Behind Closed Doors (15 page)

Roker was uglier, close up. He had one of those faces that's off-balance in a way you can't quite pin down. Something about the nose. The nearest I'd got to him at the Royal Trafalgar was when I'd ordered my second coffee. He was three tables away reading a newspaper that he thought made him invisible. Maybe it would have but I was keen to see who'd been following me down the M23. I only got a peripheral glimpse but it was enough. A face like Roker's doesn't need a photographic memory.

‘When you tail someone,' I said, ‘choose a smaller car. Wait for cover before you change lanes. Don't rush to catch up when the target makes a move. And never use your indicator.'

I could have gone on. Blah-di-blah. I'm a fountain of advice. Just shop talk between me and Roker, of course. When I paused for breath Roker joined in.

‘You!' He jabbed a finger. ‘Get the fuck out of my office.'

Moi? I gave him perplexed and looked around the place. As offices went it was unimpressive. Better than Eagle Eye's, of course, but that didn't say much. Roker had all the right computers and telephones and combination cabinets, but something was lacking. The place had a serious style deficiency. Style is what we did have at Eagle Eye. Style is what tells you about the outfit you're hiring – or in this case about the outfit that has been hired to follow you. I turned my attention back to Roker.

‘I've got a few questions,' I said. ‘Sit down, Jimmy.'

Jimmy didn't sit. ‘I'll say it again,' he said. ‘Walk out while you can.'

‘Number one: who are you working for?'

Roker came around the desk. His ugly beak hovered over me like a constipated hawk's. His fists were bunched.

‘Two: what's your connection with Rebecca Townsend?'

Roker's fist made a grab for my shirt collar. I snatched the wrist and his knuckles hit the top of his desk with a crack they must have heard down the street. Then I grabbed Roker's own collar and pulled until his lopsided face hung in front of me, looking surprised in its birdie kind of way. I squeezed until I had his attention then eased him away.

‘Sit down, Jimmy,' I repeated.

Roker backed off a little but didn't sit. Too much nervous energy. And he was still close enough to me to make me nervous. For a couple of moments we stared at each other then Roker jabbed another finger.

‘Flynn, you've just made the biggest mistake of your private-dick life.'

This wasn't true. The biggest mistake I made was when I'd helped un-hijack a truckload of Welsh sheep on the M4 and accidentally dropped the tailboard at Leigh Delamere. That's when I found out that rounding up eighty-seven sheep is not as easy as those border collies make out. The Leigh Delamere thing was by far my worst screw-up. I guess Roker hadn't heard about that one.

‘Three,' I said. ‘What's the connection between Alpha Security, Larry Slater and the Royal Trafalgar?'

‘Flynn,' Roker said, ‘the two of us have nothing to talk about.'

‘For a man who's been on my tail all day this is a come-down,' I said. ‘I thought you'd be happy we'd finally got together.'

‘No,' Roker said. ‘I'm not happy. And forget Brighton. You wasted your time chasing down there in that pedal-car.'

‘I disagree,' I said. ‘Today hasn't felt like a waste. Look at what I've got since I ate my cornflakes. I've confirmed that what's happening to Rebecca Townsend is not just inside the family. I found out that Alpha Security is connected to it. And I've learned that the people Alpha Security are working for hang out at the Algarve Club right here in Fulham. Tell me, Jimmy: what else is going to pop out before I stir my cocoa?'

‘Whatever you heard, you heard wrong,' Roker said. ‘Go bark up another tree, Sherlock.'

I shook my head. ‘I think I'll give this tree a few more shakes,' I said. ‘See what falls out.'

‘Shake this tree any more and you're not going to like what you get,' Roker growled.

‘Occupational hazard,' I said. ‘So what's going to come out, Jimmy?'

Roker stooped back into collar-grabbing territory. I sat back.

‘Your guts will come out, Flynn, if you poke your nose in any further.'

‘All this,' I grinned, ‘from a guy who knows nothing. I think you're stalling me, Jimmy.'

‘So sue me,' Roker said.

I sighed. Lifted my feet back up onto his desk and opened my arms. ‘Why make it hard?' I said. ‘You know that I know you're involved with the Slaters. You therefore know that I know you're in on Rebecca Townsend's disappearance.'

‘Think again,' Roker said. ‘You're digging in piss, Flynn. I've never heard of any Rebecca Townsend.'

I looked at him.

‘Someone has heard of her,' I said. ‘You say it's not you so maybe I need to go chat with your chums at the Algarve Club.'

‘Go ahead,' Roker said. ‘I look forward to the result.'

‘So what is the Royal Trafalgar thing?' I asked. ‘At least you're in on that. Those suite bookings must have cost Alpha Security a bob or two.'

‘Hospitality,' Roker said. ‘Business clients.'

‘What sort of business?'

‘You've got to be shitting me!'

‘No, Jimmy,' I said, ‘I really want to know what sort of business involves hiring a high-class hooker and the best suite at a five star hotel that sets you back three grand before you've even opened the minibar.'

‘Confidential sort of business,' Roker said, ‘which means you've just hit a dead end.'

‘Detective one-oh-one,' I said. ‘Dead ends are never dead. You look at what's blocking the road and learn a lot.'

‘Not this time,' Roker said, ‘because if you carry on with this you're going to find yourself in a very dead end indeed.'

‘Is that a threat, Jimmy?'

‘Take it how you like.'

I changed the subject.

‘What's the deal with Tina Brown?' I asked him. ‘Was she just bait to hook Larry Slater? Are we looking at blackmail?'

‘Flynn, you're getting tedious.'

‘And where is the delightful Ms Brown?' I asked. ‘She seems to be awfully hard to find at the moment.'

‘This discussion is through,' Roker said. He pulled his phone out, jabbed buttons.

‘It's dead,' I reminded him. ‘You should keep it charged. Your receptionist was pretty clear on that point.'

Roker snapped the phone shut and grabbed the desk phone. That one wasn't dead. I looked around his office while he made the call. The place got worse the closer you looked. The sort of office a VAT accountant might have. You'd never imagine a private investigation firm was holed up here. Maybe it was just brilliant cover. Roker finished the call and smacked the phone down.

‘Hang around for five minutes,' he said. ‘We can have your little chat.'

Any chinwag organised by Roker I could do without. I pulled my feet off his desk. Paperwork fell to the floor.

‘The guy I need to chat with,' I said, ‘is the one who had you chasing me to Brighton. He'll know all about the Royal Trafalgar. And my guess is that he knows about Rebecca.' I stood and straightened my jacket.

‘That's a shame,' Roker said. ‘Because I won't be introducing him to you.'

I gave him a grin and headed for the door.

‘You already did,' I said.

I left the door open on my way out.

I crossed the street, dodging early evening traffic, musing on how the Brighton trip had turned from a long shot into a jackpot. Suddenly I was pushing a loaded trolley through checkout.

My phone rang. I strained to hear Arabel's voice through the street din.

‘Where you at, babe? You said you'd be home.'

I kicked myself. When I'd set off for Brighton I'd had no idea that this thing would snowball. Arabel was cooking at my place then I was taking her out.

‘Bel,' I said, ‘I'm a disgrace. Got carried with the flow. But I'll be there. Promise.'

‘Sometime tonight? Or do you want your dinner in the freezer?' Her tone made it clear that dinner wouldn't be the only thing in there.

‘Bel, give me an hour. Then I'm all yours.'

‘Sure. Whenever you get a minute.'

‘Hey, I've always got a minute for you. I just got tied up with this thing. I should have called.'

‘Are you looking for the girl?'

‘Yes. And things are creeping out of the woodwork.'

‘Things that couldn't have crept tomorrow?'

‘Things that couldn't wait,' I assured her. ‘I'm worried about this girl, Bel.' I was playing the sympathy vote. Arabel understood that I could have turned up for dinner on time as long as she didn't mind about a poor girl huddled in a dark cellar somewhere. The sympathy line used to work but Arabel had grown wiser.

‘Flynn,' she cut in, ‘I'd walk out right now if the casserole hadn't got me salivating. But I ain't salivating much longer. Come home or I'm gonna eat and go.'

‘I'll be there, Bel,' I repeated. ‘But don't walk out and make me drive up to Roman Road. You wouldn't do that to a tired guy would you? Hang in, Bel.'

‘I am,' she said. ‘One hour, then I'm eating. And I'm gonna be planning some suffering while I'm waiting.'

‘Are we talking dirty now?'

The phone cut dead.

Not dirty.

I turned down a narrow street and stopped outside a door topped by badly-illuminated lettering. The seedy effect might have been deliberate but I figured it was more likely cheapskate owners. The lettering spelled out ALGARVE CLUB. The street windows were bricked up and the door was steel with a one-way glass. I pressed the button and the door opened.

Behind the door twenty stone of muscle in a tux stood beside the pay-window in case you forgot to hand in your donation. Admission was a tenner, which was cheek for Fulham, but a private investigator's life is nothing if not a charitable enterprise. I handed over the cash and went through. The rhythmic thump of dirty music beckoned.

Bad lighting hinted at teak veneer and fake red leather. Twenty or so tables encircled a postage-stamp stage where coloured spots picked out the gymnastics of a lithe blonde whose skimpy clothing was dissolving by the second. The tables were mostly empty, just a few early customers getting an eyeful before heading off for an Indian.

The place was a monument to wannabe respectability. The teak and leather decor couldn't disguise the fact that the place was a strip joint. The broom closets the girls made up in would have flaking plaster and mesh over the windows just like any in Soho. I sensed an investor with ideas of running a classy bar but unable to resist putting the girls in, the distorted looking-glass of the criminal trying to build a respectable image on dirty cash. When my eyes adjusted I spotted a shady character sitting in the back with two glasses on his table. One glass was half empty and looked like carbonated water. The other was full and looked like beer but I knew this was just the light. I went over and sat down.

‘Just in time,' Shaughnessy said. ‘The urge to filch your drink was growing by the minute.' He was studying the gymnastics of the blonde with either fascination or despair.

I picked up the beer and took a sip.

‘You weren't in danger,' I said. ‘This beer would cure any alcoholic urge like wimples check fornication in a nunnery.'

‘I've never been in a nunnery,' Shaughnessy said. ‘How was your chat with Alpha?'

‘Tense,' I said. ‘I spoke with a guy named James Roker. He knows nothing about nothing.'

‘That figures.'

‘But apparently he knows a man who does.'

Shaughnessy nodded. He indicated a table at the far end of the bar. Two men were sat talking. One was big, trussed up in a sports jacket with shoulder seams popping over an open-collar shirt. The spots highlighted a face like a granite sculpture after the chiseller's drinking has taken a turn. His close-shaved head left him ageless. The man could have been thirty or sixty. The guy with him went for expensive suits, and shirts with ties. He was lean but with a charisma that was worth muscle. I put him in his late fifties. A deep-lined face, bushy brows, girlish lips. A natural sneer pulled his lips up when he wasn't speaking. The light reflected off golden hair dropping to his collar. He was the kind of guy that would still have a full mane at ninety. Half dandy, half thug.

Shaughnessy gestured at Granite. ‘Your Alpha guy chatted to him for thirty minutes. Looked like he was passing on bad news. Goldilocks came in ten minutes ago. He's getting the replay.'

‘Brighton news,' I guessed.

Shaughnessy had picked up the Warrior at the Lodge Clacket services and tailed it as they followed me back into town. He stayed with the vehicle after I bailed out at Battersea and watched it stop off at the Alpha Security offices before moving on to the Algarve Club. Shaughnessy had walked into the club right behind Roker and called me with the location of Alpha Security. When Roker left the club Shaughnessy stayed on to see if anything else went down. He was probably on his third mineral water by now.

‘Who's Goldilocks?' I said.

‘My guess? The boss,' said Shaughnessy. ‘And he's not a happy guy.'

Maybe he'd been drinking the beer.

A waitress in a skimpy outfit passed by, giving Shaughnessy the look that girls on commission reserve for teetotals. She'd given him up as a lost cause but I flagged her over. She came across looking wary. Eighteen or nineteen years old. Nice-looking. Would probably graduate to the tiny stage at some point.

I gave her Harmless Charmer and got a smile in return. When she smiled she was beautiful. Her smile faded when she realised I was asking questions instead of ordering drinks.

‘I know that guy,' I said. I jabbed at the Granite-Goldilocks table. ‘Can't recall his name. Is he one of your regulars?'

‘You could say that.' She brought her smile back gamely. ‘That's Paul McAllister. He owns the club.'

Club owner. That had to be Goldilocks. I didn't see Granite as the business type.

I extemporised, wagged my finger. ‘I don't mean Paul.'

‘Oh,' she said, ‘you mean Ray. He's in all the time with Paul.'

‘Ray!' I slapped my forehead, ‘I know him from somewhere.'

I waited.

‘Ray Child,' she prompted.

‘Got him!' I broadened my smile to full wattage and pulled a tenner out of my pocket. Ordered a single malt. Told her to keep the change. Her smile broadened but not by much. The change in this place wasn't going to make her rich. Still, commission was the name of the game. She walked off to the bar.

Paul McAllister. Ray Child. Goldilocks and Granite.

The names didn't ring any bells but then London's a big town.

‘So where are we at?' Shaughnessy asked.

I filled him in on what I'd found in Brighton. Larry Slater's connection to Alpha Security through his stays at the Royal Trafalgar. Alpha Security's other hospitality bookings: guests Hanlon and McCabe. Maybe it was just business, like Roker insisted. Funny business, was my guess.

Now we were looking at the guys who had set Roker on my tail. And I figured I knew who'd tipped these guys off about Eagle Eye.

‘Slater,' Shaughnessy said. ‘He called them after your visit.'

I nodded. One little house call and suddenly there's a posse on our heels. So who were these guys? Why had Slater tipped them off after I'd talked to him?

‘He's either in it or afraid of it,' said Shaughnessy.

Whatever “it” was.

‘Have they got Rebecca?' he wondered.

It was the question that had occurred to me. If someone had taken the Slaters' daughter then this pair would certainly fit. And these people would have no trouble intimidating a family into keeping quiet. Did they frighten Larry enough to have him tip them off when someone started interfering?

A link between the Slaters and these two didn't explain Alpha Security's expensive weekends in Brighton, though. Nor why Slater was chasing Tina Brown. We had jigsaw pieces all around us. I just didn't know how many jigsaws we had. Our cute waitress came back and put down my Scotch. Gave me a cute smile. Maybe there was more left from the tenner than I'd estimated. Shaughnessy handed his glass back to her and waved off the offer of another.

‘Gotta go, Eddie,' he told me. ‘Promises to keep. Are you going to stay with these guys?'

‘Just till I'm through with my Scotch.' I had thirty minutes to make good on my promise to Arabel. She was an easy-going girl but she liked her promises kept. That's why I rarely made any.

‘How about we take a look at these guys?' I said.

Shaughnessy nodded. ‘First thing tomorrow,' he promised. He slid out of the seat and walked out, still steady on his feet.

I sipped my whiskey and pondered on what to do next. We needed to close this thing before Tina Brown's friend Sammy called in the authorities. I doubted if the authorities could do anything to help, but the waters would get well and truly muddied. I couldn't help wondering if Tina might not want the water muddying. I was seeing her as a part of this.

The stick in the hornet's nest. Why ditch a good idea? I caught our young waitress' eye again and signalled her over. I pulled out a twenty this time. Turned Harmless Charmer right up. ‘Keep the change,' I grinned. I nodded over to our conspirators in the shadows. ‘A drink each for Paul and Ray. Ask them if they've been to Brighton lately.'

Her smile was genuine this time. We were establishing a pattern. With people like Shaughnessy you could just give up hostessing as a bad job. Party Animal Flynn was a different story. Flynn meant tips. Flynn meant commission.

She went back to the bar and a couple of minutes later delivered the drinks to their table. The men's heads turned in unison. I raised my glass and toasted them across the floor. The music came on again and I sat back to watch the next girl limber up on the stage.

The girl hardly had time to get the audience's circulation moving before she was hidden from view by two silhouettes. The silhouettes sat down opposite me. Granite up close was worse than Granite far away. Close up I could see that someone had once taken a knife to Ray Child's face. A scar ran from his left ear right down to the jaw line and he still seemed pissed about it. I gave him an innocent grin, wondering what had happened to the other guy. All the while Paul McAllister – Goldilocks – was looking at me like he'd spilled his smarties on the toilet floor. He leaned forward.

‘You get this once,' he said. ‘Pull your nose out and keep it out. If you don't, I will cut it off.' His bushy brows lifted to see if I'd got his message. Child watched me from the other side. His eyebrows didn't move but his stare spoke for him. Child had the kind of stare that had been intimidating people since the school playground. Myself, I'd been to a better class of school. I turned to McAllister.

‘Hello Paul,' I said. ‘Sorry your boys had such a long trip. If I'd known they were going to Brighton we could have shared a ride.'

McAllister said nothing. His face stayed motionless.

‘One comment,' I said: ‘I think you're hiring cheap. There are firms who can tail someone all day without being caught. They charge more but you know how it is. You get what you pay for.'

Child's head turned towards McAllister. McAllister's hand came up, a warning.

‘Stop!' he said. His eyes hadn't left me.

I stopped.

‘Clearly, you didn't hear,' he said. The music was a little loud, I had to admit.

‘Either that,' McAllister said, ‘or you're stupid.'

He waited a moment to see which one it was.

‘If you push your nose any further into our business,' he said, ‘I will bury you. You hear this once only.'

I'd heard it twice already but who was counting?

His stare stayed locked onto my face and his soft lips were turned down with the assurance of a hanging judge. I stared back.

‘I'm looking for the girl,' I said. ‘And I'm finding all these connections. The Slaters. Roker. Brighton. Tina Brown. Hanlon. McCabe. And you guys right at the centre. The thing is falling apart, McAllister. And I'm going to sledgehammer away until I get to Rebecca Townsend.'

I held up my own finger before McAllister could get back. ‘Here's the message for you,' I said. ‘If anything happens to the girl I'm going to hand so many threads to the police that they're going to form a knitting circle. They'll unravel your whole operation inside twenty-four hours. And you'll go down for anything you do to her.'

I was exaggerating with the twenty-four hours bit. It would take even Eagle Eye longer than that. But the two of them got my drift.

They stayed quiet for a moment. These guys are good with smart comments but they've no answer when you bat something back. Eventually, Ray Child saved the day.

‘You're a dead man, Flynn,' he said. He raised his hand and snapped his fingers in my face. ‘Lights out! Easy as that!' He turned to McAllister. ‘I think this joker's too stupid to back off.'

But not stupid enough to keep buying their drinks.

I stood and squeezed past them, stopped to lower my mouth to McAllister's ear.

‘Go for the makeover,' I said. ‘Real leather. Neutral colours. Discreet lighting. Hire some classy girls. Lose the Costa del Crime atmosphere. And put less water in the beer. You'll make a killing.'