Behind Closed Doors (10 page)

‘With anyone?'

He strengthened the sneer. ‘She was with me,' he said. ‘I thought you'd got it. The bitch was on heat for me. She comes round the club to get herself tipsy-topsy and thinks she's living the wild life.'

‘Being with you doesn't stop her walking out of there with some other guy,' I said.

‘Yes it does,' he said.

Possessive. For a guy who couldn't care less.

‘So you've not seen her since that night?'

‘Nah.'

Whatever little credibility I gave to Cohen's words I got the sense that he didn't know anything. He was sticking to his story like chewing gum on angora.

‘Did Rebecca talk to you? Anything about trouble at home? Plans to leave town?'

‘Nah.'

‘Anything you hear about her? People talking?'

‘Nah.'

Cohen's disinterest was getting emphatic. The shock had worn off and he was getting courage. Working himself up for a second round. It was time to quit. If the Slaters pointed at Cohen I'd be right back. Right now my stomach had absorbed as much of the atmosphere as was healthy.

I left Cohen to it and scuttled back down the stairs to get to breathable air. The Frogeye was still in one piece on the street. The sun was out and the day seemed momentarily good. I'd just got the engine fired up when my phone rang.

Shaughnessy.

Things were happening.

Slater had left the house. Shaughnessy was following his Lexus south through the city. I drove west across London to intercept them. If Slater was headed out of town I'd take over.

Shaughnessy's hands-free commentary guided me towards Hammersmith as he and Slater moved south-west onto the A402. We got a break when the Lexus got snarled in roadworks coming into Hammersmith. I closed the gap and by the time Shaughnessy reported Slater turning at the roundabout beneath the flyover I was already moving up the eastern ramp. I put my foot down across the flyover and spotted Slater merging into the traffic a couple of hundred yards ahead. Heading out towards the M4.

I called the hit and Shaughnessy broke off to resume his stakeout at the Slater house. I pushed an Eartha Kitt tape in and cranked the volume. I had a full tank and good music. Wherever Slater was headed I was with him.

The Lexus passed Heathrow and took the M25 south. I followed into roadworks, taking the same lane between the cones. Five minutes later we were out of it and the Lexus moved into the slip for the M3. I didn't see out-of-town trips being the norm in a stockbroker's day. So maybe this excursion was part of whatever was shredding Slater's diary.

The Lexus cruised south-west for forty minutes then continued onto the M27 towards Bournemouth. The sun flared bright in the Frogeye's worn windscreen. Keeping Slater in sight took concentration. When the M27 quit we continued on the A-road in heavier traffic. A half-hour later Slater took the roundabout towards Bournemouth, skirted the town and drove into Poole. We went through the town and crossed the harbour bridge.

On the far side the Lexus turned inland again through residential streets and finally pulled into a marina called Cobb's Quay. I held back in the parking area and watched Slater pull up nose to tail with a bright red Toyota SUV out on the jetties. I tucked in behind a beached cruiser fifty yards back and walked down. Enough hardware was bobbing out on the water to start a navy. Motor cruisers and yachts in all directions. This wasn't billionaires' row – there was nothing over fifty feet in sight – but it was serious hobby.

I watched from behind a skip as a man in a flannel sports jacket climbed out of the SUV to meet Slater. The two of them shook hands briefly as if this was routine business then walked down a jetty and skipped up onto the bow of a motor cruiser. They prowled the deck for a couple of minutes then disappeared below. I walked down the jetty, ready to about-turn if they came back up on deck. The vessel was named the
Lode Star
. A sleek forty-footer in brilliant white with a fully enclosed wheelhouse topped by a radar transmitter and a raked VHF. Just the place to do a little discreet business.

I went back to dry land and found a bollard with a view. The sun was warm on my face. A breeze off the Channel ruffled the water, setting masts dancing. As stakeouts went it beat lurking in the bushes outside the Slater house. As stakeouts went it was brief: ten minutes later the two men came out. They quit the boat and moved back up the jetty. I walked back to the Frogeye. By the time I got there they were at their cars. Another brief handshake and the meeting was over.

I started the car. My choice was to stay with Slater or to follow the Toyota. Opted for the Toyota. The chances were that Slater would head straight back home. I was already prepping Shaughnessy as the Lexus passed me on its way out. Ten seconds later the SUV passed and turned towards the sea. I allowed another car to get between us, then followed. Apart from the vehicle between me and the Toyota traffic was nil.

We crossed back over the bridge and got into an area of narrow streets and tourist shops. The SUV turned and squeezed down a side street between an antique shop and a mountain bike outlet. I indicated but took my time making the turn to make sure the SUV had got clear. Saw it parked with its wheels on the kerb just fifty yards down. The driver was opening the door. I waited for non-existent traffic and watched the guy walk into a doorway. Then I cancelled my indicator and found a slot on the main street.

I walked back round. The buildings were mostly residential, terraced cottages with front doors right on the street. A handful of small businesses was mixed in – a grocery store, a bedroom furniture store and a run-down cafe. The Toyota was parked outside a door adjoining the cafe. Side stairs ran up to first floor offices and a plate read DK MARINE. I walked past and crossed the street to a ginnel thirty yards away. Loitered to see if the guy came back out. After thirty minutes he was still there. I walked around the block to avoid passing in front of the building again and got back to the Frogeye. I had a boat name, a licence plate and a business address in addition to all the fresh air.

I cranked up the Frogeye and drove back to London.

I reached Battersea at seven. Arabel had left a message before going on shift. The message reminded me that we were shopping tomorrow morning. She'd be off duty at seven thirty, ready to hit Covent Garden by nine. No mention of anything as mundane as sleep. I started to call, tell her I might not make it. Cancelled before the line connected. I had a busy weekend but I figured I shouldn't let the girl down more than three times in a month. In my line of work you could grow a habit of letting people down. Arabel put up with it mostly but I'd cancelled a few things lately. Building credits this weekend seemed like a good idea.

I freshened up. Grilled a tuna steak that Arabel had sneaked into my fridge. Ate it with a jacket potato and steamed veg and washed it down with a cup of Buckaroo coffee laced with single cream. Then I called Shaughnessy and headed out.

I crossed the river in early-evening traffic and headed for the Podium. There was a live set at nine thirty so entry was a fiver. I told Barney I'd not be staying and he waved me through gratis. The place was mostly empty. I got a seat and relaxed with a pint of Pride and piped jazz. At eight thirty Shaughnessy came in. He brought another beer and a mineral water over. He pushed the beer across the table. Shaughnessy's own tipple never varied much. Sometimes it was plain mineral water, sometimes carbonated. I tried to see what he had today but the light wasn't good.

He gave me the run-down on Jean Slater. She'd not shown her face outside the house all day. Shaughnessy had sneaked around the rear of the property a couple of times out of boredom. The first time he'd spotted her taking out the rubbish, the next she was just a shadow behind a window. The trip tailing Larry Slater to the M4 had been the highlight of his day.

I gave him the details of Slater's nautical excursion. Maybe the meeting on the yacht had nothing to do with whatever was happening to his stepdaughter. But I was staying with the First Rule of the Detective Game. No coincidences.

Shaughnessy agreed. ‘Something's thrown a spanner into Slater's routine,' he said. ‘I don't see rushing home for lunch or chasing to the coast for a ten-minute business chat being routine.'

‘Me neither. You catch him later?'

Shaughnessy took a swig and planted his bottle. Bubbles rose through the water.

Carbonated.

‘Yeah,' he said.

Shaughnessy had picked Slater up as he crossed the M25 and tailed him back into London through the rush-hour traffic. By six o'clock the Lexus was parked outside the house in Holland Park. Same routine as two nights ago. Slater had rung the doorbell and got nothing. Then he'd sat in his car for an hour and a half before heading home. It seemed that our mysterious Brown was still out.

‘Whatever is going on with the Slaters,' Shaughnessy said, ‘this Brown person is part of it.'

I agreed. ‘The Holland Park thing has me wondering whether Rebecca has got involved with someone there. Someone linked to her disappearance.'

‘So maybe not an extortion racket.' Shaughnessy said. ‘If the girl has been kidnapped for money it's hard to see how Slater's fixation with Holland Park fits in. He'd know the girl wasn't findable. So what's the guy looking for?'

He came back to another alternative. ‘How did Cohen pan out?'

‘I don't think he's part of it,' I said. ‘The guy could be good for anything dirty but he didn't seem to know or care. As far as he's concerned, Rebecca is history until the next time she pops up in his sights.'

I detailed my plans to take a quick look at a couple of things over the weekend then we'd go and talk to the Slaters, put pressure on them to bring us in on their problem. We agreed arrangements and Shaughnessy went home to take care of responsibilities I didn't have. I gave him a fiver to pass to Barney on the way out. Might as well stay for the set. If I went home I'd brood about the missing girl. Imagining the worst case.

Arabel and I breakfasted in Covent Garden then spent a morning in the boutiques. Arabel has a figure that carries expensive clothes frighteningly well. Shopping with her could leave the car in hock. Mercifully, even Arabel had to sleep sometime. We called it quits shortly before my bank went into liquidation. I left her to crash out early afternoon and drove back to Battersea.

On the way I made a hands-free to Shaughnessy to see if anything was happening at the Slater house. Shaughnessy wasn't at the house. An hour back Larry Slater had taken a drive and Shaughnessy had tailed him to Holland Park and yet another vigil outside the apartment. Shaughnessy had pulled Harry Green in to take over at the house rather than call me in. Figured he was doing me a kindness. It was his soft spot for Arabel. Shaughnessy had decided that the girl was good for me. I could have told him that already, but he had also figured that the best chance of me keeping Arabel was to shield her from the chronic unreliability that goes with the private investigator's lifestyle, mine in particular. He seemed to think that the occasional morning draining my bank account would show Arabel that I was reliable. Arabel knew better.

‘You want me to take over at Holland Park?' I offered.

‘No,' Shaughnessy said. ‘I'm comfy here. Just clocking variable.'

Shaughnessy and I took a fixed and a variable pay packet. The fixed was a basic wage, sufficient to support a life of penury in the city. We boosted this with the variable, which was a bonus based on the hours we clocked and the cash coming in. In slack months the cash was a figment of our imaginations and the variable simply accrued as credits. Shaughnessy's extra hours were unlikely to bring hard cash in the near future but he could always get off on counting his credits.

‘Let me know if anything breaks,' I said. ‘Otherwise we'll talk tonight.'

‘Tonight.'

I called Harry Green who sounded even happier than Shaughnessy about accruing hours since we paid him cash. Harry reported that Jean was sitting tight inside the Slater house.

‘You want me to walk round, take a look?' he asked.

‘No,' I said. ‘Stay put. Just call me if she moves.'

‘I'll do that, Eddie.'

‘We may need you this evening,' I said. ‘Have you got engagements?'

‘None I can't break,' Harry said. ‘Anything special?'

‘Just some digging,' I said

‘Sean tells me this girl's been gone ten days,' Harry said. ‘That doesn't sound good.'

‘Not to me either. But if she's still in one piece we'll get her.'

Harry said nothing.

I killed a couple of hours in the attic until the light started to go. The sky was clouding over fast. A storm on its way. It would be dark in another hour.

I called Shaughnessy and Harry Green for updates. Slater had quit his vigil and returned home and so had Shaughnessy. Harry was still watching the Slater house. I asked him to hang on for another two hours and warn me urgently if Slater moved.

I changed into dark clothes and a shooting jacket with a modified vest that was useful for holding P.I. stuff and went out to the car.

It was raining hard when I crossed the river. I drove up to Islington and pulled into the alleyway behind the Slater–Kline business. The parking slots were all empty. I drove through and left the Frogeye a couple of streets away then hurried back through the rain to a coffee bar opposite the shop. Carried a drink over to a window seat and watched the place. The main office was brightly lit but nothing moved inside. The only candidates for weekend working would be the firm's partners, but the empty parking spaces behind the building told me that no one was in.

I finished my drink and walked round to the back of the building. A fire escape climbed the rear wall. Yesterday's visit had shown me that the main office was well protected, but my guess was that the upper floors would have minimal security. I climbed the fire escape and gently jemmied a washroom window by the first-floor platform. I was inside in thirty seconds. I went through into the corridor. No security sensors in sight. I walked downstairs and looked through the fire doors into the office. An array of motion detectors and mini-CCTVs protected the area but what I was looking for was on this side of the doors. Back upstairs I located Slater's office at the front of the building.

The door was locked but the lock was meant to deter casual wandering, not a professional assault. I released the lock and went in. The room was bright from the street lights but I needed more. I flipped on Slater's desk lamp. Anyone watching would see a business partner putting in the hours counting his dough Saturday evening.

Shelves around Slater's walls were stacked with company reports and trading magazines. A locked filing cabinet beside the door probably held stuff that Slater was working personally – trading analyses, reports, client correspondence. I was looking for something that didn't belong, something that might give a clue about what was going on at home. Notes, telephone numbers, maybe a ransom demand. It was a long shot but Slater was spending time here in this office despite the thing at home. There was a chance he had stashed something here.

Slater's desk backed onto the window. The inlaid leather work-top was bare except for a low-footprint PC, a telephone and thinly populated in- and out-trays. The desk was built of solid mahogany, had the kind of old-world feel that solicitors go for. Slater's attempt at a status symbol. I sat down. Three pull-out drawers on the left and a file drawer and stationery tray to the right. The drawers were locked; I opened the left drawers inside five seconds with sixteen-gauge wire.

The top drawer was sweep-up from when the desktop was cleared at night. Customer portfolios with graphics tracking gains and losses. I skimmed Slater's cryptic market assessments and action lists, saw nothing unusual. The printouts were dated within the last few days so something like normal business had been going on.

The next drawer down held writing pads and a couple of market weeklies. Nothing of interest. The bottom drawer was twice the depth of the others and Slater used it to stack old material he hadn't got round to throwing out. The dump was near capacity. I pulled the contents out in blocks and set them in order on the desk top, although I wasn't sure there was any order. Last year's company reports, market summaries going back two or three years, torn-out magazine pages with marked-up articles, similarly outdated. A couple more A4 writing pads. Then I found something interesting.

Pushed beneath the bottom layer of market magazines were some sheets that didn't belong: two Amex statements and two bills for Slater's mobile. The statements were recent; February and March. Odd stuff to keep at the office. Even odder under a weight of junk in your bottom drawer.

I cleared some desk space to see what Slater was hiding.

Slater used his mobile freely. The statements were three pages each. All voice calls, no text. Slater wasn't a hot-finger. Most calls were timed during office hours. A few outside that, typically thirty seconds, the calls you make to tell your wife you're on your way home or to make a restaurant reservation. The daytime calls were longer – up to fifty minutes. Nothing stood out but there had to be something in the list that Slater wanted to keep private. The fact that he'd chosen the office to hide the bills suggested that the person he might be hiding stuff from was his wife. I took out my pocket scan and ran it over the pages to capture the info.

Then I looked at the Amex sheets.

The sheets spilt the beans.

Slater used the card sparingly, so what was there stood out. And what was there was stuff he probably didn't want showing on his normal bank statements.

The bill for February had a clear opening balance then a single transaction: Slater had paid a company called Blueglades fifteen hundred pounds. The rest of the sheet was blank.

The March statement showed Slater clearing the fifteen hundred and then adding six transactions. Two more were payments to Blueglades in mid- and late-March, fifteen hundred and three thousand respectively. The dates coincided with two hefty payments made to the Royal Trafalgar Hotel in Brighton where Slater had settled an eight hundred and then sixteen hundred pound bill. A final couple of charges were for restaurants in the Brighton area around the same dates. From the size of the bills Slater had either been feeding a football team or the restaurants were outrageously expensive. I went for the latter.

Interesting.

The payments had a resonance. Hinted at Slater being engaged in some kind of extracurricular activity that he wanted hidden from eyes at home. An affair? What was Blueglades?

I checked the mobile bill again, looking at dates that correlated with the Amex payments. Picked up a cluster of calls to a single mobile number matching the February and March Blueglades dates. Maybe the number of whomever Slater was extracurricularising with.

It was the kind of thing we dug out all the time. The information would be hot if I was here to investigate Slater and not his stepdaughter.

I pocket-scanned the Amex payments then reinterred the stuff in the bottom of the drawer and locked up.

I moved to the right hand side. The file drawer held ten card files of open business. I went through them one by one. Client files circulating from the main office. Nothing unusual.

After an hour I had nothing more. I decided to pass on the main filing cabinet. It would take me ten minutes to open it and I doubted that I'd get anything new. The stuff Slater wanted to hide had been there at the bottom of that desk drawer. I sat back in his chair and tried to see the picture. Nothing obvious came through.

It was nine p.m. I relocked the office and let myself out of the washroom window. The jemmied window could not be relocked but no one would notice for a month or two. No one would be looking.

I recovered the Frogeye and called Shaughnessy. He said he was ready to roll.