Behind Closed Doors (9 page)

I decided against the suit. Arrived at Arabel's flat off Roman Road at ten past seven. The Italian restaurant was a five minute walk, a small place, not yet trendy but with the right buzz and food you couldn't better in Rome. We ordered seafood platters and played footsie under the table while we waited. The fooling about was instigated by Arabel, to make sure I regretted her being on night shift as much as she did. In the verbal part of the conversation she asked about my missing girl. I gave her the latest. She picked up on the Cohen character. The image of a vulnerable girl tripping on the wild side had a particular resonance for her.

‘You think Cohen has got her into trouble?' she asked.

‘I don't know. I need to talk to him. The problem is that we've come into this hunt a week late.'

‘You think Rebecca may have been hurt already?'

‘It's possible. But it doesn't fit with the Slaters keeping quiet. If they thought Rebecca had been harmed they'd not be hiding anything. So either Rebecca has got herself into a fix or the Slaters are being coerced. The girl may be okay for the moment.'

‘Maybe she's run away with this Cohen guy.'

The seafood platters arrived. Each the size of a small table. Our allowance for a trip back to Arabel's for her to change began to look marginal. We attacked our plates for a couple of minutes before I came up for air.

‘I don't think Rebecca has run away,' I told her.

‘Okay, so the Cohen guy is holding her. Perhaps he's extorting the family.'

‘Dodgy boyfriend turns predator,' I mused. ‘It's a possibility.'

‘You need to be careful with him, babe,' said Arabel. I'd given her Shaughnessy's unflattering bio.

‘I'm always careful.'

We left food on the plates. Clearing them would have put us both in A&E. We settled for a double espresso apiece that would keep Arabel on adrenaline for the shift and me hovering above my bed till morning. Then we walked back to her digs and six minutes later I escorted a lady of the medical profession out to my car. Frogeyes don't have central locking. I opened the door for her to squeeze in. The operation takes dexterity if you're over five feet. In the case of females the squeezing in is incompatible with keeping hemlines where they should be. Even NHS hemlines. It paid to play the gentleman. Something about the awkwardness of the legs and the particular curves that formed as Arabel folded herself in could fairly distract a man. A girl might even suspect that you drive a car like a Frogeye to achieve that exact result. But Arabel was used to the car. She'd got slick at getting in and out and I knew that any difficulties were deliberate. She messed about until she figured I was truly regretting her being on shift then flapped her hand for the door.

‘Come on, babe. Are we staying here all night?'

I took the question as rhetorical.

I slammed the door and folded myself into the other seat. Dropped her at the hospital and got a last showing of her limbs as she climbed out.

Then I turned the Frogeye and headed back onto the Mile End Road and followed the traffic towards the West End.

Kicks nightclub had a smoked-glass entrance in a narrow street north of Chinatown. It was Thursday night and still early for the club scene. I watched the place from down the street. Saw one couple go in and a group of girls stop to chat with the doorman before deciding to get drunk somewhere cheaper. The doorman was a gorilla in a mid-calf trench coat and dickey-bow. He watched the street with his hands at his sides, looking for signs of enemy action. I wondered if the guy was Cohen.

Only one way to find out.

I walked down. When I stopped in front of him the guy gave me the doorman's universal expression of boredom that lets you know that you're looking at a shark behind the respectable veneer. The genie is corked but it's your call. The guy was white, six-three, eighteen-plus stone.

‘I'm looking for Russell,' I said.

‘What's up?' the guy asked.

I didn't ask him if he was Cohen. If he was then he already knew I didn't know him.

‘Tell him I want a word,' I said.

He looked me over and decided that I wasn't worth Cohen's time. He shook his head.

‘He's busy,' he said. ‘See him tomorrow.'

He focused his attention back on the street. I could either stand there or piss off.

Instead I said; ‘I need to see Russell tonight. Okay if I drop inside?'

I stepped forward but Dickey-Bow shifted casually and the door was suddenly blocked. It didn't look like it was going to get un-blocked unless I called a tow truck.

‘Ties only, mate,' he said. He was still watching the street, ignoring me the way a rhino ignores a flea. I wondered what it would take to shift him out of the doorway. I didn't have a tow truck.

I looked down the street myself. Gave it a few moments for him to register that I hadn't disappeared. Then I turned back and gave him a stare I practice sometimes in the mirror. My Marginally-Sane. It got his attention. Probably he was petrified but he didn't show it. He just stared right back like this was a very boring night. I carried on the act and jabbed my finger at the doors.

‘Why don't you ask your friend to step out,' I said. ‘Tell him Mr E wants a word. Unless he'd prefer us to call back later.'

That's E for Eddie. Lucky I wasn't called Xavier. Hard to get someone to take you seriously when you tell them Mr X is waiting.

I watched Dickey-Bow trying to work out whether Mr E was someone Cohen should be worried about or not. But the hint that the club might be visited later struck a chord. A visit didn't sound good, even to someone who likes a rumble. He gave me a stare that let me know how hard he was working to hold it in, but he didn't repeat his suggestion that I leave. I stayed watching the street.

‘Are you the rozzers?' he said.

I turned back. Gave him Stand-Up-Comedian. Looked round for the audience.

‘The rozzers?' I said. ‘Who's your optician, mate?' I shook my head and pursed my lips like I was deciding whether it was simpler just to walk away and call back later with the boys. Dickey-Bow finally opted for caution.

‘Stay there,' he said. He went in through the smoked glass. I turned to face the street again so that Cohen couldn't ID me – or rather not ID me – without coming out onto the pavement. The ruse worked. When I turned back there were three of them on the steps. A bad publicity shot for
The Blues Brothers
.

Next to Dickey-Bow was a black guy in shades. He was the same height but three feet wider. He'd either had his trench coat cut at a carpet factory or had mugged Demis Roussos. Rebecca's dodgy boyfriend was white, which made him the last of the line-up. Russell Cohen was half the size of the others but his attitude made up for the missing body mass. Cohen was five-ten and fourteen stone max but my guess was that it all counted. His hair was a white fuzz capping a puffy, mean face. He sported shades that perfectly matched Carpet Man's. Dickey-Bow was probably cursing that he'd left his own back home.

Cohen's expression was a contrived blandness. With this guy, the first you would know about trouble was when you connected with his ten-pound fist. His body stance though told me that the visit from Mr E had got him on edge. He was trying to figure if he'd brought trouble to the club.

The three of them stared at me the way they'd watch a punter with holes in his jeans.

‘What's your game?' Cohen asked. ‘Who the hell's Mr E?'

I gave him straight-faced.

‘I'm Mr E,' I said. ‘Eddie Flynn. You must be Russell.'

‘Who wants to know?'

You'd think that would have been obvious. I guess they keep the questions simple at the doormen's examination boards. I let the query go. I had questions of my own.

‘I'm looking for Rebecca Townsend,' I said. ‘I hear she's pally with you.'

‘Never heard of her.'

His answer slipped out so fast that I knew he wanted it to sound false. He wanted me to contradict.

Detectives are the contradicting type. ‘We can do this the easy way,' I said, ‘or the hard way.' I wasn't sure if it was Willis or De Niro had said that. If Cohen was a film buff he'd know. ‘Either way,' I said, ‘I want to know where the girl is.'

Dickey-Bow and Carpet Man flashed each other glances. Cohen just stared at me with the focus he'd apply to watching a fly on a turd.

‘I think,' he said finally, ‘that you should piss off.'

His voice was calm. Still waters.

Despite the cool act I could see something tugging inside him. Maybe he still didn't know what this was about, but he didn't sense anything good brewing. What I sensed was the beginnings of movement from the two stooges at his side.

Cohen decided that he had enough backup. He stuck with his proposal.

‘Sod off now, mate,' he repeated, ‘before you get a smack.'

‘Russell,' I told him, ‘it would take more than you.'

Russell gave me incredulous and looked sideways to see if his buddies had dematerialised. They hadn't. That must have boosted his confidence. He didn't run for cover.

‘I'm looking for Rebecca Townsend,' I repeated, ‘and I'm going to find her. Very soon. If she's with you it's better we talk now.'

Cohen shook his head a little more emphatically, playing to his buddies. ‘What would be better,' he said, ‘is for your plates to start shuffling down that old pavement. Before me and my friends get annoyed.'

The sight of Cohen getting annoyed would be interesting. The sight of Dickey-Bow and Carpet-Man getting annoyed would probably be fatal. Dickey-Bow's face had a look that said I might not need to wait too long for the experience. It looked like I'd exhausted my novelty value. Dickey-Bow leaned forward to explain the deal.

‘You've got five seconds,' he said. ‘If I come off these steps Russell's gonna be the least of your worries.'

I still didn't move. Russell and I had a thing going. Messages passing between us. Before I knew it the five seconds were up and Dickey-Bow and Carpet Man were coming down the steps in a deceptively casual way. Just business as usual. Cohen watched and smirked. Some people you just can't frighten. The two hulks rolling towards me were definitely frightening and looked about as stoppable as road rollers. There's only one way to beat road rollers. Speed.

I nodded a signal at Cohen and turned away. The gorillas could still have jumped me but I was backing off and top rule in the door business is don't get blood on your suit before the punters are all in. I walked away in one piece.

I headed back to where I'd left the Sprite parked on double yellows, musing at how detection is ninety percent frustration and ten percent results. That would be fine if the results weren't so often negative.

I'd got nothing for my detour except the certainty that if Rebecca was mixed up with Cohen she was in big trouble.

The question was whether Cohen was involved in this thing at all, or whether I should be looking somewhere else.

A real puzzle for Mr E.

At seven next morning I was parked up by my substation outside the Slater home. The house was quiet. Larry Slater's Lexus was still in front of the garage.

There was a tap on the Frogeye's window and Shaughnessy folded himself in with the sigh of someone trying a boot three sizes too small.

Shaughnessy had parked his Yamaha somewhere down the lane. No one notices a bike. A bike is easier to get around on, too, but who wants his backside out in the rain every day? The Frogeye suited me fine and gave Shaughnessy something to complain about whenever I gave him a ride.

‘One day, Eddie,' he said, ‘you'll buy a car that doesn't put my back out.'

I'd listened to his complaints for six years. It was part of the routine.

‘If I want to drive a tank I'll join the army,' I told him.

Shaughnessy gave me leery. ‘Just a normal car would be fine, Eddie! One where you don't need to consult a yoga manual.'

‘It's all just a matter of technique,' I told him.

‘Sure, like with a straightjacket.'

‘Houdini could get out of a jacket in under sixty seconds with his hands chained,' I pointed out.

‘Yeah, and look what happened to him. Dead in a fishtank! And I bet the bastard couldn't have got out of this tin can if you greased him with warm lard.'

Shaughnessy had watched all the movies. History, Hollywood-style. I didn't correct him on the Houdini thing.

‘Are you taking the first one out?' Shaughnessy asked.

I said I would. ‘My guess is it will be Larry. I'll leave Jean to you. If she stays home you can follow her up and down the hallway with the Yamaha.'

‘Got it. And if Larry drives past us before I can escape from this sardine tin you can just drop me off at the nearest motorway services.'

Shaughnessy and I had opened the agency when I came out of the Mets six years before. Shaughnessy was twenty years older than me and had seen a different side of life by way of the special services. He never talked about his old job and I never talked about mine. Shaughnessy also stayed fit. I knew he could beat me in and out of the Frogeye any day. It just made him feel good to gripe about it.

I flicked on the news and we listened in on the world for forty-five minutes. Just on eight Larry Slater came out of the house and climbed into the Lexus. Despite Shaughnessy's words he was out of the Frogeye and had vanished before Slater had even pulled out of his drive.

I followed the Lexus towards the main road and into the rush hour. One detail Shaughnessy had forgotten to mention about the Sprite was how it eluded rear-view mirrors better than any motorcycle. When we merged into the traffic in Hampstead I was only three cars back and invisible. If Slater had been a professional the short tail wouldn't have worked, but Slater was just a guy in the street. I could have sat in his back seat and he wouldn't have noticed.

Slater drove down through Camden and we crawled through the log jam on the Euston Road. Looked like he was headed for the office. Maybe he'd put in a regular nine-to-five, but if he came out early I'd see where he went.

I was right about the destination. I parked on a meter a hundred yards from the Slater–Kline business and went to stand on my corner. I was there for three hours. I'd just reloaded the parking meter at noon and was walking back with a cup of coffee when Slater's Lexus rolled out onto the main street. I poured the coffee down a drain and sprinted back to the car. I abandoned a two-hour load on the meter and turned across the traffic to catch up. Stayed on Slater's tail and followed him home to Hampstead. By twelve thirty I was parked up by the substation, right back where I'd started. I swore and flicked the radio to Kiss, turned up the volume.

Two minutes later Shaughnessy slid into the car and asked what was happening. I told him. Gave him exact details of the wasted coffee and the two-hour load running in the meter. Petty stuff, but it helped. Shaughnessy confirmed that Jean Slater hadn't budged.

Decision time. I told Shaughnessy to hang in a while longer and call me if anything happened. There was a call I had to make.

I crossed the river and worked over to Streatham, watching for street names. I found the one I was looking for in a run-down area wedged between converging railway lines. The address was a fifties council development, a flaking four-storey bunker with a facade of french windows and false balconies weeping rust stains. It was an architectural graffito, standing shoulder to shoulder with a Victorian terrace like a shady character in a bus queue. I squeezed the Frogeye into an empty slot and tried to ignore a queasy feeling as I locked it up.

The bunker's communal door was open. Apparently security doors and house phones hadn't reached this far down the council list. I went in. The stairwell inside smelt of something unpleasant. I trotted up to the third floor before my nose could figure out what it was and found a door with a number but no name. A couple of bare wires protruded from where the bell push should have been. Maybe you grabbed the wires and made your own noise. I played safe and knocked. Gave it an official crispness.

Nothing. I made a fist and beat on the wood in a way that suggested I was not going away.

I heard a voice inside. The inflexion said I'd better have a good reason to be there when the door opened. When the door did open, Russell Cohen appeared like a nightmare on dress-down day.

The suit and shades had gone. Black Levis crimped a Guns ‘n Roses t-shirt over a belly that was beginning to show curvature. Without the suit you could see he weighed twelve or thirteen stones max, but his demeanour was the one I'd seen the night before. He had the kind of stare to make people look the other way. Without the shades I could see the lifetime's bad attitude that drove him. Cohen was twenty-six but he looked forty.

He clocked who I was and turned around to play out a little pantomime he'd perfected for dealing with idiots outside club doors. The act comprised staring at his own front door as if it shouldered the blame for whoever appeared outside it. The door kept quiet. Cohen turned back to me.

‘What's your friggin' game?' he said. He pulled a face like he was looking at some kind of bad dream. He could have saved his act. If I'd wanted nightmare I'd have sent Shaughnessy.

There was a racing channel playing inside the flat and a bad smell that was a distant cousin of the one on the stairs. A cocktail of unwashed laundry, booze and TV dinners. A little spliff thrown in.

‘Remember me, Russell?'

‘Yeah. I remember you. Mr Friggin' E.'

Memory Man. I gave him my Shit-Eater.

‘What are you?' he asked. ‘Some kind of fruit?'

‘Just a guy needing some answers,' I said.

Cohen stared at me. ‘I think,' he said, ‘that you're a guy who needs to piss off.'

I dropped the grin. ‘Russell,' I said, ‘stay cool. I just need two minutes.'

Cohen gave me a couple of seconds then moved up close. The movement was slow, easy. One moment he was in his doorway, the next moment he was in my face. His eyes opened wide to emphasise a proposition.

‘I'll count to ten, matey,' Cohen said. ‘You need to be gone before I get there.'

This was bluff. There was no way Cohen could count to ten. ‘I need some answers about Rebecca Townsend. When I get them I'm out of your face.'

‘One,' Cohen said.

Still bluff. Who can't count to one?

‘Two.'

We were eyeball to eyeball while Cohen continued to show off. So maybe he could count to ten. While I marvelled at his mathematical skills the clock continued to tick. We got to six, then seven. The thing took me right back to the schoolyard. Cohen hit the eight mark and his head tilted back a fraction, just enough to tell me where this was going. A light came on in his eyes. He wanted me to still be there at ten.

The count didn't make it that far.

At nine, his head moved back like a spring-loaded wrecking ball. He was focusing a headbutt on my nose whilst trying to figure the next number, which explained why he wasn't paying attention. Before he hit double digits I'd stepped back and kicked his knee hard. His headbutt flailed thin air as the shock of the knee doubled him over. I palmed his neck, two-handed, and put my weight on it. Cohen's head went down and his face met my own knee with a painful smack. He bounced up like he was on springs and I lifted my foot, sole out, and slammed him backwards into his flat. He crashed over a phone table down the hallway. The table collapsed. Glass shattered. Cohen sat down in the mess. He was up and ready to go in an instant but my foot caught him between his legs and finally something got through. He doubled over and yelled blue murder but he stopped coming at me. I took advantage of his momentary abeyance and closed the front door. When I turned back Cohen was leaning against the wall, gripping his thighs.

I walked through to his lounge. The room was sparsely furnished but what was there was expensive. A sixty-inch plasma screen on the wall showed a bunch of horses going neck and neck. A leather sofa was half covered by an open copy of the Racing Post and a WAP-enabled phone flickered atop it. Cohen busy investing his ill-earned dough. I picked up the remote and muted the TV, wondering how many month's wages at Eagle Eye would buy me that kind of wall decoration.

Cohen came in cursing and I turned to face him.

I waited for his words to dry up then asked my questions.

‘You've been seeing Rebecca Townsend,' I said. ‘The story is that you've been showing her the good life. Or what passes for you as the good life.'

Cohen was dripping blood onto his carpet. He gave me a look that said I'd better not turn my back anytime soon but he stayed his distance.

‘We've got a situation,' I told him. ‘Rebecca has disappeared. No one knows where or why. We assume she's in trouble. What I need to know is whether you're involved.'

I tossed the TV remote between my hands to remind Cohen that there was more furniture to break. Intimidation was the only thing people like Cohen understood. ‘I need to know what's going on between the two of you.'

‘Nonna your business,' Cohen gasped.

I sighed.

Something inside Cohen's skull held him back for the moment, but with his type enlightenment is a long way from fear. Retreads like Cohen don't come with fear built in. They rely on stupidity. You could pound a nutter like that all day and all you'd get would be complaints from the neighbours.

I bent down and tipped the mess of empty cans and takeout cartons off his coffee table and lifted it. The thing weighed a ton, although it wasn't in the same league as HP Logistics' swivel chairs. I approached the plasma screen and hefted the table.

‘Stop,' he yelled. ‘Calm down you shithead!'

Finally I had his attention. I lowered the table to the floor.

‘Fine, Russell,' I said. ‘Let's start again. How long have you been seeing Rebecca?'

Cohen shook his head. His face was crimped like he was sucking a lemon. ‘How should I know,' he said. ‘Four or five weeks.'

‘That's precise,' I said. ‘Sounds like a meaningful relationship.'

‘Meaningful, shit,' Cohen said. ‘She's a stupid kid hanging around looking for action. She wants it she gets it. It's all the same to me.'

‘What kind of action? Drugs? Sex? Or are we talking philosophy discussions.'

‘None of your business. If she comes to play we play. So what's your gripe? I've not even seen the bitch for a couple of weeks.'

‘I'm trying to find out what's going on with her,' I said. ‘Starting with what's happening between you and her.'

The head shake again, like an itching bull. ‘I told you,' Cohen said, ‘we hang out. She likes a bit of rough. Know what I mean?'

‘No, Russell,' I said. ‘I don't know what you mean. Rough like tramping a little? Or rough like getting slapped around? Or do you just mean rough like hanging out with a turd?'

Cohen didn't take the bait. ‘Rebecca never got a single smack off me,' he said. ‘And she didn't do nothing she didn't want. The best thing you can do with that kind is grab what's offered. Give it what it wants.'

It.

Cohen was going to have a problem if he decided to settle down. Getting those “it”s into the marriage vows would take finesse.

‘How often have you been seeing Rebecca?'

‘This day and that,' he said. ‘Whenever she cuts class.'

‘Is she on anything?'

Cohen sneered.

‘That uptight bitch would be scared shitless if you showed her the real stuff,' he said. ‘So maybe we have a little smoke sometimes. Maybe we don't. What's all this about? Why's everyone pissing their pants?'

‘When did you last see her?'

Another head shake. An annoyed kind of shake, but he answered my question: ‘Dunno. Coupla weeks back,' he decided.

‘Not since?'

‘Nah.'

‘Are you shitting me, Russell?'

Cohen let his sneer answer.

‘Have you done something to Rebecca?'

He continued staring me out, maybe getting brave again.

‘Have you or your slimy pals hurt her?' I clarified. ‘Because if you have I'm going to find out and come after you.'

‘What are you going to find out?' Cohen said. ‘You're full of shit.'

Braver by the minute. I could understand Cohen forgetting the threat to his plasma screen but I had to wonder about a guy who could forget the ache between his legs.

I kept my voice even. ‘When precisely did you see Rebecca last?'

He stayed quiet. For a moment I thought he was not going to answer, but he eventually worked it out.

‘Middle of the week. Week last Tuesday.'

The day before Rebecca went missing.

‘Where?' I asked.

‘At the club,' he said. ‘She was in for a couple of hours. Went off around ten.'