‘Hi, I’m Jim Paxton’s mate. He told me to meet him here but there’s no answer. You seen him?’
No reply. The door buzzed open. Papadopoulos went up the stairs, was about to hammer on the door.
‘His bell’s broken,’ said a girl’s voice from down the corridor. ‘He expects the landlord to fix it, which is why it’s still fucked.’
‘You seen him at all?’
‘I saw him over the weekend,’ she said. ‘But not since Saturday, which isn’t so weird. He quite often doesn’t surface on Sundays.’
‘He left his job. We were out together on Friday night.’
‘He said he was going to Thailand to get away from the cold.’
‘I thought it was India.’
‘That’s Jim,’ said the girl, shrugging. ‘Never has any money. His travel plans are all up here.’ She tapped her head, pulled her cardigan tighter around her body.
Papadopoulos pounded on the door.
‘I’m worried about him,’ said Papadopoulos, taking out his mobile, calling the number Toola had given him. ‘He’s not answering his calls.’
They heard the mobile ringing in the flat. A look of genuine concern came over the girl.
‘Any ideas how I can get in here?’ asked Papadopoulos.
‘I haven’t got any keys and the landlord’s a wanker. You won’t see him unless Jim’s rent cheque doesn’t turn up, and he paid that . . .’
She stopped as Papadopoulos leaned back and hammered his heel into the lock. The door cracked back into the wall. The flat was in darkness.
‘Well, that’s one way,’ said the girl, who’d walked up the corridor to peer in. ‘It smells terrible in there, doesn’t it?’
‘Stay here,’ he said.
Small, depressing kitchen on the right, window overlooking the razor wire around the yard next door. Washing up all done, clean cooker and floor. Sitting room, blinds drawn, vaguely aware of a battered sofa, two chairs and a table up against the wall, three shelves of books. Papadopoulos rolled the blind up to let in more light but there wasn’t much to be had. He looked down into a grey yard piled high with white plastic furniture, as if tossed there by hooligans. He turned to see a large flat screen TV in the middle of the far wall, brand new. The room was very tidy, as if recently dusted and hoovered.
‘I haven’t seen that before,’ said the girl, pointing at the TV.
‘I told you to stay outside,’ said Papadopoulos, unable to suppress his cop instincts, not wanting her to contaminate the scene.
‘Jim’s a bit of a control freak, you know, a compulsive cleaner. Doesn’t like mess. Irons his underpants. Know what I mean?’ said the girl. ‘It never smells like this in his flat. He burns aromatic candles normally.’
‘Don’t touch anything, OK? Just wait for me outside. I don’t like the look of this.’
‘Are you the police or something?’
Fuck off, he thought. Not you and all.
The girl backed out slowly. Things more serious than she’d anticipated, but she trusted the guy, Jim’s mate, who kicked down doors. Cop type, if not a real one.
The bedroom was a mess. Duvet on the floor, bedside lamp and table knocked over. Very bad smell, but no sign of Jim. Papadopoulos turned on the light. Huge wardrobe in the corner, massive for the room. Clothes on hangers were piled in the corner, shoes all over the shop. The right-hand door of the wardrobe was hanging open a couple of inches. Papadopoulos eased it open with his foot. Jim was hanging from the bar, stripped to the waist, trousers and underpants around his knees, but his feet in contact with the floor of the wardrobe. His head was drooped over the belt around his slack neck, lips swollen, eyes bulging out.
‘Shit,’ said Papadopoulos.
He backed out of the room, shut the door, called Mercy. The girl was on the threshold of the sitting room, hovering.
‘You’d better go back to your flat,’ he said, but she didn’t react. ‘Hey!’
‘What?’
‘I’m calling the police. Go back to your flat.’
‘What’s happened to Jim?’
‘He’s dead,’ said Papadopoulos. ‘Two secs, Mercy.’
‘Jim’s dead?’ said the girl, puzzled. ‘Suicide?’
‘Why do you ask that?’
‘He was a bit of a depressive . . . a manic depressive,’ she said.
‘What about the flat screen TV?’
‘What about it?’
‘You don’t buy one of those if you’re going to kill yourself the next day.’
‘I don’t know what you’re getting at,’ she said, still in shock.
‘Just go back to your flat while I speak to the police.’
She left. Papadopoulos followed her, made sure she went all the way, closed the door to Jim’s flat.
‘Mercy, I’ve just found the last guy to be seen with Alyshia D’Cruz on Friday night. He’s dead, hanging in the wardrobe in his flat in Shoreditch.’
‘Murder?’
‘Looks like it to me, but with a half-arsed attempt to dress it up as auto-erotic asphyxiation.’
‘I’ll call the DCS, see how he wants to play this,’ said Mercy. ‘It’s got to be connected to the kidnap.’
‘Maybe we should start looking at CCTV footage around Covent Garden on Friday night. Alyshia was last seen by a girl in the leaving party group heading down Maiden Lane with this guy. His name’s Jim Paxton.’
‘Leave it with me.’
‘How are you getting on?’
‘So far, so nothing,’ said Mercy. ‘I’ve just been phoning around, but I’m about to go face-to-face with informers. I’m on my way to the East End now.’
‘There’s a girl here in the flat next to Jim Paxton’s. She knows him. Do you want me to interview her or wait?’
‘They’ll probably want to put a full homicide unit onto it, so leave it until you hear from the DCS.’
‘I’ll get back to the girl in the leaving party who last saw Alyshia and Jim. See if I can get a bit more detail.’
Papadopoulos hung up, called Toola.
‘Hi, Toola, it’s me again. Don’t know what’s going on today. No luck with Jim and Alyshia’s off work. No answer from their mobiles. When did you say you last saw them?’
‘Alyshia wanted to get a cab. She was really out of it. I was surprised; she doesn’t drink that much. Not like us. One moment she was all right and the next she was wasted. I thought afterwards someone might have spiked her drink.’
‘Jim?’
‘Not Jim. He was looking after her. He’s not the pervy type. I think they just went off to the other side of the Garden to get a cab. It was mad on the Strand. Everybody off their faces and that kid got knifed.’
Another call coming in. Papadopoulos hung up on Toola, took the call from DCS Makepeace.
‘Good work, George,’ said Makepeace. ‘You’re at Jim Paxton’s flat with the girl?’
‘I’ve sent her back to her flat. I’m on my own here, sir.’
‘There’s no cloak and dagger way round this. It’s got to be investigated as murder and the body has to be removed,’ said Makepeace. ‘We’ll maintain your cover . . .’
‘I’m just a mate of Jim Paxton’s as far as this girl’s concerned, although I did put my foot through the door to gain entry.’
‘Sit tight with her. I’ll have a homicide unit round there in ten minutes,’ said Makepeace. ‘We’re going through the CCTV footage now.’
‘If it’s any help on the timing, Alyshia’s colleague at work told me that a black lad was stabbed on the Strand at the same time Alyshia would have been looking for a cab with Jim Paxton.’
13
12.30 P.M., MONDAY 12TH MARCH 2012
location unknown
‘Bad news,’ said the voice.
Alyshia thought she was awake. The sleeping mask was still on, but with all the drugs, she wasn’t sure whether she was under or not. Her mind felt sharp but flighty. She reached out and touched the wall with her fingertips. She wanted c
onsciousness but no interference. She wanted to think. Too much of her life outside work had passed by in a blur, with no contemplation, just a continuous stream of action and reaction in a twittering, facebooking, texting world, where everything was about speed and connection, but empty of content.
‘Did you hear me, Alyshia?’
This kidnap, this voice, had forced her in on herself, to a place she’d rarely been before. He’d driven her to consider things that could possibly be true, but because she’d never been able to resist the momentum of life, she’d never had time to disentangle it all. Only now was she becoming aware of the ambivalence within herself. The need and the resistance. The wanting to know and yet fearing it, too. But what, exactly, was there to fear? She wasn’t the fearful type. Who was it who’d said that ignorance and arrogance were the perfect combination for the fearlessness of the young?
Her mind was reaching for something, but with the uncertainty of a hand that had to go into a dark hole in the wall to grasp something. Her father had always told her: ‘Courage is retrospective. You don’t know you’ve got it until you’ve done it.’ She knew now that she was reaching out for the answer to the voice’s last question: ‘What was it about Julian that drew you to him?’ She knew none of her friends had been able to understand it.
‘Anybody home?’ asked the voice.
The door opened. Feet strode cross the floor. Four of them. They had violence in their contact with the rough cement. The coldness of the latex hands that touched her skin made her throat leap. They hauled her to her feet, pulled her across the floor. Her legs were not working properly. They got her standing, cuffed her hands behind her back, then swept her legs away. One of them grabbed a fistful of her hair, pulled her head back until her neck was taut. Her heart pattered in her chest like a bird baffled by a window. Two slaps. Left, then right. The inside of her cheek bled. Tears seeped into her mask. She had a vision of herself, blind and helpless before the chopping block.
‘Bad news,’ said the voice. ‘Are you with me now, Alyshia?’
She tried to nod, couldn’t speak.
‘I want to hear your voice; you’re on camera?’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I’m with you now.’
‘The negotiations with your parents have not worked out to our satisfaction.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘They’ve broken down. We can’t seem to come to an agreement. We warned Frank and Isabel what would happen but they don’t seem to believe us. We’ve decided to terminate the negotiations. This kidnap is now over. We are going to dispose of you as we see fit.’
‘Dispose of me?’
‘It’s unfortunate. This is what happens when kidnap negotiations break down,’ said the voice. ‘But to show your parents that we’re not completely heartless, we’ve decided to give you the opportunity to say some final words, to whomever you want. Perhaps you don’t want to say anything to them now that you’ve realised how obstructive they—’
‘But I’ve done everything you’ve asked. I’ve answered all your questions. Ask me anything. I’ll . . . I’ll . . .’
‘No, no, Alyshia, don’t get me wrong. This is not your problem. This is purely to do with a breakdown in communication with your parents. It’s beyond your control, and ours too. I’m sorry it’s come to this. We . . . I thought we were getting somewhere with your . . . what shall we call it? Treatment?’
‘You’re confusing me,’ said Alyshia, white fear racing around her body, cold and fast as quicksilver. The pulse in her neck tapped faster than little fingers over a tam-tam. Her mouth was box dry, pins and needles in her lips, eyeballs searching the velvet blackness of the mask for an inkling of light, or meaning, or an exit.
‘It’s not confusing. You’re understandably upset,’ said the voice. ‘I’m being crystal clear. The negotiations have failed. Your parents have not acquiesced to our demands. The kidnap is over.’
‘But I’ve . . . I’ve only been away . . .’
‘You’ve been a hostage for sixty hours now,’ said the voice. ‘Normally we’d expect to resolve this sort of thing in forty-eight. The longer we hold you, the riskier it becomes. We’re in London, where everybody’s watching, everybody’s talking.’
‘But you told them no police, didn’t you? They won’t go to the police.’
‘I’m sure they didn’t actually go to the police, but,’ said the voice, ‘we’ve had to be careful ourselves. You know, cover our tracks, as they say. We had to kill Jim, you see.’
‘You killed Jim? Why? I thought you said he had nothing to do with this.’
‘I lied to you. You were right. He was involved. He delivered you to us. Put a bit of a spike in your last drink and sent you to our door. We paid him very well, but you know how it is, you can never rely on people not to shoot their mouths off. There’s a powerful need out in this anonymous city to make yourself the centre of attention, even if it is for Warhol’s fifteen minutes down the pub.’
‘But that means you’ve covered your tracks,’ she said, grasping at the reeds flashing past on the bank. ‘There’s nothing for you to worry about. I haven’t seen your faces. I haven’t even heard your real voice. What do I know about you?’
‘The police found Jim this morning. We made it look as good as we could. Pills, alcohol, bit of auto-erotic asphyxiation.’
‘Don’t tell me. I don’t need to know. Why are you telling me this? I’m not going to tell anybody.’
‘I don’t think it will wash with the crime scene guys, though. They’ll see through it in seconds. Even you’d see through it.’
‘But it will still take time. You’ve still got time,’ said Alyshia. ‘Just go back to my parents . . .’
‘That has not been fruitful,’ said the voice. ‘Of course, they’ve got a negotiator there, a professional telling your mother what to say and how to say it. This has complicated the issue which, as we see it, is very simple.’
‘Let me talk to them. I can persuade them.’
‘It’s too late for that,’ said the voice. ‘The police finding Jim’s dead body has put us under pressure. We’re getting out before we’re caught. The decision has been unanimous. We’ve bought you some of your own clothes. Rather special clothes. We want you to get dressed, look nice and composed and say your final words. But Alyshia, this has to be done in ten minutes. If you try to string this out, we’ll just shoot you like a dog. It makes no difference to the men holding you. As you’ve discovered, they’ve been a bit rough with you already. They’re annoyed. They know they’re not going to get their bonus.’
They pulled her up to her feet. One of the men holding her left the room. She heard a plastic dry cleaning sheath being stripped off. The other uncuffed her wrists.
‘You’re going to need a different bra for this dress,’ said the voice. ‘Take off your underwear.’
She stripped naked and covered herself, crouching. A pair of knickers was crushed into her hand. She pulled them on. A strapless bra was thrown over her shoulder. She slipped it over her breasts.
Someone knelt down in front of her.
‘Left foot up,’ said the voice. ‘Down. Right foot up. Down.’
The dress was drawn up her thighs, over her waist. She knew the feel of it. It was the black mermaid dress. The figure-hugging one that shot out at the knee in a taffeta skirt. The one she’d worn for her 21st birthday in London.
She tried to jog her brain into thinking of some words, but all that ripped through her mind was a jetstream of fear.
The zip ran up the middle of her back. The design left her shoulders perfectly naked, ideal for jewellery. There was the dull click of a box opening. Her hair was sheafed and raised above her head. A man’s arms came over her shoulders. The touch of ice on her clavicles made her throat catch and struggle as the settings were drawn up to her neck and the clasp fixed at her nape. Her hair fell back onto her shoulders. A brush was put into her hands.
‘Do the best you can,’ said the voice. ‘Keep t
he mask on.’
The brush snagged through her unwashed hair, tore through the tangles; she pulled until the roots hurt and the tears came.
‘Shoes,’ said the voice. ‘Bring her the shoes. Hurry it up. We’ve got seven minutes to be out of here.’
Her feet were fitted into high heels, the black strappy ones. She was elevated to a new height. The smell of alcohol came to her nostrils. Doused cotton wool dabbed at her tear-stained cheeks.
‘No make-up. You should look as natural as possible. I want them to see the pure you. Remind them of what their intransigence has cost them. Are we ready?’ said the voice. ‘Close your eyes, Alyshia. Take off the mask.’
The cotton wool swabbed around her eyes. She cherished the coolness of its touch. The final stroke of care in this world. The light hurt and she squinted against it.
‘Open your eyes,’ said the voice. ‘The camera is running. You may speak. Action.’
Her whole life tore towards the funnel of her mind. Twenty-five years cramming itself into a small sphere, like a child looking down binoculars the wrong way to see the improbable adult so far off. How to crystallise a life? Nothing had prepared her for this moment. Not even some of the most advanced presentation techniques she’d learned at the Saïd Business School were adequate to this monumental task. Who am I? she thought. Who was I? When they asked celebrities that question: ‘What do you owe your parents?’ they always replied: ‘Everything’. Did that still apply when it also included your death?
She looked in the mirror and saw a further intensity to her beauty now that she was teetering on the edge. By contrast, the men on either side of her were deeply ugly, dressed in amorphous, thigh-length biker jackets, collars zipped up to their noses, hoods over their heads, only eye-holes visible. And the one on her right with a silenced handgun hanging loosely from an ungloved hand. She trembled inside, felt her stomach muscles quivering against the fabric of the dress. Only then did she concentrate on the necklace: the diamonds given to her by her father on her 21st birthday. Three swallows to get the emotion back down.