Текст книги "The Bug House"

Автор книги: Jim Ford

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Текущая страница: 7 (всего у книги 10 страниц)

TWELVE

Until now Ptolemy has never realized just how much crap people keep in their cars. As well as the usual junk – CDs, umbrellas, phone accessories, notepads – she has unearthed a top set of dentures, a clarinet, the collected works of Franz Kafka, three wraps of cocaine, a box of 800 studded condoms, a wig, and, most disturbing of all, a pair of soiled underpants. Every item has been fastidiously logged, along with the relevant details of the vehicle of origin, and it strikes Ptolemy that, were she a psychologist, the results would make for a fascinating study of human behaviour.

She rolls her head in order to stretch her stiff neck, but it provides only momentary relief from the gnawing ache that has now crept down to her shoulder blades. Through the office window, the rows of stolen vehicles are bathed in an eerie turquoise glow from the security lights in the warehouse below.

‘Would you like a cuppa, ma’am?’ says WPC Millican.

Millican insists on calling her ‘ma’am’, even though there’s no more than six years between them. Yes, it’s protocol, Ptolemy thinks, but it still sounds weird.

‘If I have any more tea I’ll be piddling for England,’ she says. ‘But I will have one of those chocolate digestives.’

Millican giggles and goes across to a table on the other side of the office, where over the course of the last twenty-four hours she has systematically assembled a small life-support pod containing a kettle, tea, milk and, most importantly, a tin of chocolate biscuits.

Ptolemy thinks back to her days in uniform, to her first secondment to CID as part of a door-to-door inquiry team investigating a fatal hit-and-run. The detective in charge was a DI from Carlisle called Barrie Doggart, a quiet, pensive man with grey skin and a permanently furrowed brow. Aged eighteen and fresh out of training school, Ptolemy had thought Doggart was the most thrilling man she had ever met. She imagined him as a lonely maverick, existing on the margins, living his life to a soundtrack of Miles Davis and the rhythm of a whisky bottle. Later she found out he lived with his wife in a semidetached new-build on the outskirts of Workington, spent most of his time on the sick with a bad back and was therefore regarded not only as a malingerer, but as the detective with the worst clear-up rate in Cumbria CID.

Ptolemy wonders what Millican thinks about her. What she will say five or six years down the line when she looks back at her first CID investigation.

Yeah, I was stuck in a warehouse with this biscuit-scoffing DC who was obviously a useless bitch, because they’d given her all the paperwork to do. What a fucking loser she must have been.

It wasn’t even as if she led a glamorous life outside of work, Ptolemy reflects glumly. Ray had called this morning from Tallinn to say one of the other truckers had suffered a suspected heart attack, and that he was now expected to drive on to Riga to fulfil the contract. That meant he wouldn’t be back home until the middle of next week at the very least, and she could tell from his voice just how utterly thrilled he was at the prospect of another four days driving on Eastern Europe’s potholed roads and staying in its primitive truck stops.

Almost as thrilled as she is at the prospect of another night on her own with only the prospect of a frozen dinner and some backed-up episodes of EastEnders on Sky+ to look forward to.

As she drags over another box, she wonders what Severin will be doing tonight. Letting his hair down? Toasting his success in cracking the car-ringing gang? Just how did an undercover detective let his hair down? Presumably the nature of his job meant there were limited places he could go. A darkened cinema, perhaps? The idea of inviting him round for dinner skitters unexpectedly into her mind; two lost souls, all dressed up with nowhere to go, sharing a lonesome spaghetti bolognese and a tragic bottle of cheap red wine.

Stop it, Kath.

She reaches into the box, removes the attached paperwork and keys the VIN and the registration number of the vehicle in to the computer database, along with the name of the registered owner and insurance details. Beneath it, something bulky inside a plastic grocery bag. What now? she thinks wearily. She picks up the bag and tips it upside down. Its contents fall with a thud on the desktop.

‘Naughty, naughty,’ says WPC Millican, who has come across with a plate of biscuits. She reaches down for the object on the desk. ‘I thought these were illegal.’

‘Don’t touch it!’

Millican recoils and the biscuits fall to the floor. Ptolemy reaches into her pocket for a pair of thin rubber gloves. She puts them on and picks up the object. It is the size and shape of an electric shaver, except instead of blades it has two raised nubs.

‘Get me an evidence bag,’ she says.

Millican hurries across to her desk and returns with a clear Ziplok bag. Ptolemy drops the object in the bag and seals it.

There is something else in the box.

It is a rope, coiled like a sleeping snake.

Detective Chief Inspector Frank Maguire, head of the Greater Manchester Police Drug Squad, is a tall man with the languid demeanour of someone who has ruled his particular fiefdom for so long that he has outlived all his enemies.

But Newcastle is not his patch – and Mhaire Anderson, while not strictly an enemy, is not beholden to him either. Furthermore, Maguire has been conducting an investigation on her patch, without telling her. And if there’s one thing that pisses Anderson off, it’s a lack of professional courtesy.

‘Six months?’ she exclaims disbelievingly. Then, noticing the other diners in the restaurant looking at her, she lowers her voice to a hiss. ‘You’ve had Wayne Heddon under surveillance for six months? And how many fucking times has he been to Newcastle?’

Maguire, trying to remain calm under fire, offers a weak smile and plucks distractedly at the moules marinière in the bowl in front of him.

‘Listen, Mhaire,’ he says in his smooth Ulster brogue. ‘You know the form. If Heddon had had meetings at the Savoy we wouldn’t necessarily have told the Met about it.’

‘You fucking liar, Frank. You would been round at Scotland Yard kissing their arses for permission to be on their patch. But just because this is Newcastle, you think you can do what you bloody well like.’

‘That’s not true and you know it. I have the utmost respect for—’

‘Ah, don’t give me that slaver, Frank. I’m too old and I’m too ugly. I ought to make an official complaint and bugger your six-month surveillance operation.’

Maguire shrugs. ‘Look, we could have done this over the phone, Mhaire, but I came up to see you personally as a gesture of good faith.’ He hands her a slim file. ‘And I’ve brought this with me, in a renewed spirit of cooperation.’

‘What’s this?’

‘It’s a log of Wayne Heddon’s visits to Newcastle. All his meetings with Jack Peel and Okan Gul. Where he stayed. What he did. When he went for a shit. It’s all there.’

Anderson flips through the file suspiciously, but from what she can see it’s as thorough as Maguire claims.

‘OK,’ she says. ‘Then answer me this: who tied Okan Gul to the railway line?’

Maguire shakes his head. ‘I have no idea. I didn’t even know he was dead until you told me.’

‘You don’t seem terribly bothered about it, considering Gul was central to your investigation.’

‘If I thought it had anything to do with my investigation then I assure you I would be.’

Anderson narrows her eyes. ‘What do you mean?’

‘I mean on the night Okan Gul died in Newcastle, Wayne Heddon was in a hotel in Amsterdam having a meeting with several high-ranking representatives of the Kaplan Kirmizi.’

‘You’re saying Gul’s last visit was nothing to do with the drugs deal?’

Maguire smiles, sensing that after all his discomfort, he has finally gained the upper hand.

‘Not unless it was a social visit to catch up with his Newcastle middleman. In which case, I wouldn’t be interested anyway.’

‘His Newcastle middleman had been dead two weeks, Frank,’ Anderson reminds him.

‘Jack Peel was dead, yes,’ Maguire says, ‘but heroin abhors a vacuum. The deal still needed to go through.’

‘So who was the replacement, Frank?’ Anderson says.

Maguire avails himself of a long, feline stretch. ‘I know it’s frowned on in these politically correct times in which we have the misfortune to live,’ he says, ‘but I don’t suppose you’d care to discuss this over a glass of whisky back at my hotel, Mhaire? Bushmills, of course. County Antrim’s finest.’

‘What sort of relationship do you have with your ex-wife?’ Gilcrux asks.

‘None of your business.’

‘I understand she left you. And left you holding the baby, as it were.’

‘Alex was ten years old and he chose to live with me,’ Vos says. ‘But like I say, it’s none of your business.’

‘Must have been difficult looking after a kid, holding down a job with antisocial hours.’

‘We got by, Mr Gilcrux. We managed.’

‘Well-adjusted boy, is he? Does well at school?’

‘He still gets a bit of teasing sometimes,’ Vos says.

Gilcrux rolls his pen between his fingers. ‘About what?’

‘The scars.’

‘Scars?’ The rolling becomes faster.

‘On his back,’ Vos says. ‘From when I used to thrash him with my belt. Poor little bastard. I hate his mother, but I should have never taken it out on him.’

The pen is still. Gilcrux blinks slowly.

Vos sits back in his chair and crosses one leg over the other. ‘Like I said, Mr Gilcrux, it’s none of your fucking business.’

‘Hey, kiddo. What’s happening?’

Alex looks up from his Iain M Banks novel. Then he looks at his watch. ‘You’re back?’ he says. ‘Before nine? Did you forget something?’

Vos picks up a cushion from the end of the sofa and throws it at his son. ‘Thought we could have some quality time together. Go for a curry or something.’

‘Jesus. No, Dad. That’s so creepy.’

‘Yeah, you’re right.’ Vos collapses in his armchair and kicks off his shoes. ‘It was a terrible idea.’

‘It’s the sort of thing Trey would say.’

‘I know, I know. I’m sorry.’ He presses the remote and some Spanish football match comes on, featuring two teams he has never heard of.

‘What’s the latest on his son, anyway?’

Alex sniggers. ‘Dufus? They’ve got him enrolled in counselling.’

‘What, for crashing into a tree?’

‘ “Managing life/alcohol expectations”.’

‘You are kidding me.’

‘This is Florida, Dad. They have counselling for everything. If you’re not in therapy, you need to have counselling to deal with the fact you’re not in therapy.’

‘Christ.’ He pops the ring-pull on a can of lager. ‘This country might be fucked but at least we’ve still got the stiff upper lip, eh?’

Alex grunts and returns to his book. Vos watches the match for a while, then clicks off the sound. ‘Listen,’ he says. ‘You don’t have any issues, do you?’

‘Issues?’

‘You know. About me and Mum. About my job. Anything like that?’

Alex looks at his father. ‘Piss off, Dad,’ he says.

‘I’m serious, Son.’

With a sigh Alex puts down the book. ‘What’s brought this on?’

‘I dunno. Just thought I’d ask, that’s all. We don’t really talk much.’

‘Thank God.’

‘I just want you to know that if there’s anything you ever want to—’

‘I will,’ Alex says. He picks up the book and, shaking his head, begins to read again. Then he stops. ‘It’s Chris’s birthday day after tomorrow. There’s a group of us going out.’

‘Nice one. Where are you going?’

‘Out.’

‘Oh yeah? Whereabouts?’

‘I don’t know. Anywhere we can get served.’

Vos regards his son with surprise. ‘You’re going out drinking?’

‘Underage drinking, Dad,’ Alex says. ‘We’re relying on Chris’s advanced ability to grow facial hair to get us served.’

‘Well, that’s great!’

‘It’s against the law. You’re a police officer.’

‘Yes, but you’re not.’

‘Then you don’t mind?’

‘As long as you don’t fall in the river, then no.’

Alex seems uncertain. ‘Why are you being so liberal and open-minded about this, Dad?’

‘Maybe I trust you not to make an arse of yourself,’ says Vos. ‘And because underage drinking is one of the pivotal experiences in a man’s life.’

‘Does this count as quality time, then?’

‘Yeah. Now shut up while I watch the match.’

A moment later his phone rings. It’s Anderson. Cursing, he hurries upstairs and takes the call on the balcony.

‘Guv’nor. Not dining this evening?’

‘Yes I am. And unfortunately I’m dining with Frank Maguire.’

Vos stifles a laugh. ‘His treat, I hope.’

‘Never mind about that. I think the fucking eejit’s just made a pass at me.’

‘Then it’s going well.’

‘The things I do for Northumbria Police, Theo. But now it’s your turn. You know we were talking about Jack Peel’s replacement as middleman in the drugs deal? Well I know who it is.’

‘Al Blaylock?’ Vos says.

There’s a pause. ‘How do you know?’

‘Because it makes sense. There are plenty of monkeys in this city, but only one organ grinder.’

‘So you made me sit through a meal with Frank Maguire and you already knew?’

‘I just made an educated guess, guv’nor. It was your sacrifice that confirmed it.’

‘You owe me one, Theo Vos,’ Anderson says.

‘I shall carve your name with pride, Superintendent Anderson,’ Vos says.

THIRTEEN

Al Blaylock’s office is on the third floor of a building on Grey Street, the great Edwardian thoroughfare that sweeps down from the city centre to the Quayside. The legend on his window, inscribed in gold paint, reads BLAYLOCK & ASSOCIATES, PARTNERS IN LAW – but this is misleading, as Blaylock is the only associate, and the only law he practises with any regularity involves protecting the city’s criminal fraternity from police investigations. He has a secretary, however, and it is she who informs Vos that her boss has not shown up to the office this morning and nor has he called to explain where he is – which is strange, because he had two important meetings with clients in the diary.

Instead Vos drives to Blaylock’s house, a large stucco residence overlooking the Town Moor. The door is opened by his wife, who says she hasn’t seen her husband for six months, not since she caught him screwing a topless croupier at one of Jack Peel’s casinos, and furthermore she doesn’t give a damn where he is. Pressed on the subject, Janet Blaylock says she thinks he might be renting a flat on the Quayside. Pressed further, she gives him the address.

It’s a modern block with a curved roof, near to the Crown Court. According to the names on the secure intercom console, Blaylock’s flat is on the top floor, although there is no answer when Vos presses the button. He waits until one of the residents comes out, then slips into the building and takes the stairs. Blaylock’s door is one of four on a curved hallway and when Vos goes to knock, it swings open.

The flat is like something out of a Sunday supplement, with low Scandinavian furniture made of leather and stainless steel and a view over the river. Vos goes into the bedroom, which is dominated by a vast sleigh bed with black satin sheets. There is a walk-in wardrobe containing a dozen or so suits and a rack of shoes, but the drawers are open and there are clothes and underwear lying discarded on the floor.

Blaylock is long gone, and it looks like he left in a hurry.

It is five months since Vos last drove through the gates of Jack Peel’s mansion; the beech hedges that grow on top of the perimeter wall have turned golden brown and the birch trees lining the driveway have shed their leaves. Somewhere in the grounds a bonfire is burning; the rich, pungent smoke hangs at knee height above the lawn and swirls around the paddock, where a rider is expertly guiding a horse around a series of low jumps in the distance. On the stone-flagged patio the whirlpool bath has been drained of water and covered with tarpaulin and the wrought-iron outdoor chairs are tipped up against the table.

The summer, Vos thinks, is well and truly over.

He stops the car on the driveway and gets out. The paddock is fifty yards away across thick, wet grass. It is surrounded by a wooden, barred fence, and at the far side is a small stables complex. The horse and rider are still going through their paces on the jumps and Vos, who knows nothing about equestrian sport and cares even less, cannot help be impressed by the agility of the horse and the dexterity of the rider.

After a few moments the horse and rider approach the fence. Melody Peel glares down at Vos from the saddle. She is wearing a protective helmet and her hair hangs in a fat, milky plait over her left shoulder.

‘You’re looking good out there, Melody,’ Vos says. ‘Keep it up and you could win gold at the next Olympics.’

‘What are you doing here?’

‘I came to see Kimnai Su. Is she in?’

‘No.’

‘Where is she?’

‘How should I know?’

‘She didn’t tell you?’

A bitter smile. ‘Maybe she did; I don’t understand a fucking word she says.’

‘Has she gone to see Al Blaylock?’

‘Like I said, I don’t know where she’s gone and I don’t really care.’

‘Al’s gone missing,’ Vos says. ‘I need to find him. Do you know where he is?’

‘Why? So you can kill him too?’

Vos shakes his head. ‘You don’t get it, do you, Melody?’

‘Al says there’s going to be an investigation. He says they’re going to hang you out to dry for what you did.’

‘There was an investigation,’ Vos says. ‘And I was cleared. So here I am. And I’m very sorry for your loss, but you need to face up to the facts. Your dad fell. People keep saying that I pushed him, but I didn’t.’

‘Fuck you.’

She pulls the reins and the horse’s head moves, but Vos reaches across and grabs the bridle.

‘You’re a big girl, Melody. You know what Jack was.’

He feels the animal’s hot breath on his hand as it pulls to get away, and when he looks at Melody he sees her for what she really is: a confused, grief-stricken child. For a fleeting moment he feels a twinge of guilt for Jack Peel’s death. But the sensation is replaced almost immediately by anger at Peel himself – for his selfishness, for his abdication of responsibility, for choosing to lead the sort of life that was going to bring him up against Vos, that was one day either going to get him jailed or killed.

‘Your dad was a criminal,’ he says. ‘A drug dealer. An extortionist.’

Melody Peel’s face is twisted with fury and sorrow in equal measure. ‘Maybe,’ she says. ‘But he was my dad.’

And then, with a tug on the reins, she brings the horse around and sets off at a gallop towards the stables.

When he gets back to his car he sees there are three missed calls, all of them from Seagram.

‘What is it, Bernice?’

‘Ptolemy found something in one of Dale Tiernan’s stolen cars,’ Seagram says.

‘Don’t tell me: a winning Lottery ticket.’

‘Better than that, boss. You should get back. You’ll want to see this.’

FOURTEEN

‘I know this guy,’ Huggins says through a mouthful of Big Mac. ‘From way back. Works as a freelance journo in the Midlands somewhere. Last time I saw him, he gave me his number and told me to give him a call if ever anything came up that needed wider exposure. I’ll never forget that phrase he used: “wider exposure”. What he meant was, he wanted me to be a whistleblower. His very own Deep Throat. I, of course, told him to fuck off. But I was thinking about him the other day with this Turkish business. You know what I mean? I mean, all the billions of pounds the taxpayer has forked out for the new, improved border control and yet Okan Gul – a known fucking drug dealer – can enter the country on six separate occasions with six separate passports and nobody raises an eyebrow. Now I’m not saying I’m going to ring my journo guy, but if anything needed wider exposure it’s that.’

‘Phil.’

‘What?’

‘What the hell happened at Timmy Kwok’s?’

Huggins stares at Fallow open-mouthed, a mound of masticated burger visible in his lower jaw. ‘What?’

‘Timmy Kwok. The meat cleaver.’

‘Oh, that.’ Huggins shrugs and continues chewing.

‘Yes, that,’ Fallow insists.

‘What’s the problem, Johnny-boy? He talked, didn’t he?’

Fallow’s eyes flash with anger. ‘You threatened him with a fucking meat cleaver, Phil!’

‘Don’t be so dramatic. I didn’t threaten him.’

‘Waving the fucking thing above his head? That’s threatening in my book. Christ, I thought you were going to take his fingers off.’

Huggins shakes his head and carefully places the remains of his burger in its cardboard box. ‘Have you been stewing over this all this time?’

‘I’m still trying to get my head around the fact that you did it in the first place.’

‘Ah, grow a pair, John. I don’t know what’s happened to you lately.’

‘I could say the same thing about you. It’s like you’re in your own fucking Dirty Harry movie.’

‘So what are you saying? That we treat these fucking lowlifes like they’re some sort of social-work project? That we’re nice to them? Jesus Christ, Johnny-boy, you’re further gone than I thought.’

Fallow stares out through the windscreen as Huggins finishes his Happy Meal.

‘Here he comes,’ he says presently.

‘It’s about fucking time,’ Huggins says, dabbing his mouth with a napkin.

Fifty yards ahead a man has emerged from a betting shop. He is in his mid-fifties, wearing a donkey jacket and a knitted bobble hat. He pauses to light a cigarette, eyes screwed shut against the smoke and the daylight. Now he is now plodding blankly towards them on the main street, hands shoved into the pockets of a grubby jacket, head down, watching the progress of his trainered feet.

‘You’re not going to beat the shit out of him, are you?’ Fallow asks sardonically.

‘Might do,’ Huggins says.

The two detectives get out of the car.

‘Howard Iley?’

‘Yeah?’

‘DCs Huggins and Fallow. We’d like a word.’

‘What about?’ Iley says, his eyes flicking from one man to the other.

‘About twenty-five years, give or take, with no parole or time off for good behaviour.’

‘Eh?’ says Howard Iley in a strangled voice. He smiles, but it is the smile of a man who has just been told he has terminal cancer.

‘It’s an O-Mega Stun Gun,’ says Mayson Calvert, holding up the object that Ptolemy had found in the warehouse. ‘American-made. A basic model but still highly effective. It produces 150,000 volts from a 9-volt battery. More than enough to incapacitate an adult male.’

‘What about the rope?’ Vos says.

‘Aramid fibre. Similar to the rope that was used on our victim.’

‘Similar?’

‘George Watson is making a comparison at the lab,’ Seagram says.

Vos turns to Ptolemy. ‘And the car?’

‘A 1986 Jaguar XJ6. Registered to one Howard Paul Iley, age fifty-six, last known address Murchison Street, Shieldfield.’

‘Huggins and Fallow have just picked him up,’ Seagram says.

‘When was it stolen?’ Vos says

‘That’s the thing, sir,’ Ptolemy says. ‘It was never reported stolen.’

In an interview room at Byker Police Station, close to where he lives, Howard Iley has removed his bobble cap to scratch his head, only to expose a fist-sized, fleshy protrusion rising from the top of his skull like a purple hillock.

‘Jesus, Howard, what happened?’ Huggins says, staring at the lump with horrified fascination. ‘Is that where your mum dropped you on your head when you were a baby?’

Iley quickly replaces the hat. ‘I’ve got a condition,’ he says. ‘Lymphangioma.’

‘Nasty,’ says Fallow. ‘Now I understand the stupid hat.’

‘What do you want?’

‘What do you do for a living, Howard?’

‘I’m on sickness benefit,’ Iley says.

‘What, because of that thing on your head?’

‘Nah. Chronic sciatica.’

Huggins whistles. ‘Bloody hell. Chronic sciatica and lumpy-headitis or whatever the fuck it is. It’s a miracle you can get to the bookie’s.’

‘Answer me this, Howard,’ says Fallow. ‘How does a bloke on benefits afford a Jaguar XJ6?’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

‘Take your hat off, Howard,’ snaps Huggins.

‘Uh?’

‘I said take your stupid fucking hat off.’

Iley removes his hat.

‘You’re lying to us. You know how I know you’re lying, Howard?’

‘No.’

‘Because every time you tell a lie that fucking lump on your head starts glowing red.’

‘Tell us about the car, Howard,’ says Fallow.

‘It’s mine!’ Iley says. ‘It’s legit! I bought it from scrap and did it up.’

Huggins stares at him disbelievingly. ‘Oh yeah?’

‘Took me five years. I haven’t always been on the sick, you know. I used to work in a body shop. I was bloody good at it, too. Doing up old wrecks is a passion of mine. Or was, till my fucking sciatica kicked in.’

‘So why didn’t you report it stolen?’

‘I didn’t know it was stolen.’

‘Your lump’s glowing, Howard,’ says Huggins.

‘I’m telling you the truth.’

‘Nice car like that, your pride and joy, you’re telling me you didn’t give it a polish every day?’

‘Is this what this is all about? A stolen car?’

‘No, Howard,’ says Fallow. ‘It’s about a murder.’

Iley goes white. ‘A murder?’

‘You see a 1986 Jaguar XJS, registered to you, was stolen last week. In the boot was a stun gun and a rope.’

Now Iley’s mouth drops open.

‘Fucking hell, Jimmy,’ he says. ‘What have you done?’

‘Jimmy Rafferty, age twenty-three. Howard Iley’s nephew. Apparently Howard lent him the car six months ago so he could go to job interviews.’

‘He lent him the car?’ says Vos.

‘Jimmy’s just come out of prison,’ Seagram says. ‘Four years for aggravated assault. Apparently he beat some kid half to death with a wooden paling as he was walking home through Scotswood Park. Claimed the kid had been “disrespectful” to his girlfriend at the time.’

‘Christ almighty. Just the sort of person you want driving your wedding car.’

‘What’s his connection to Okan Gul?’ Ptolemy asks.

‘Good question,’ Seagram says.

‘Huggins and Fallow are at the house now?’ says Vos.

‘Yes, boss,’ says Seagram. ‘That’s their car there.’

Seagram brings her own car to a shuddering stop in the middle of the road, and she, Vos and Ptolemy jump out. Fifty yards away, armed officers from the Rapid Response Unit have already battered down the door of the ground-floor, two-bedroomed flat that Jimmy Rafferty shares with his mother, Barbara, on the Meadow Well Estate in North Shields. By the time they reach the gate, the flat has already been cleared.

‘Rafferty’s not there,’ says Huggins, emerging from the front door. ‘His mother is, for what it’s worth.’

‘That’s him?’ Vos says, staring at a mug shot of a young man with short brown hair parted sharply from the left and a jagged S-shaped scar running from the base of his neck up along his jawline to his left ear.

‘Yeah,’ says Huggins. ‘That’s him.’

Barbara Rafferty is a breathtakingly ordinary-looking woman of forty-eight, with the same forgettable face as her brother, Howard Iley, and the same lank brown hair as her son Jimmy, except hers is worn to shoulder length. Her features are slack and her eyes are dead. She is sitting in an armchair in the front room, still staring at a fifty-inch plasma screen TV, which until a few moments ago had been showing Cash in the Attic.

‘Where’s Jimmy, Mrs Rafferty?’ Vos says.

‘I don’t know.’ When she speaks, it’s in a low, dreamy monotone.

‘Come on, Barbara, I don’t have time for this.’

‘He’s gone.’

‘Gone where?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘When did you last see him?’

‘Wednesday.’

‘And he didn’t say where he was going?’

‘Jimmy is very . . . He keeps himself to himself.’

‘He’s very what, Barbara?’ Seagram says.

She taps her temple with a stubby finger. ‘Up there.’

‘Mad? Schizo? What, Barbara?’

Jimmy Rafferty’s mother snaps briefly out of her dreamlike state. ‘Intelligent,’ she says. ‘He’s a very intelligent boy.’

Vos looks around the flat. The furniture is functional but the room is utterly lifeless. There are no pictures on the wall, no indication of any personality at all. Barbara herself looks like a faded painting. There is something about this whole setting that gives him the creeps.

‘Sir.’

Ptolemy is gesturing to him from the doorway. He follows her into the bathroom, where Fallow is staring at the mirrored medicine cupboard above the sink. Its shelves are packed with bottles of pills, mostly prescription antidepressants.

‘That explains a lot,’ Vos says.

‘He’s cleared out,’ Fallow says, returning from Jimmy Rafferty’s bedroom. ‘All that’s left in his cupboards are a couple of pairs of socks.’

Vos is thinking this is starting to look like déjà vu.