Текст книги "The Blissfully Dead"

Автор книги: Louise Voss

Соавторы: Mark Edwards
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Chapter 41

Day 13 – Kai

Kai regarded Jade, who was leaning her forehead against the industrial-sized drinks fridge in Mervyn Hammond’s kitchen to try to cool down. She looked unbelievably hot – in both senses – in the tight black skirt, white blouse and weird little frilly white thing on her head that the temp agency had made her wear for the occasion. Her hair was scraped back off her face and she had not, to her rage, been allowed to wear more than the bare minimum of make-up.

They were both taking advantage of the fact that the chef – a scary-looking tattooed geezer – had gone for a ten-minute break and Mervyn’s housekeeper, an excitable Thai woman, was AWOL too.

‘It’s not fair!’ Jade grumbled. ‘Why should that tall slag get to serve OnT’s drinks, when I want to!’

She was referring to the fact that their agency boss had reiterated, in no uncertain terms, that Jade, Kai and the other temp staff were not permitted to talk to or even look at the boys in OnT, who had their own private waitress – an incredible-looking six-foot Somalian girl with skin like milk chocolate who was gliding around them smiling serenely and discreetly, waiting on them hand and foot. Jade was only allowed to serve the lesser mortals, and Kai only allowed to collect and wash the glasses.

‘Babe, you’re in the same frickin’ room as them! Ain’t that enough? And all them other slebs – did you see him off Match of the Day in there, talking to whatserface from The One Show? It’s dead exciting!’

Jade softened, happy again. ‘Yeah, bae, you’re right, how incredible is this? We’re really here. Aren’t you proud of me for getting us the jobs? I just gave a mini-burger to Nicoletta, you know, that model that Blake’s nobbing! But I tell you what, I’m gonna fill up Shawn’s glass tonight if it kills me. I’ll do it when the dragon isn’t looking.’

She hugged herself with joy. Kai secretly hoped she would spill red wine all down fucking Shawn Barrett’s front and get kicked out. But it was kind of cool to be there, he’d thought when they arrived. Jade had been directly approached on the forum by someone saying that the agency were looking for temp staff for a ‘special event’ and there was a rumour that OnT were involved. The rumour had turned out to be true.

But he and Jade had hardly seen one another for more than a few moments since before the party started – Kai was buried in clouds of steam, constantly loading and unloading the dishwasher. Cool or not, he was teetering on the edge of a pretty bad mood, despite his enthusiastic comments, and the steam was making his acne itch and burn. He was only allowed out of the kitchen and into the party itself whenever the clean glasses ran out and he had to go and collect empties, and every time he’d been in there, Jade was beaming and blushing and totally obviously being ogled by the pervy host, Mervyn Hammond, as she filled up the guests’ glasses, sticking out her massive boobies the whole time. Hammond’s bodyguard couldn’t take his eyes off her either, Kai noticed. His heart sank in despair – the guy looked like Ross Kemp while he, Kai, had to do about nine million chin-ups before he got any noticeable muscle definition in his biceps. He’d worked hard at it, and his torso was getting there – although there was nothing he could do about the fact that he looked like a fucking Oompa Loompa from the waist down. How could he compete?

The party planner, a.k.a. the dragon, their supervisor for the evening – an anorexic old lady of at least forty-five dripping in diamonds, in a hideous long purple dress that exposed her wrinkly old cleavage and bony shoulder blades – burst into the kitchen, waving a thin arm at them. ‘Come on! Stop standing around looking gormless, it’s at least an hour until your break! You’ – she pointed at Kai – ‘get out there and collect some more glasses, there are no clean ones, and you, Jane, take the beef satay out of the oven, now!’

‘It’s Jade,’ muttered Jade under her breath as she donned oven gloves and removed the tray of food. It was the first time in her whole life she had opened an oven door, and she only knew to use the oven gloves because she’d seen the chef do it earlier.

Once the dragon had swept out again, Kai scurried over to try to give Jade a quick snog, but she brushed him off impatiently. ‘Don’t, Kai, I just put on more lip gloss. Got to hand round this beefy shit – hey, maybe this is my chance! The dragon said I can’t serve drinks to Shawn and the boys, but she didn’t say nothing about beef on sticks!’

She was gone, leaving Kai hot and frustrated. He picked up an empty plastic basket and followed her back into the party. Gainful employment was not something that either of them had very much experience of, and it was turning out to be surprisingly hard work. He was not enjoying the dirty looks all the B-list celebs were giving him as he noisily stacked glasses into the basket. Not enjoying that creep Hammond and his meathead bodyguard staring at Jade’s tits. Not enjoying seeing Jade practically soak her pants every time she caught a glimpse of one of the OnT twats among the crush of bodies in Hammond’s massive living room.

Kai was becoming increasingly worried that Jade was going to leave him for someone more glamorous – probably not Shawn Barrett, though. Kai wasn’t so deluded that he thought Jade stood a chance with any of OnTarget. But that bodyguard . . . Jade wouldn’t be able to resist an offer of going out with him, Kai knew. It would give her a chance to hobnob with OnT and Hammond, and other people like that record company twat talking to Hammond now – the one with the hairy waistcoat and tweed baggy trousers even though the guy was, like, twenty-five.

His bad mood increasing, Kai picked up the full basket of glasses and pushed his way back towards the kitchen, accidentally on purpose barging a sharp corner of it into the tweedy guy’s arse.

‘Oi, watch it, idiot,’ the guy said, glaring at him.

‘Sorry, sir,’ Kai said, baring his teeth in a smile. Not sorry, arsehole. Why had he let Jade talk him into this? They were only earning six quid an hour, and most of that would go on a taxi home – no public transport out here in the Surrey countryside.

He craned his neck to look for Jade and his heart sank. She was talking to Hammond’s bodyguard, giggling and jiggling her boobs, leaning close to him and flirting for England. Every part of him wanted to stride over there and wipe the smile off the minder’s ugly face. But Kai knew he should never pick on anyone bigger than him, so he turned away, clenching his fists, reminding himself that Jade loved him. After everything he’d done for her, she owed him a lifetime of love, not to mention eternal access to those amazing boobs.

He went back into the kitchen and made himself feel better by picking his nose and wiping it on an hors d’oeuvre.

Things did not improve over the next hour. The chef came back in and shouted at him for not washing up the dirty platters fast enough. The dragon shouted at him when she caught him doing a bit of minesweeping – swigging the dregs from a couple of the glasses as he loaded them into the dishwasher. Jade shouted at him when he accused her of fancying the bodyguard: ‘Oh for fuck’s sake, Kai, give it a rest! I can’t help it if blokes stare at me, can I?’ Her mood seemed to have plummeted too, since some of the party guests, including OnTarget, had gone over to the leisure area of the house for a swim.

They were allowed a fifteen-minute break at 10 p.m. and Jade dragged him outside to see if they could see anything through the steamed-up glass of the pool room – ‘Let’s try and take some photos on our phones, omigod, maybe they’re skinny-dipping, can you imagine how much The Sun would pay for a photo of OnT naked? We’d never have to work again!’

Kai had already decided that after tonight he was never going to work again, but he didn’t tell Jade that. He followed Jade over to the pool house.

They had signed confidentiality agreements as part of their contracts for the night, but neither of them understood what that meant. Kai was relieved that there was no chance of seeing anything through the window – he’d started obsessing about the size of his willy. OnT were all bound to have massive great pop star wangers, and he didn’t want Jade to start making comparisons . . .

‘We’d better get back to the house, or the dragon will sack us,’ he said, as Jade was putting away her phone. It beeped with a message and when she looked at it, she gasped and jumped as though the phone had given her an electric shock.

‘What, bae?’

Her shoulders were rigid. She shook her head and stared at the screen again. Then, out of the blue, she vomited neatly into a lavender bush by the pool.

‘Jade! Are you sick?’ He rushed over to her. Puking always made her cry – she was practically phobic about anything to do with sick. But to his amazement, when she straightened up she had the biggest smile on her face that he had ever seen, even bigger than when she got them the jobs tonight at this party. Then she started to laugh hysterically, cackling as though she’d lost it.

‘What?’

But she wouldn’t tell him. She tucked her phone back into her bra, still laughing and doing a little dance and basically looking as though she was about to explode with glee.

‘Did one of them footballers give you some drugs, or what?’ he demanded. She looked totally high. He felt even more pissed off. Suddenly, he was sure he knew: she’d had a text from that bodyguard twat!

‘You gave him your number, didn’t you!’ he yelled at her.

‘Who?’ she said innocently, not even bothering to conceal her happiness.

‘Oh, screw you, Jade,’ he said, and stalked back inside to carry on with the dishwashing. He’d have gone home right then, but until he got his cash at the end of the night, he had no way to do so.

Part of him felt a sick little thrill at telling Jade to screw herself; he’d never dared do anything like that before, but suddenly he felt that he, Kai Topper, had a limit, and she had just pushed him right over it. He’d done stuff before that he shouldn’t have, but usually only because other people – often Jade herself – wanted him to do it. This time he was going to do something that he wanted to do. Screw the lot of them, the posh record company twats, the snooty celebs who thought they were better than everyone else – and as for that bodyguard! He was going to fuck them up tonight, good and proper. What he was going to do would get someone into so much trouble . . .

The next time the chef went outside for a fag, Kai slipped into the cloakroom and retrieved his backpack from under a bench. He unzipped it, reached down to the bottom and felt his fingers close around what he wanted. Pulling it out, he smiled to himself.

Nobody was going to walk over Kai Topper, not anymore.

Chapter 42

Day 14 – Winkler

Winkler pulled up in the lane outside Mervyn Hammond’s Surrey home, got out of the car and immediately stepped in a puddle up to his ankle. He cursed aloud, the calming effects of his rainforest CD blown away in an instant. Goddamn fucking countryside; if he could pave over this shithole . . . He took a deep breath.

Cold, stinging rain lashed down on him, soaking his hair. As he walked towards the gate, his sock squelching inside his shoe, he ran a hand across his scalp, icy fingers searching out skin. Last night, he’d had his head between Francesca’s thighs, wondering if she’d ever come, when she’d said, ‘You’ve got a little bald spot.’

He had sat upright. ‘What?’

‘It’s cute. I like it.’

He had immediately got up and run over to the mirror, trying to see the bald spot. He loved his hair, so much so that when he’d left his ex-wife her final words to him were, ‘I wish you baldness.’ Now it looked as if the witch’s curse was coming true.

He hadn’t been able to perform after Francesca’s words. She’d tried to get him back in the mood before eventually leaving in a huff. Winkler had found a hand mirror and located the offending patch. His dad was as bald as Kojak, but Winkler Junior had always believed that he took after his mum’s side of the family: hirsute and manly. But this was it. The beginning of the end. He spent the rest of the evening looking up hair re-growth products on Google.

So he was in a foul mood this morning. And Mervyn Hammond was going to take the full brunt of his bad temper if he wasn’t one hundred per fucking cent cooperative. Over the past twenty-four hours, Winkler had become increasingly convinced that Hammond was, if not the killer, definitely involved. He had the access to the young fans and would easily be able to persuade them to meet with him by making promises these desperate girls wouldn’t be able to resist. He had, Winkler knew, paid off a young girl who’d been molested by Shawn Barrett, which made Winkler wonder if this Irish girl hadn’t told them everything – if Mervyn’s involvement went beyond bribery and corruption.

There was the signed photograph of Mervyn among Nancy Marr’s belongings – the only connection between the old woman and OnTarget anyone had been able to find. Finally, there was Hammond’s mysterious after-dark visit to the children’s home in Isleworth. Hammond liked young girls. Winkler’s guess was that Hammond had molested Rose and Jessica, and they had threatened to expose him. Or perhaps he hadn’t done anything to them directly but they had found out about him. Hammond was so furious that before killing them he had tortured them.

He pressed the buzzer by the gates and a female voice came smoothly through the intercom. A housekeeper or PA, Winkler guessed.

‘Police,’ he said firmly. ‘I need to have a word with Mr Hammond.’

After a long pause, there was a beep and the double gate swung slowly open. Winkler decided to leave his car out there and walked through, finding himself on a path that led through an immaculately landscaped garden, cone-shaped little pine trees and everything, up to a grand house – one of those Huf houses that were popping up around Surrey. Ridiculous – a house that came in kit form and still cost a couple of mill? It was impressive, though, he had to admit, with its glass frontage and chalet roof.

He passed a kidney-shaped pond, gold and white koi darting beneath the surface, and considered propelling a juicy globule of phlegm into the water. He was so going to enjoy taking Mervyn Hammond down.

Winkler reached the house, walking past a white van parked close to the entrance, to find a middle-aged Asian woman in a white apron – yep, the housekeeper – standing in the doorway. Several black bin bags lay at her feet. He flashed his badge at her.

‘Mr Hammond in his shed,’ she said. Not long off the boat, this one, Winkler thought. ‘I call him and he say please go there.’

She pointed towards a large brick building across the garden. A shed! It was bigger than the house Winkler grew up in; it was in fact a converted barn, by the look of it. Winkler was about to walk towards it when he had a thought.

‘How long have you worked for Mr Hammond?’ he asked, using his most authoritative police voice, wanting her to believe she’d be in trouble if she didn’t cooperate. If she didn’t answer, he might have to use the magic word: immigration. That always worked.

The woman, whom Winkler was pretty sure was Thai, shuffled so half her body was concealed behind the door. Frightened. Maybe Hammond threatened her. Beat her. Don’t worry, Winkler wanted to say. I’m here to take the bad man away.

‘Two year,’ the housekeeper replied.

‘Is he a good man to work for?’

She nodded vigorously. Too vigorously.

‘I bet he has lots of parties, eh? Lots of clearing up for you to do.’

She nodded again, smiling tentatively. ‘Yes, many party.’

‘Famous people, yes? Celebrities?’

The housekeeper’s eyes darted about like the koi had done. She leaned forwards, her eyes like saucers, voice dropping to an awestruck whisper. ‘Yes. I meet Harry Potter.’

‘Really? Nice kid. Any other . . . kids come here?’

The woman cocked her head.

‘You know, like, young girls. Teenage girls.’

She grinned again and nodded enthusiastically. ‘Yes, yes, many young girl. Pretty girls.’

Ibet, Winkler thought. He caught movement behind the housekeeper – a woman dragging a vacuum cleaner across the hallway – and took a second look at the bin bags.

‘Was there a party here last night?’

‘Yes. Big party! We clean up now. Many people sick from drink.’

He tried to get a better look, but she moved her body to block his view.

‘Who was here? Anyone exciting?’

She opened her mouth to answer, then appeared to change her mind, probably realising she’d already said too much. Possibly because he hadn’t been able to control his face when she said ‘pretty girls’. He decided not to push it.

He nodded at the woman and said, ‘Thanks. You’ve been very helpful.’

She wore a bemused expression as he strode off across the damp grass towards the ‘shed’. It was raining even more heavily now and by the time he got there water was dripping into his eyes. He was thankful he’d had the good sense to slip the signed photo, which was tucked inside his coat, into a laminate sleeve. He banged on the door.

‘Come in.’

Winkler wasn’t sure what he expected to find inside the converted barn, but he’d have been less surprised if he’d found a dozen bodies hanging from the rafters.

The entire space was filled with model trains. Not just trains: an entire landscape, with rolling hills and valleys, bridges and tunnels; miniature houses and churches; tiny plastic sheep grazing in a field; people the size of thumbnails waving from a station. And, gliding on tracks around this landscape, replica steam trains, gleaming black and green engines hauling cargo and passengers, round and round, pausing at signals before emitting a whistle and chugging away again.

Mervyn Hammond stood at a control deck on the far side of this display, his mop of black hair falling into his face as he fiddled with levers and rotated dials. He glanced up as Winkler approached but didn’t stop playing with his giant train set.

Winkler noted that Hammond didn’t seem surprised to see him.

‘Mr Hammond,’ he said. ‘I want to ask you about—’

‘Magnificent, isn’t it?’ Hammond said. ‘You know, when I was a kid my granddad used to take me to the station at Crewe to watch the trains. I used to dream of being a train driver. That was all I wanted to do.’ He chuckled to himself. ‘My granddad would turn in his grave if he knew what I do these days. But he could barely afford to buy me a single wooden engine to play with. If he saw this . . .’ He stretched out his arms to indicate his miniature kingdom and Winkler was rendered speechless.

But he thought to himself: train sets. Toys. What does he do, use this to lure kids to his house? Is he into boys too? His paedo radar wasn’t just tingling now, it was going berserk.

Hammond stepped away from the control panel, the fervour in his eyes dimming a little. ‘How can I help you? Detective . . . ?’

‘DI Adrian Winkler.’

‘A colleague of DI Lennon’s? Don’t tell me he’s sent you to ask more questions about Shawn Barrett?’

Winkler shook his head. Beside him, an engine whizzed by dragging half a dozen passenger carriages behind it. The constant circular motion of the toys was making him feel queasy. And there was a cold, squelching sensation in his left shoe. I’m going to get sodding flu, he thought. And it was all this creep’s fault.

‘This isn’t about Shawn Barrett,’ he said, taking a step towards Hammond and pulling himself up to his full height. ‘It’s about you.’

Hammond adopted a puzzled expression. ‘Me?’

‘Yes, Mervyn. Hope you don’t mind if I call you Mervyn.’

‘What are you—?’

Winkler interrupted him, producing the signed photo from inside his damp coat and holding it in front of Hammond’s face. ‘Do you recognise this?’

‘Well, yes. It’s a photograph of me.’

‘A signed photograph of you. Send many of these out, do you, Mervyn?’

Hammond was looking at him as if he were talking in riddles. ‘No. Hardly any. But I appear in the media quite a lot, so I get the occasional request for a signed photo. Why are you—?’

‘Recognise the name Nancy Marr, Mervyn?’

In the moment before Hammond answered, his eyes shifted up and to the right. This was a sure sign that the PR man was about to tell a lie. Winkler held his breath.

‘No. I’ve never heard of her.’

He was lying. Definitely lying.

‘So you don’t remember sending, or giving, her this signed photo?’

‘No. Detective, I don’t send the photos out myself. Do you really think I’d have time to do that? I signed a small stock of pictures and if a request comes in to the office, my PA sends them out.’

‘Really?’

Winkler had spent much of the past twenty-four hours trying to work out why Hammond had killed the old woman and he was sure he’d figured it out. Somehow, Mrs Marr had discovered the truth about Hammond. Maybe Mervyn had assaulted or threatened a girl Mrs Marr knew. She had threatened to expose him. Blackmailed him, perhaps. So he’d murdered her to keep her quiet.

And perhaps he’d left the signed photo as a kind of calling card . . . ? Unlikely – but not impossible. Winkler would work out the details later.

Right now, he didn’t have enough to arrest Hammond. He could get him to come to the station again, but he strongly suspected this time Hammond would lawyer-up – an extremely expensive lawyer – and wriggle off the hook, then go crying to the papers about police harassment and how the cops were wasting their time on him when there was a murderer of teenage girls on the loose. Winkler knew there was no way the guv would allow them to touch Hammond without something rock solid. Winkler needed more . . . something to justify getting a search warrant for this place and Mervyn’s office, to seize his computer. He needed a girl to make a complaint about this pervert. An accusation.

He looked around, checking there were no CCTV cameras pointing at him, that it was just him and Mervyn. It was time to crank things up a little, get Mervyn to start worrying.

He walked over to the model train set and caught hold of one of the engines as it trundled past, snatching it up. The carriages it was pulling fell away and landed on the ground with a clatter.

Mervyn rushed over. ‘What the hell?’

Winkler stepped into his path, holding up the green and black locomotive. The letters LNER were stamped on its side.

‘Put that down,’ Hammond demanded.

‘Worth a fortune, is it?’ Winkler held it higher, his arm fully outstretched. ‘Would be a real shame if I dropped it.’

Hammond tried to grab at it, but Winkler pushed him away. Winkler was delighted to see that the PR man’s face had turned as red as the carriages that had fallen to the floor. ‘That was my granddad’s,’ Hammond said.

‘Ah. What a shame. Was your dear old granddad a kiddie fiddler too? Is that how it started? Granddad climbing into your bed at night, asking for a special cuddle?’

Hammond stared at him. ‘You’re sick. Who’s your superior officer? I’m going to call him right now . . .’ He pulled his phone out of his pocket.

‘Him? Sexist too, as well as a sexual predator. How many have there been, eh? Over the years?’

Hammond had gone so red now, breath coming out of him in quick, shallow gasps, that Winkler was slightly concerned the other man was going to have a heart attack. He didn’t want him to die before he faced justice. He lowered the train and gently placed it back on the track.

At that moment, Hammond’s mobile rang in his palm, making him jump. He stared at the screen, clearly debating whether to take it, but it must have been important because he lifted it to his ear and said, ‘Mervyn Hammond. Oh . . . Good morning, your Excellency . . .’

Winkler’s phone started ringing too. He checked the display: Gareth. He backed away towards the door, pointing at a spot below his eye and then at Hammond. Winkler felt satisfied. Hammond would definitely make some kind of move now. He would wonder how Winkler knew about him, move to further cover his tracks. Cover his train tracks, Winkler thought, sniggering. He really was a comedy genius.

He answered his phone as he walked towards the house. ‘Yeah?’

‘Boss, it’s DS Batey. We’ve had a call . . . You’re going to find this interesting.’ Gareth sounded excited.

‘Go on.’

‘Someone called Crime Stoppers anonymously. You’re not going to believe this, but they mentioned Hammond, said they were at a party at his house last night and saw some teenage girls’ clothes in one of the bedrooms. Including a pair of pink knickers with the word “LUCKY” printed on them.’

Winkler stopped dead. ‘What?’

‘I know. Rose Sharp’s underwear.’

Winkler’s heart was thumping like a full-size train thundering along the tracks. ‘Did this caller give any more details? Leave a name?’

‘No, like I said, it was anonymous.’

‘And who else knows about this call? Lennon?’

‘Not yet, no. The referral just came over – I picked it up and called you right away.’

Winkler raised his eyes to the heavens and mouthed ‘thank you’. ‘OK. Great. Keep it that way for the moment. I’ll call you back.’

He ended the call and jogged back towards the house, watching several Asian women emerge carrying bin bags that they dropped beside the white van he’d noticed earlier.

He broke into a sprint, glancing over his shoulder to see if Hammond had emerged from the barn yet. He must still be on his call to ‘his Excellency’, whoever that was.

As he reached the house, the Thai housekeeper emerged through the front door to join the three other women, an expression of alarm crossing her face when she saw Winkler running towards her.

‘I need everyone to stop,’ he said. ‘Listen to me.’

Four pairs of eyes stared at him.

‘Did any of you find any clothes, women’s clothes, when you were cleaning up?’

The women all started talking at once. He held up a hand. ‘Please. One at a time.’

One of the women, another East Asian, about twenty-one, Winkler guessed, said in a whisper, ‘I find knicker.’

Winkler thought he was going to have a heart attack. It was lucky he was so fit.

‘Where? Show me.’

The four women all started rummaging through the bin bags, untying them and sticking their gloved hands inside. Winkler looked over his shoulder. Hammond still hadn’t appeared.

‘Come on, come on,’ he urged.

‘I can’t find,’ the young Asian woman said.

‘Oh for fuck’s sake.’

He pushed her aside and grabbed the bin bag she had been rummaging through, tipping it out onto the path. Beer bottles, screwed-up napkins, food waste, cigarette ends, a couple of used condoms. But nothing pink. He did the same with the next bag, and the next, the women gawping at the horrific mess that spilled onto the edge of the lawn, all their hard work undone.

‘Where the fuck are they?’ Winkler snapped.

There was one bin bag left. He untied it and tipped its contents onto the pile of trash.

And there they were.

‘Gloves,’ he demanded. ‘Now.’

The housekeeper peeled off her transparent gloves and handed them to him. He slipped them on and crouched down, imagining himself being carried around the station, aloft on the shoulders of his colleagues, everyone chanting his name.

He held up the garment, pinching the knickers lightly between finger and thumb, and a thrill of excitement coursed through him.

‘Gotcha,’ he said.