly for an accountant-type, rows of neatly stacked and labeled, upright grey files lined tall wooden bookshelves. The central piece of the room was a huge battleship-grey steel desk. On it was a pale-white phone, a desk blotter and a round glass paperweight. One low plastic chair, presumably for clients, sat expectantly in front of the imposing desk, above which a light bulb hung from a long twisted cord. No photographs were featured in the office, save for a silver-framed photo of a blue Mercedes saloon parked outside a suburban apartment block, presumably Wendell’s Notting Hill home.

Allie snapped a picture on her phone. What was surprising was the funny little collection of gizmos—battery-operated gadgets—lining the window ledge, filing cabinet tops and desk. They looked like the type of thing you’d expect to get for free from Geek Monthly. Allie noticed a neat stack of Home Electronics magazines on a low shelf. That explained it. She started as the grubby venetian blinds flapped loudly in response to a sudden wind. The window was open just an inch.

Allie moved to the bookshelves and immediately found Paula Armstrong’s file, second along the top row after ‘Armitage.' She quickly scanned the other names, seeing Riley on one and making a mental note to revisit that sometime in the future. The rest of the names meant nothing to her. Opening the Armstrong file, she saw a wad of papers concerning her latest tax return. April 4
^th
was stamped on the first page; that was yesterday. She glanced up; Michael was looking right and left out of the window on to Hogarth Road. Opening the top drawer of the desk, she found Wendell’s leather-clad appointments diary, Paula’s name clearly marked for 10:00 a.m. the day before. She was disappointed to see there was no record of a lunch venue. There were still ends to be tied up. She looked at her watch, wondering whether the assault team was hitting Wendell’s residence.

Michael spoke for the first time since they had entered the offices. “You don’t expect the assault team to find anything, do you?”

“At Notting Hill? No. He’ll be holding Jacinta somewhere else, if he hasn’t already...” She let the inference hang. Michael didn’t respond. He sat in the client’s chair, or at least tried to. It was too small for him. He levered himself up again and pulled a face at Allie. “His clients must have been midgets.”

“Mental midgets anyway,” she responded. “Although, Paula Armstrong was no dummy.”

“Look at this,” Michael said, holding out a folded cardboard brochure. “It was in this waste basket,” he said, pointing behind the desk. Allie came around to the corner of the desk and took it from him. She opened it and stiffened.

“This is a gift voucher. There’s a handwritten note that says ‘Enjoy the show, Arthur. You’ll be seeing plenty of this guy!’ It’s signed ‘Ray’.”

“The obvious question is, what show?” Michael asked.

“One way to find out,” Allie said, reaching for her phone.

Ray Riley answered on the second ring. Allie heard the sound of a motor running and windscreen wiper blades thumping. “Chief Inspector!” he said enthusiastically. “What a nice surprise. Don’t tell me you’d like to have a late dinner?”

“Nothing like that,” Allie said abruptly. “Tell me, what show did you give Arthur Wendell tickets to?”

“Arthur Wendell? Don’t know the man. Why—”

“Ray, there’s no time for this; a woman’s life is at stake. What show? Come on, now!”

Riley got the message. “Can’t you guess? Who’s the biggest new Christian talent going around at the moment? You know the answer, Allison.”

She smacked her forehead. “Jase Britt,” she said. “Of course! When is the show?”

“What’s this all about?" Riley asked, his manner hardening. “What’s Arthur Wendell got to do with anything? And how do you know about the tickets?”

“I’m in his office now, Ray. We’re looking for him.
When is the show?
”

“He’d be on his way to it now. He assured me he was going, despite his initial reservations about Jase. It’s tonight at midnight. Surely you’ve read all the hype about the spooky midnight spiritual show he’s putting on?”

“Where is it, for Christ’s sake?”

“Ok, ok, take it easy. It’s at the Festival. Jase is the star turn.”

“The Festival?” No bells rang for her.

“Jesus, you coppers need to get out more,” Riley snarled. “I’m talking about the world’s most famous Festival.
Glastonbury.”

It was 9:00 p.m.

She spent frantic minutes on the phone. Firstly, the assault team from Notting Hill reported that no one was home and that nothing was out of the ordinary at Wendell’s apartment. In fact, the young sergeant had said, it had been ‘well-ordered and clean.’ There had been no evidence linking Arthur Wendell to any crime, but there was a photo of him and a woman at what appeared to be a business function. Allie asked that the photo be emailed to her a soon as possible.

“No surprises there,” Allie said to Michael as she hung up and dialed again. This time she rang headquarters and asked that a helicopter be made ready. The transport operator just laughed. Flying in this weather
for any reason
was out of the question.

Allie phoned Superintendent Carr and briefed her on the situation. They agreed that Carr would alert Avon and Glastonbury police and send them a photo of Wendell and one of DC Jacinta Wilkinson. Allie undertook to forward her a picture of the blue Mercedes for distribution as well.

“I’ll get down there as fast as I can,” Allie said to Carr.

“What? To Glastonbury? It’s at least three hours, Allie,” she said. Then hesitantly added, “We went to the festival last year; it was a nightmare getting there.”

“Well, ma’am, the traffic will be thinner at night and I’ll just have to try. Jacinta is more than likely with this nutbag, so there’s no choice."

“Leave it to the locals and the Festival police; they’ll handle it,” Carr countered.

“Can’t do that, ma’am. They don’t know what they’re dealing with. I’ll phone you as soon as I can.” With that, Allie hung up.

“Got any spare leathers at home?” Michel said, walking towards the door.

They pulled out from her Putney home at 9:27 p.m. Michael had refueled the Triumph while Allie had dried herself and changed. As Allie had mounted the bike, he’d simply said, "We’ll be there in ninety minutes. Hang on.” Allie remembered her own tumble on the wet street just two nights ago, but said nothing. This was going to be a wild ride. It was clear from the moment they blistered out onto Lower Richmond Road, heading southwest, that Michael was not going to worry about speed limits, other cars, pedestrians or road rules of any kind. Allie knew it was about a hundred miles to Glastonbury—she'd done the trip with her family many times as a child, but it had indeed taken three hours
or more
each time.

They whistled past over the culvert bridge at the Marc Bolan Shrine near Putney Common at 100 miles per hour, the wet road and fierce rain not bothering Michael at all.

“
I liked Marc Bolan
,” Michael’s relaxed voice boomed in her head.

“
Never heard of him
,” Allie thought back at him.

“
What, never heard of T-Rex?”

“
Just kidding. Of course, I have. ‘Get it on’, right?”

“
Correct. You have restored my faith. You know this was once a Roman road?”

“
Are you my spiritual guide and travel guide now?”

“
Someone has to teach you these things.”

“
In fact, I did know that. My dad mentioned it every time we came down here. It is only thought to have been a Roman road, if you want to get pedantic.”

“
It
was
a Roman road, Allie–I know. I told your father that, but he won’t believe it till he digs it up for himself. And where you live was mostly swamp, but there was a garrison there at one time. They’ll discover all sorts of Roman artifacts around the area as soon as they start the big sewerage tunnel project
.” Michael’s comments about the tunnel were largely lost as the shock hit her again that Michael knew her father, quite well it seemed. She had missed her opportunity to quiz him over dinner this evening, but she’d get back to it!

Nothing more was said as they thundered through Richmond, en-route to Sunbury-on-Thames and the A3 motorway. The rain assaulted them. Each time Allie peered round from behind Michael at the road ahead, bullets of rain peppered her helmet. She wondered how he could possibly see.

“
I can’t.”

She kept her thoughts to a minimum for the next half hour. They hit the motorway just past Sunbury and Michael accelerated to maximum speed. The Triumph Rocket Three lived up to its name. It was frighteningly quick in a straight line, rain or no rain. Allie prized her left hand off the handle and sneaked a quick look at her watch. They had made amazing progress, seventy miles in one hour.

“There’s a significant site on our right, Michael.”
It was her turn to play ‘I spy’.

He could see nothing and said so.

“Aha! And you call yourself a motorcycle man!”

“Among other things, yes. Ok, I give up...?”

“We just passed the Thruxton raceway. Don’t tell me you never heard of the Triumph Thruxton motorcycle? ”

“Well, well,"
Michael responded,
“I wondered why my old Triumph was called a Thruxton.”

“Rubbish!” Allie squealed. “You never had one of those!”

Michael paused
. "Alright, I never had one, but I’ll tell you what I do have.”

“What?”

“About twenty motorcycles on an interception course about two miles ahead.”

Allie leaned to the left. She saw a line of very fast moving lights just off to their left. There was no question; they would definitely cut across their bow.

“Oh no,"
she groaned.
“Ducatis again?”

“Yep, more rats. They’re taking their orders from him now. Can you hear them chattering?”

*****

Arthur Wendell heard Mr. Black laugh in his head and wondered why. “
Well, I’ll tell you, good buddy
,” Mr. Black said. “
About thirty miles behind us, an old friend of mine is about to meet a phalanx of the nastiest rodents I know
.”

Arthur looked at his travelling companion, wondering whether he was picking up the voice as well. “It’s ok,” the man in the passenger seat said, nodding. “I can hear him too.”

“How does this concern me?” Arthur asked his unseen mentor, his eyes firmly fixed on the wet road.

“
It concerns
you
,
Arthur, because his pillion passenger is none other than that tasty DCI St. Clair. They’re coming for us, shipmate!
”