The Hollow Man Read online

  “Have you reported it?” Belsey asked.

  “That’s what I’m doing,” the gardener said.

  26

  Belsey walked down Heath Street to the village.

  It was past 4 p.m. now, the time of a winter afternoon when Hampstead had a light of its own, silver and mauve; the colour of bags under the eyes of someone you loved and made tired. It came up from the ponds and hung about Downshire Hill and Flask Walk making the beautiful homes more cruelly beautiful.

  An Evening Standard van pulled up outside the tube station with the headline on its side: HAMPSTEAD RAMPAGE HORROR. A fresh pile of newspapers was dumped next to a distributor and a man purchased one without breaking his stride. Belsey admired the moment: the city as machine, bound in its rhythm of morbid fascination. He swiped a copy and read it as he walked.

  “A Hampstead schoolgirl died this morning after a gun attack on a Starbucks in north-west London . . .” They kept to the official line on her all-round abilities and general popularity. The school was in shock. They were arranging counselling. There was no picture of Jessica yet.

  He continued down Hampstead High Street to the incident room.

  The room had settled into its rhythm; off the boil now, but simmering. Already the investigation was moving out from its epicentre to the world. Belsey looked for June Glasgow but couldn’t see her.

  “Know where I’d find DI Glasgow?”

  “Outside, at the back. Just finished interviewing witnesses.”

  He poured two coffees from a pot beside the inquiry manager’s desk and took them out. Glasgow leaned against the church wall, alone with her thoughts.

  “Nick,” she said. He gave her a coffee. “Just what I need.”

  “Any joy with the interviews?”

  “Waste of time so far.” She sipped her coffee. “Nutters.” She passed him her pack of cigarettes and held out a light. After another moment she said: “I’ve been drafted into a pile of shit.”

  “Looks that way.”

  “Northwood sees it as his.”

  “It is.”

  “But he’s not a senior investigating officer. He shouldn’t be steering. Did you see the conference? Now we’ve got fifteen papers leading with street gang.”

  “What are your angles?”

  “We don’t have them. That’s the point. That should tell us something.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like you’re right, it wasn’t a robbery. But I’ve no idea what it was. I’ve never worked anything like it.”

  “But you’ve got ideas.”

  “Something with no logic, so we shouldn’t be looking for it. Maybe crackheads.”

  “Crackheads are high visibility. You’d have witnesses from Charing Cross to Highgate.”

  “Psychotic.”

  “Same.”

  “So what are your ideas, Nick?” she said, tired of the game.

  “An assassination,” Belsey said.

  “On who?”

  “Who was in there?”

  “A seventy-five-year-old woman visiting her sister in hospital. A cleaner from Uganda on his way to work. A Chinese student, twenty-one years old, who’s been working at Starbucks two months. The store manager—a Polish woman tipped for big things in Starbucks management—and a schoolgirl who’s in the wrong place at the wrong time. We’ve checked them all. No history, no suspicious connections.”

  “Only one of them was fired at.”

  “The schoolgirl?” She shook a match and dropped it. Belsey knew what she was thinking: Speculation like this wouldn’t mean much to the chain of command around her. A senior-looking plain-clothed officer slipped out of the back of the church, down the stone steps to the road. He winked at Glasgow as he passed.

  “The Magdala,” he said, lifting his drinking hand. Glasgow gave a noncommittal thumbs-up. Belsey watched him go.

  “Who was that?”

  “Ken Barber. From Gun Crime,” Glasgow said. But she was still puzzling over Belsey’s theory. “You’re saying it was a hit on Jessica Holden.”

  “Is there no way she could connect to anything?”

  “Like what?”

  “Like trouble, individuals with history.”

  “Not so far as I’m aware.” Glasgow turned to Belsey. “I heard you had some trouble of your own,” she said, as if maybe this was all about Belsey’s state of mind.

  “I’m all right.”

  “I asked for you on the team.”

  “And here I am.”

  She looked at him dubiously. “There’s only one thing we found on the girl.”

  “What is it?”

  “A letter in her handbag sealed in an envelope. Her writing.”

  “Saying?”

  “Sorry.”

  “For what?”

  “It says something like ‘I can’t do it. Sorry.’ A let-down letter.”

  “Can’t do what?”

  “I don’t know. It wasn’t addressed to anyone.”

  “Are you chasing it?”

  “We’re speaking to everyone who knew her. We haven’t found any signs of a romance so far. If we find a love drama we’ll follow that, but this doesn’t look like the work of a jilted teenager to me.”

  “I guess not.”

  “I’ve got to get back. Thanks for the coffee, Nick.” She didn’t thank him for his thoughts. Belsey watched her make her way back into the church, then walked to the Magdala pub and introduced himself to DI Barber. He was sitting at the back of the pub with a couple of the Murder boys. They looked glazed and tetchy. First drink since the call-out. But the inspector seemed all right. Barber had heavy-lidded eyes and several gold rings. He fetched Belsey a chair. Belsey broke Miranda Miller’s fifty-pound note and got four pints in.

  “What were Jessica Holden’s movements over the last few days?” Belsey said. “Where was she yesterday?”

  “Yesterday? She went to the gym. That was the last sighting before The Bishops Avenue. That’s all we know.” The inspector raised his glass. “Cheers.”

  “Which gym?” Belsey said.

  “The posh one off Belsize Avenue.”

  “Have you checked it?”

  “We spoke to them. They said she went two or three times a week. Kept to herself according to most of the other users.”

  “It’s a nice gym,” Belsey said.

  “It’s got some nice clientele.” The men laughed.

  “Which officers went in?”

  “To the gym? I don’t know. Why? You think this is health-related? You think she pushed someone off the treadmill?” The Murder boys laughed. Belsey laughed.

  27

  It wasn’t a gym, it was a health club—Belsize Health Club—and it made the distinction clear with a lot of high-maintenance greenery and screens showing every satellite channel you could hope to see. The building was on an expensive cul-de-sac. Vents spilled the smell of chlorine across cobblestones. Membership bought you the total absence of anyone without three grand a year to spend on Pilates. Those with the money were arriving thick and fast from a day of making it.

  “I’m thinking of becoming a member,” Belsey told the woman on reception.

  “Hang on.” She called out, “Mark.”

  A man emerged in gym-branded shorts and a T-shirt that let his biceps sell the benefits of membership. He shook Belsey’s hand.

  “Do you want to look around?”

  “Definitely.”

  “Follow me.” He patted Belsey’s shoulder and led him into the gym. “What’s your name?”

  “Nick.”

  “Nick, looks like you could do with some relaxation.”

  “Which machine’s good for that?”

  Mark laughed. “What are you hoping to work on?”

  “I want a six-pack.”
<
br />   He showed Belsey the new equipment, the swimming pool, a room of exercise bikes. Belsey admired a growing army of men and women pedalling endlessly towards their own reflections. The man was talking about payment plans.

  “And if there’s an au pair or anything, we can get her put on your account half-price.”

  “Perfect. Can I take a shower while I’m here? Maybe use the sauna?”

  “I can sort out a guest pass.”

  “That would be great. And I need a towel,” Belsey said.

  Belsey took the towel to the changing room, undressed and folded his clothes. Some members got their own permanent locker. These were larger than the others; they had gold numbers and a little tag that said “Premium.” Affiliates like himself had to put a pound in and he didn’t have a pound. He entered the sauna and breathed in the smell of pine, watching the lockers until someone opened one and he could see how large they were.

  He showered. The changing room was getting crowded. He helped himself to the free sprays and body lotion, dressed and went to reception.

  “What do you get with premium membership?”

  “It’s what we recommend if you’re serious about getting into shape. With premium you receive personal training, free classes, sunbeds, two towels and a locker of your own.”

  “Did Jessica Holden have premium membership?”

  It took them a moment to connect the name, then they looked uneasy.

  “What is this?”

  Belsey produced his police ID.

  “I think some police came in earlier. About Jessica Holden?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did they ask to see her locker?”

  “No.”

  “I’d like to see Jessica Holden’s locker.” He put his badge away. They stared at him. Belsey walked into the ladies’ changing room.

  “It’s OK,” Belsey announced to the half-dressed women. “This is a murder investigation.” He turned to the staff. “Open Jessica’s locker, please.”

  They found a key, went to a locker and opened it. Inside were three suit bags and three Selfridges bags containing sets of office clothes, two basques, underwear from La Senza and Agent Provocateur, handcuffs, lube in sachets, six-inch heels, blindfolds in pink and blue, a new UK passport and a set of business cards that said her name was Emerald and she knew your “heart’s desire,” at least within the M25 area.

  It appeared the locker was spacious enough to fit a second life. And quite a life she seemed to have bought herself. Belsey looked at the business cards again, then told the staff that he needed to make a call.

  They let him use the phone in reception. He called the incident room.

  “Has any agency contacted you to say Jessica Holden was working for them as an escort?”

  “No. Is it true?”

  “I’ll get back to you on that.”

  The gym staff clustered close by, pretending not to listen. Belsey dialled the number given on Emerald’s business card.

  “Good evening, sir. You’re through to Sweetheart Companionship. Can I help?”

  “Whereabouts are you based?” Belsey asked.

  “Are you looking for some companionship?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Can I take your name?”

  “I need to speak to the manager first. I have some unusual requests. Can you put me through?”

  “What does it concern?”

  “My request?”

  “Yes.”

  “Dead girls.”

  She hung up on him.

  Belsey thanked the gym for their assistance and walked out. He went to an Internet cafe on the Finchley Road and found the Sweetheart Companionship website. You could view girls by price or age or nationality; they advertised themselves with professional-quality shots, only partial nudity and vital statistics for those who wanted to imagine the rest. Half had their faces clouded. The home page kept the details of their work vague but advised that advance booking was necessary to avoid disappointment. All in all there were fifty-three girls of varying nationalities and price bands, all of whom may or may not have known his heart’s desire. There was no Jessica. No Emerald. Belsey checked the agency’s address and decided to visit in person.

  28

  Sweetheart lived on the top floor of a cramped Soho block on Poland Street, with narrow stairs leading past graphic designers and a TV production company. The door opened into a waiting area with a glass roof, a desk at the side and shots of 1950s film stars on the wall. It was turning 7 p.m., but then, Belsey guessed, it was a nocturnal kind of industry. A groomed middle-aged woman sat behind the desk, unfazed by his arrival.

  “I’m here to speak to the manager,” Belsey said. She smiled him towards a seat, and after a minute the office door opened and Belsey was invited in.

  The office contained a woman in a black trouser suit with a clipboard, and a man in an open-collared denim shirt with a tan and a greying goatee. The woman smiled at Belsey and left, shutting the door. The goatee gave a smile that was half a wink. Men here. Between you and me.

  “Freddie Garth.” He shook Belsey’s hand. “Drink?”

  “I’ll have whatever you’re having.”

  He buzzed through for some beers and water. The office had a view over the jumbled Soho rooftops towards Greek Street. There were framed prints of racing cars, a photographer’s white backdrop and a height chart. The desk was black, the chairs leather.

  “So I’m in London for a while,” Belsey began.

  “Of course.”

  “And I wanted some company.”

  “It can be a lonely city.”

  “The thing is, I wanted someone young enough to be my daughter,” Belsey said.

  The man nodded. “Why not?”

  “How young does it go?”

  “You’ll find all our girls are very fresh.”

  “What do they do?”

  “You pay for their company. Anything beyond that is between you and the girl. We don’t involve ourselves. But I think you’ll find most are very willing. In two years we’ve never had any complaints.”

  “Let’s say I wanted a girl called Emerald.”

  Garth’s jaw tightened. “Let’s say.”

  “Any girls working under that name?”

  “Not here.”

  “Not anymore, right?”

  “Never.”

  “So when did she start?” Belsey said.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  Belsey pulled his badge. “Try and think really hard what I might be talking about.”

  Garth shut his eyes, then opened them again. He was irritated. It was irritating, finding yourself involved in crime when all you were doing was being a pimp.

  “Early last year,” he said, making himself comfortable in a way that said this was now a waste of his time.

  “Well, she turned eighteen in September.”

  “Do you have a warrant?”

  “Do you?”

  “We’re all in order.”

  “Not for selling seventeen-year-olds you’re not.”

  “I’m not talking to you until you show me a warrant. It’s nothing to do with us.”

  “The funny thing is, it’s nothing to do with me either. So why would I have a warrant?” Belsey laughed. “It’s nothing to do with me and it’s nothing to do with you.” He wondered where the beers were.

  “Then perhaps you could leave.”

  “And yet you took her off the books quickly enough.”

  The woman came in with a tray of drinks and saw the expressions on their faces. She shot a puzzled look at Garth and he waved her out of the room.

  “We took her off five weeks ago.”

  “I could have done with that beer.”

  “Let’s make this qui
ck. It’s awful, what happened. But it’s nothing to do with us and you don’t need to be wasting your time here.”

  “Why did you take her off?”

  “She was fired.”

  “Why?”

  “She said she fell in love.” Garth’s eyes gleamed.

  “Is that bad?”

  “We knew what it meant.”

  “What does it mean?”

  “It means someone thinks they’re getting it for free.”

  Belsey considered this.

  “Maybe she was in love,” he said.

  “It means she’s turning tricks on her own. Sure, maybe she was loving it too. We see more of that than you’d think. It doesn’t make it any better for business.”

  “How did you know she was in love?”

  “She became unreliable. I heard talk. She wouldn’t turn up for jobs.” He shrugged. Belsey thought: Poor Jessica. Didn’t turn up for school and didn’t turn up for work. A girl after his own heart.

  “Did she do any secretarial stuff?”

  Garth frowned. “What do you mean?”

  “Dress up in a blouse. Type letters.”

  “She’d dress up as Mickey Mouse if it got your wallet open. This isn’t a convent.”

  Belsey nodded. He stood up and got some water from the cooler.

  “She was seeing a man called Alexei Devereux. Tell me about him.” He stood beside the cooler so Garth had to twist to see him.

  “We don’t keep client records.”

  “Bullshit,” Belsey said. “Do you keep payment records?”

  “Not lying about.” Now Garth spread his plump hands, suddenly placatory. “I’m a simple man. I make a simple living.”

  “It doesn’t get much simpler.”

  “All we sell is a chance to unwind. Most people just want someone on their arm, someone to have a nice meal with, go to a bar.”

  “You’re breaking my heart.”

  “Anything else is between them and the girls.”

  Freddie Garth looked very drained now. Drained of willpower and drained of useful information. Belsey could have told Freddie Garth more than Garth could tell him. The next detectives who turned up at Sweetheart’s offices would find his revelations more startling. Then they would be just a step away from Devereux, and two steps away from Belsey himself.