Waking Broken (26 page)

Friday, 4.42pm:

The pink Rolls Royce eased through the late afternoon traffic and swung left, turning off The Parade into Ferdinand Street. Ignoring the flashing lights and angry horn of an oncoming bus, Cash pulled around a waiting taxi and swerved back over to the left without batting an eyelid.

‘So what are we looking for?’ he asked.

‘A turning somewhere up on the right,’ said Harper. ‘About halfway along, I think. St Bartholomew’s Yard.’

They missed it first time and only found the entrance on the way back by driving along at crawling speed. The opening was barely more than a narrow alleyway, sandwiched between a mobile phone shop and a pet-grooming parlour. Cash pulled a face.

‘This is going to be a squeeze.’

‘You could park out here.’

‘What? No, I can’t. Defeats the object. The whole point of having a car like this is being noticed when you arrive.’

Cash swung the Roller tight around a bollard on the corner outside the phone shop. The big car’s nearside wing mirror almost brushed the metal obstacle. Harper saw two women in the phone shop gawping at the pink monster gliding past them. On the driver’s side, a man came out of the opposite doorway clutching a freshly coiffed miniature poodle. The dog’s owner gave a little start as he spotted the vehicle and clutched the animal in an involuntary squeeze. The poodle yapped in protest, tight white curls framing its pointed teeth and mean little mouth.

Cash bared his own teeth in response. ‘What a revolting little creature.’

Now safely around the corner, the artist let the Rolls glide serenely into the narrow, dead-end road. The lane was only a couple of feet wider than the car. On either side ran high walls of grimy bricks. Now converted into offices, the buildings that lined the lane had been built in the eighteenth century as warehouses. Once used to hold slaves and other goods brought up from nearby river wharves, the walls bore two centuries’ worth of accumulated dirt that had never been cleaned off. With few windows breaking the lines of the walls, the result was an oppressive brick-built canyon with no room to turn.

At its far end was St Bartholomew’s Church. Founded by a sugar baron inspired to piety by the size of his fortune, it had been extended by a cabal of Victorian merchants who added their own faux-Gothic embellishments. For a couple of generations it was one of the most important churches in the city. Then, in 1943 it took a direct hit from a German incendiary bomb. The resulting fire left St Bartholomew’s a blackened shell with a dangerous crack in its tower. Despite many pledges of action, the ruins remained in their war-damaged state for another four decades. By then of little interest to the church authorities, the building was deconsecrated, crudely repaired and converted into a community centre. After a brief flurry of enthusiasm the community’s interest in using the damp, cold hall soon waned, particularly after the city council opened a new leisure centre less than a mile away. The project folded and there was no opposition when Van Hulle bought the building a few years ago and adapted it into offices for his growing social housing empire.

Cash sniffed as he drove up to the church. A small yard to the right contained a row of parking spaces and just enough room to turn around. The artist stopped his Rolls across the entrance to the parking area. He gestured at the vehicles he was blocking in. ‘Well, if he is here, he’s not going to drive off without talking to us.’

The entrance to the church was through the southern transept. Just inside was one of the few areas of original stonework, an austere space that contained nothing to welcome visitors. In the crossing, where the four arms of the church met, was a small reception area. To the left, the body of the nave remained open plan but now packed with ranks of desks and filing cabinets rather than pews. In the far corner of the crossing a spiral staircase led up into the now-stabilised tower, through a hatch where bell ropes had once hung. A woman with a bovine face and uncompromising attitude sat sentry at a desk positioned beside the stairs.

Cash sauntered up to her with an airy smile. He perched on a corner of the desk, sitting on a pile of letters waiting for the post and swung round to face the unsmiling guardian. She took a deep breath, ready to release righteous indignation at this audacity.

Cash gave her a brilliant smile and winked. ‘Hi, gorgeous. Is the boss upstairs?’ He reached forwards and took hold of one of her hands, giving it a firm squeeze.

The woman jerked her fingers back and blinked. ‘I… Who…?’

The artist leant forwards. ‘Don’t worry,’ he said in confidential tones. ‘I tend to have this effect on people.’

‘I’m sorry but…’

‘When do you finish work?’

A flush crept up the woman’s neck. She was in her mid-forties and verging on overweight but could have been attractive if she tried smiling. Her mouth opened and gaped silently for a moment before she gathered her senses and tried to regain the hauteur cultivated over years of dealing with inconvenient people.

‘Excuse me,’ she began, ‘but I hardly think…’

Cash leant closer, his eyes fixed intently on hers. ‘Would you model for me?’

‘I…’ She swallowed. ‘I’m not…’

Cash sat up straight and reached into his jacket. A hint of disappointment appeared on the receptionist’s face as he moved away. But Cash kept his eyes on her as he pulled out a business card and handed it over. ‘Don’t worry,’ he said. ‘It’s all perfectly respectable; I’m a professional artist.’

The woman read the name on the card and her face coloured even brighter. One hand stole up towards her glowing neck. ‘You’re… him.’

‘I certainly am,’ said Cash. ‘That’s definitely who I am.’ He winked. ‘But I mustn’t monopolise you completely. My friend here has come to have a chat with Mr Van Hulle. He’s in his office upstairs, is he?’

The woman looked confused. She glanced at Harper, back at Cash, at the stairs, off into the nave and then back at Cash. ‘I… Have you got an appointment?’

Cash grinned. ‘Now, what sort of a question’s that? Do we look like the kind of people who would turn up unannounced?’ He gave the woman a wink that only made her blush more madly.

Harper moved away to the left. He had watched the woman’s eyes and guessed Van Hulle was somewhere in the main part of the church. He stood for a moment, scanning the space. There were only a couple of people in sight and neither were the Dutchman. He began to walk slowly down the aisle, aware of the dryness in his mouth and the blood pumping in his temples.

‘Excuse me.’ The sentry’s voice sounded distracted as she called half-heartedly after Harper.

‘Oh forget him,’ said Cash. ‘He only wants to ask a few questions.’

‘Questions? What is he: a policeman?’

‘Oh no. Much worse. He’s a journalist.’

Harper ignored the voices behind him as he made his way down the church. There was still no sign of Van Hulle. He approached a podgy man attempting to feed several huge sheets of paper into a massive printer. ‘Excuse me. Is Van Hulle around?’

The man blinked. He looked as flustered by the question as he was by the printer. ‘Er… Mr Van Hulle. I’m not sure. I haven’t been… He could be here somewhere. Let me see.’ He pulled a pair of glasses from on top of his head and peered around. ‘Well, I can’t see him.’

Harper nodded. ‘No. That’s why I was asking. Is there another office down here?’

The fat man looked confused. ‘Another office? No. Well, not exactly.’

‘Not exactly?’

‘He could be in the undercroft.’

‘The undercroft?’

‘Yes.’

‘And where’s that?’

‘Oh.’ The man turned and pointed over his shoulder. ‘Below the big window. There’s a flight of stairs down to the undercroft. But you’ll have to wait if he’s down there.’

‘Why?’

‘Oh.’ The man smiled weakly. ‘He doesn’t like to be disturbed when he’s down there. It’s like a private chapel. Mr Van Hulle… goes there when he needs to meditate or think. He might be some time if he’s in the undercroft.’

‘I see.’ Harper nodded. ‘Well, thanks for your help.’

‘That’s okay.’

‘I’ll just go over and check if the door’s open.’

Harper left the man to his flapping sheets of paper and walked briskly across the nave. On the far side, underneath what had once been a large stained glass window was a marble tomb. Built for one of the sugar baron’s neo-aristocratic relations it had been badly damaged in the fire and a great crack ran through the stonework. Tucked against the tomb were some iron railings. Inside their confines, a narrow staircase dropped steeply into a dark passageway. A short way along was a heavy wooden door.

Harper looked at the door. He felt as nervous as at any other time in his journalistic career. Over the years he had interviewed or attempted to interview all kinds of people. Some had been more than willing to claim their fifteen minutes of fame; others would rather have seen the ground open up and swallow them. Some had been angry when confronted with a notepad-wielding reporter and a few potential interviewees had offered violence when faced with the prospect of being questioned by Harper. But none of them — as far as he was aware — had been a serial killer, alleged or otherwise.

On one level, the idea of confronting Van Hulle filled him with an acid nausea. But it also presented an opportunity to act. The past week had been a surreal blur with moments when he really feared he was losing his mind. Or had already lost it. Harper swallowed and took a deep breath.

But then, as he was about to start down the narrow stairs, the door below opened.

Harper quickly took a couple of steps back. He wanted to see Van Hulle come out and have time to ask at least a few questions. If he blocked the stairs and confronted him there the Dutchman might go straight back into undercroft and shut the door without saying anything.

Harper watched as Van Hulle emerged from the stairs to the undercroft. The big man moved ponderously and his face looked flushed. There were beads of sweat on his forehead and he seemed tense. He turned towards the main part of the nave without appearing to notice his unwanted visitor. The Dutchman began moving away from Harper, heading in the direction of the reception desk and the stairs up into the tower.

Harper took a quick breath and steeled himself. ‘Mr Van Hulle,’ he called.

The big man turned in surprise at the voice from behind. He frowned as Harper approached. ‘Yes. Do I know you?’

‘My name’s Daniel Harper. I’m a reporter for
The Post.’

An expression that could have been surprise or alarm crossed Van Hulle’s face. He glanced over his shoulder towards his receptionist. Cash was still perched on her desk and gave a cheery wave.

‘Excuse me.’ The Dutchman’s face was blank as he shook his head. ‘I do not believe I have an appointment with you, Mr Harper. I am sorry but I am too busy for this now.’ He turned and made to begin moving away.

‘Are you sure, Mr Van Hulle?’ Harper concentrated on keeping his voice firm and level. ‘You haven’t even heard what I’m going to ask you.’

The big man stopped, looking impatient and shook his heavy-featured head. ‘Whatever it is, Mr Harper, it is not important to me. I have things to do. I do not have time to be interviewed.’

He began to walk away. Harper was conscious of the hairs on the back of his neck lifting as he followed. ‘Do you know anything about women going missing Mr Van Hulle?’

The Dutchman stopped mid-stride. His expression was unreadable as he turned back to Harper. ‘Missing women? Why would I know anything about missing women, Mr Harper?’ He shook his head. ‘I think these sound like questions you should be asking the police. I am a member of the police authority, Mr Harper, but I am not a policeman.’

‘I realise that,’ said Harper. ‘But I’m asking you personally: if you can tell me anything about women going missing?’

‘No. I can’t. I don’t have anything I can tell you about missing women.’ The big man’s eyes were empty of emotion as they stared back at Harper.

‘Really? I’d heard different.’

A flicker of something crossed Van Hulle’s expression. Harper wondered what it was: fear, anger, curiosity? Harper stood his ground as the big Dutchman stared at him: aware they were only a few paces apart.

Van Hulle frowned. ‘I am not interested in what you have heard, Mr Harper. I am telling you that I do not have anything to say. I cannot help with your inquiries and I do not wish to be interviewed. Now, please excuse me. I have work to do and I think you should take your questions to someone who can help you.’

‘Don’t you even want to know what I’ve heard?’

Van Hulle stared blankly at Harper then shook his head with slow deliberation. ‘No.’

With that, the Dutchman turned his back on Harper. Keeping his eyes fixed on his destination, he marched towards the stairs, not looking at either Cash or the now even more flustered-looking receptionist.

But as he approached, the artist pushed himself up off the desk. He stepped into Van Hulle’s path, clicking his fingers to an imaginary beat. Reluctantly, the developer found himself with no choice but to look the artist in the face.

‘Psycho killer!’ announced Cash.

Van Hulle stopped in his tracks. His features were normally pale but for a moment they appeared to blanche whiter than usual. His fish eyes blinked at Cash.