Everyone Lies (29 page)

‘We don’t employ anyone here – except a cleaner.’ This from a stocky man with a shaved head who had appeared from the reception lounge. ‘All masseuses are what you call free agents – we just manage the facilities.’ He pronounced it ‘mass
oos
es’, American style. He edged past Fennimore and offered Kate his hand. She didn’t take it.

‘Fair enough,’ he said. ‘Sol, Frank’s brother. Let’s take this inside, eh, Frank?’

Frank barred the way for a second longer, then turned his back and went into the office. He seated himself behind the desk, while his brother perched on the edge of it.

They couldn’t have been more different, these two men. Frank was tall and wiry, his hair worn long and loosely tied back, hippy-style, but there was nothing New Age or hippy-style about the flint in his eye. Sol was bald and built like a nightclub bouncer, yet he seemed to have inherited all the family’s affability genes.

‘Off to a bit of a bad start, there, Chief Inspector,’ Sol said, with the superficial bonhomie of a businessman. ‘When reception presses the red button, it usually means trouble – so the adrenaline starts pumping, you get me?’ He didn’t seem to expect an answer, because he went on, ‘So, who’s been murdered?’

She didn’t answer that one immediately. Instead she took out the photograph of Rika. ‘D’you know this girl?’

‘Rika,’ Sol said.

Frank’s left hand, nearest to Sol, twitched, but he didn’t speak.

‘She worked here for a bit last year – she was heavily into smack and we … uh …’ He seemed to be searching for a suitable euphemism.

‘We parted company,’ Frank supplied helpfully.

‘Rika wasn’t murdered,’ Sol added. ‘It was her habit killed her.’

‘But Rika knew your murdered employee.’

Sol gazed at her with innocent expectation.

It was a punt – they didn’t have a positive identification, only a suggestion that their murder victim worked for the Henrys and this from a street prostitute whose brain was addled with drugs and sickness.

Sol began to shake his head, but the stillness in the room, the brothers’ careful avoidance of each other’s gaze, told her she was right.

‘Marta McKinley,’ Simms said. ‘Blonde, five seven, mid-twenties, Slavic features, blue eyes?’

The brothers looked at each other, and Frank nodded. ‘Marta.’

‘Would this be the body behind the hotel?’ Sol asked, his expression solemn, concerned.

‘You know about “the body behind the hotel”. You’ve had at least two visits from police canvassers in the last week,’ Simms said. ‘And you didn’t make the connection?’

‘We thought she’d defected to a rival sauna owner,’ Frank said. ‘We’ve had a problem with that recently.’

‘But you would recognize the description, wouldn’t you?’

‘I might’ve – if I’d heard it,’ Frank said. ‘Sol?’

Sol shook his head. ‘I must’ve been off the premises when they came.’

‘Convenient.’

Frank glared back at her, his eyes black and hard as polished stone.

Simms didn’t waver.

‘We liked Marta.’ Sol again, brokering the peace. ‘The client-base liked her – she brought in return customers and referrals. And the other girls benefitted from the old recommendation gambit, as well. You know the kind of thing: “If you liked that, you’ll love this.”’ He looked at Simms as though anticipating a nod of understanding and approval. All he got was a blank stare.

‘Who’s been poaching the girls?’ she asked.

‘George Howard,’ Sol said, as easily as he’d told them Marta was one of their girls.

If she was surprised, she did a good job of hiding it. ‘What made you think Marta had gone to this George Howard?’

Frank leaned across his desk and buzzed through to reception. ‘Amy, can you come through to the office, love?’

Amy appeared a moment later – it turned out to be the brunette with the spray-on tan. Since their arrival she’d put on a pink silk dressing gown with feathers at the cuffs and collar.

‘When Marta didn’t show up for work last week you told me she’d said something to you – what was it?’

‘You mean about the try-out?’

‘Yeah,’ Frank said. ‘Where was that?’

She shrugged and her upper half jiggled outrageously, but the gown covered enough to enable Fennimore to focus on what she was saying, rather than on her moving parts.

‘I dunno,’ she said. ‘Up the road at that new place – Georgina’s.’

‘Georgina’s is what George Howard calls his parlour,’ Sol added.

‘What day was this?’ Simms asked.

‘D’you mean what day did she tell me, or what day she was going for the try-out?’ Amy said.

‘The try-out,’ Simms said slowly and clearly – a definite clue to Fennimore that she was only just keeping her patience.

Amy answered lazily: ‘Dunno, love. You’d have to ask her PA.’

Sol said, ‘Hey, you – manners.’

She put a finger to her lips and worried at one long nail. ‘Dunno,’ she said again. ‘I wasn’t really listening.’

He jerked his chin and Amy slouched out of the room.

Sol smiled apologetically. ‘Like I said, the girls are free agents, but Marta was on a good screw here – ’scuse the pun – we knew she’d be back. Even kept her locker for her.’

‘I’d like our CSIs to take a look at that.’

Sol beamed like a salesman who’d just closed a deal. ‘No problem. Anything we can do to help, eh, Frank?’

Frank kept his eyes hard and stony on Simms.

‘You should have a word with George Howard though,’ Sol said.

Frank folded his arms and leaned forward a bit, staring into Kate’s eyes like he was trying to see what was behind them. ‘Oh, she already has, Sol.’

She didn’t confirm or deny, but he went on: ‘Howard’s place has been closed ever since police arrested a fifty-three-year-old man – stands to reason.’

‘You
do
keep a close eye on the competition,’ Fennimore said, and Frank’s eyes fixed on him for a few uncomfortable seconds.

Sol laughed. ‘Nah, a few of the prodigals came back, looking to be reinstated onto the rota after your lot strung police tape across his driveway, that’s all.’

‘Ironically, we’d had a sit-down with Howard the night Marta buggered off,’ Frank said.

‘The night we
thought
she buggered off,’ Sol corrected him.

‘When was this?’ Simms asked.

‘Last Thursday.’

‘You seem very sure.’

Frank tapped the year planner on the wall behind him. ‘Rotas,’ he said. ‘Marta was supposed to do Wednesday, Thursday, Friday last week. She didn’t show up for her Friday session.’

Marta McKinley’s body had been found in the early hours of Friday morning.

‘Where did this sit-down take place?’

‘The Derby Brewery Arms on Cheetham Hill.’

‘So you can alibi him,’ Simms said.

Sol raised his eyebrows. ‘He does
need
an alibi then?’

‘Oh, he needs it all right – he just doesn’t seem keen to involve you gents.’

‘Well, that’s a bit weird, isn’t it?’

She smiled, unconvinced. ‘Not if you threatened him.’

Frank’s head jutted forward. ‘Does he say we did?’

Fennimore could see the cords standing out in his neck – this was a man who took his weight training seriously, the kind that ran on adrenaline and testosterone. Big muscles, small nuts and simmering anger and resentment made for a volatile mix, but Simms eyed him coolly.

‘Mr Howard won’t say anything about his drinking buddies,’ she said. ‘He won’t even say he
was
drinking with anyone.’

‘Look, chief.’ This from Sol again. ‘It was a friendly drink. We advised him it wasn’t good form to poach the talent.’

‘Very civilized.’

‘He’s new to the game,’ Sol said, spreading his arms wide to demonstrate his generous spirit. ‘You’ve got to allow a bit of leeway.’

‘So why is he refusing to name the two men who could vouch for his whereabouts on the night Marta died?’

The two men in question looked at each other. ‘Guilty conscience maybe,’ Sol said.

‘Meaning?’

‘You never said
when
Marta died. We met him about nine, poured him into a taxi just after midnight.’ It all tallied with what the landlord had told them. ‘So, us-as-alibi only works if Marta died between nine and midnight, am I right? And if you was to ask, we’d have to say Georgie-Porgie was very well oiled and a little bit argumentative when we waved bye-bye to him.’ Sol’s eyes darted from Simms to Fennimore. His weren’t as dark as his brother’s, and Fennimore could see the sparkle of mischief in them. ‘So, are we his alibi? Or not?’

She countered with a question. ‘Where did
you
go when you left the pub?’

‘Party,’ Frank said.

‘Where?’

‘My place,’ Sol said. ‘A few of the girls, nice bit of sushi, a few bottles of Cristal on ice. Was a good night. Come to think of it, Marta was supposed to join us, but she never showed up.’

‘And this party went on till what time?’

He stroked the rim of his earlobe with one finger. ‘Oh, I’d say, six-ish?’

Frank nodded in agreement. ‘Funny Howard wouldn’t give you our names.’

‘Yeah,’ Sol said. ‘You should look into that.’

‘Oh, I will,’ Simms said. ‘And we’ll want to speak to all the girls again.’

Frank looked like he might balk at that, but Sol said, ‘You can take the canteen and one of the upstairs suites. I’ll call the off-duty girls in as well if you like.’

‘That’s very cooperative of you, Mr Henry,’ Simms said.

Sol grinned. ‘Better get it over in one go than have a marked car sitting outside the shop for a week, waiting to scoop them up, eh, chief?’

Outside, Simms said, ‘It just keeps looking worse for George Howard.’

‘It does, doesn’t it?’ Fennimore agreed. ‘Of course, Howard is competition – the Henry brothers have a vested interest in getting him off the scene, by whatever means.’

A silver Mondeo turned in from the main road and slowed, indicating a right turn into Francine’s.

‘So what’s the plan?’ Fennimore asked.

‘The first thing is to check their story,’ she said. ‘I’ll get someone over to the pub with a mugshot – ask the landlord to confirm it was the Henrys he saw with Howard.’

‘A mugshot? Really, Chief Inspector – that’s blatant stereotyping.’

She said, ‘If you’d care to put a tenner on it?’ She didn’t actually smile, but her eyes crinkled a bit.

‘You can keep your cash, and I’ll keep mine,’ he said.

The owner of the Mondeo locked up and sauntered into the massage parlour.

Simms dialled the incident room on her mobile. ‘Renwick, can you do a VIN check for me?’ She gave him the registration number of the Mondeo. Seconds later, she said, ‘Great – keep a note of the name and address, I might need it later.’ She asked for information to be gathered on the Henrys and for him to send someone back to the pub to verify the brothers’ account of their meeting with George Howard. ‘And can you find out who sent in task reports for the two visits to their massage parlour?’ She paused. ‘Francine’s, that’s right.’ She listened for a moment. ‘Not logged, yet … Can you chase that? … Thanks. I want to interview one of the girls myself, then I’ll head back. Can you send out a few from the canvassing team to talk to the girls here? Hang on a second.’

She covered the mouthpiece and spoke softly. ‘You need to disappear, Nick.’

He was reluctant. The snap-happy man who was following her was still out there. But he knew that if he said a word she would laugh him down the street as a patronizing chauvinist. As he hesitated, the owner of the Mondeo hurried out of the salon as if he’d just been told his house was on fire.

‘Sir,’ Simms said. ‘You need to go back inside.’

The man avoided looking at her, fiddling with his remote key. He fumbled the switch, and when he opened the door the alarm went off.

Simms flashed Fennimore a smile. ‘Who says policing can’t be fun?’

She walked towards the Mondeo and Fennimore watched her present her warrant card and take the keys from the driver’s trembling fingers to shut off the alarm. Then she ushered him politely, but without a scintilla of doubt that he would do as he was told, inside the building.

30

Amy was slumped in her seat, hands between her knees, frowning at the tabletop. It was Ikea utility, stained with coffee rings and gritty with spilt sugar. Methadone gave them a sweet tooth, and the stats said that most sex workers were on heroin or methadone – or both.

‘I told you everything I know,’ the girl said, a petulant frown creasing her brow.

‘Amy, I’m not trying to get you into trouble,’ Simms said. ‘I just want to find out who did this to Marta.’

‘What d’you want me to say – I hardly knew her.’

‘Did she talk about family, or friends? Where she was from? Where she lived in Manchester?’

‘Oh, no, Marta was too cool for that. Mysterious Marta never told you nothing about herself. Maybe if she’d shared a bit, not been so stuck up—’

‘D’you think you could’ve stopped what happened to her, Amy?’ Simms asked, holding back from adding,
Would you have stopped it if you could?

She shrugged.

‘Can you help me see to it that it doesn’t happen to any other girl?’

Amy pondered on the question, a look on her face like she was deciding on pink or red lipstick. ‘All right,’ she said. ‘I’ll tell you what I know, but like I said, she wasn’t the chatty type. All’s I know is what she told the punters. They were all full of it: their exotic Russian doll.’

She lapsed into a pouting silence.

‘And what did they say?’

‘Doesn’t matter,’ Amy said, irritated. ‘It was a pack of lies anyway – different story every day of the week. Don’t know how she kept track.’

Simms wondered if Marta
hadn’t
been able to keep track, and one of the men had taken offence. But she quickly dismissed the idea. Wasn’t sex work all a lie – pretty young women faking orgasms with fat middle-aged men? Marta’s punters paid for her time, her body and her cooperation, and as long as she maintained the pretence, why would they care?

A boyfriend, on the other hand, might take strong exception to being lied to …