Behind Closed Doors (14 page)

One booking was in June. The other was October, the date Tina's friend Sammy had given me. Bingo! Alpha Security, whoever they were, were linked to Tina.

On both occasions Alpha had a guest checking in for the middle night. Neither was Slater. The October guest was someone named John McCabe with an address in Wimbledon. The June man was a David Hanlon. Address in Chevening, Surrey.

I wondered how far back this pattern went. I scribbled again. Pushed a note over the desk saying
Alpha Security. Last five years???? £200 each.
Gerald's expression was a combination of fear and boggle-eyed greed. There might be dozens of these bookings. He looked to see if I was serious. Were my pockets stuffed with cash? They weren't, but Gerald didn't know it. I left him hurdling towards the admin office and went back to my bistro. Adrenaline fired me to order one more coffee, and Gerald's last hundred took another hit.

Gerald came out fifteen minutes later but he was interrupted by the necessity of dealing with an arriving guest. I stayed seated and watched the fastest checking-in since Anne Boleyn arrived at the Tower. Gerald had the guy through in sixty seconds flat.

Then I wandered across, leaned on the desk. Gerald looked up at me with the expression of a rottweiler whose sausages have been snatched. A single shake of the head. Alpha Security had nothing prior to the reservation last June. It was lucky, in a way. The sausage string wasn't as long as the rottweiler had thought.

I touched my forelock in a manner I judged way out of line with Royal Trafalgar behaviour and headed for the door.

The coffee had been expensive but I'd got something that was going to jump-start this case.

I just had to figure what it meant.

‘About time!'

Mitch watched the guy come down the steps. He'd been sitting in the Warrior for two hours and his arse was aching. They had a real fast mover here.

As the guy reached his Tonka, Roker came out of the hotel behind him. Mitch had the engine running before he was halfway over.

‘Go.'

They got out onto Kingsway fifty yards behind the Tonka and followed it back to the pier. Mitch concentrated on keeping it in sight as it crossed the roundabout. ‘Thought you'd checked in for the night,' he said. ‘How much longer are we tailing this joker?'

Roker kept his eyes on the quarry. ‘As long as it takes,' he said.

Mitch said nothing but his belly was talking. They'd been on the guy since eight thirty this morning and they might still have all afternoon to run. Apart from the Pringles Mitch had gone without. The guy had probably eaten in the hotel. Roker too. Mitch was almost minded to ask. Snarled at the road instead as the quarry headed north, back out of town.

‘Did he meet someone?' Mitch asked.

‘He talked to a receptionist,' Roker confirmed. ‘Greasy little guy. Had him running errands.'

‘He get anything?'

Roker watched the tail showing intermittently up ahead. ‘Yeah,' he said. ‘Two hours tête-à-tête with Grease Jockey tells me he got something.'

‘Did he spot you?' Mitch said.

‘Jesus,' Roker said. ‘Watch the road. Don't let the bastard lose us.'

The moves the guy was making had sandpapered Roker's nerves. They were looking at a leak. And leaks tended to grow. First a little drip. Next thing you're swimming. This they didn't need. Whatever the guy was up to, his digging around at the Royal Trafalgar did not smell good. Roker's instinct said that they were going to have to do some plumbing.

Eddie Flynn. Private Investigator. Ex-cop. That was all Roker had but it was enough. The “ex-cop” in particular he didn't like. It meant the guy was no amateur. Flynn had been putting something together back there at the Trafalgar.

The thing Roker couldn't figure out was whom Flynn was working for. Roker held it all ways to the light but nothing came through. There was no one could have sent Flynn to Brighton. Unknowns scraped Roker's nerves.

They stayed with the Tonka as it picked up the A23 north, then the M23. Heading back to town, Roker decided. The car held the inside lane, skipping between trucks from time to time. They passed Gatwick and it was beginning to look good until the Tonka turned east instead of west at the Orbital.

Mitch cursed noisily. The frigging mystery tour was still on.

They followed east on the M25 until the Tonka took the Sevenoaks slip road. Mitch kicked in the turbo and closed the distance with a brief sprint to a hundred and ten, braking late enough on the slip to have Roker hissing between his teeth. But they needed the speed. Mitch was barely in time to spot the quarry disappearing onto the A21 amongst the afternoon traffic. Mitch cut across a car and got out onto the road. Half a mile further on, the Tonka overtook an artic and was out of sight in front of it. Mitch changed down and pulled out to pass the truck just as Roker spotted the quarry swinging off onto the A25. He yelled out. Mitch killed the manoeuvre and swerved back behind the truck to get the Warrior onto the turnoff. Roker gripped the door handle and gritted his teeth again. The Warrior leaned on its springs and skidded round the curve. They picked the Tonka up, heading west. Then the road narrowed and they hit traffic lights and the quarry turned just as the amber came on, four cars ahead of them. Mitch floored the pedal and passed the line of cars in time to skid through on red. The turn took them north, back over the M25 and on towards Chevening. In the middle of the village the Tonka pulled over and Mitch saw the guy ask directions. He held back then followed the car out into the country. A couple of minutes later the quarry slowed alongside an estate wall and turned into a driveway between brick gateposts. Mitch pulled up on the verge fifty yards back.

‘What's the bastard doing now?' he said.

Roker jabbed his thumb towards a track that ran off from the road behind them.

‘Pull us in,' he said. ‘He may come back this way.'

Mitch backed the SUV twenty yards down the track and stopped against a five-bar gate. Roker jumped out and walked up the road to get a view. He found cover behind bushes thirty yards from the entrance. He was curious about where Flynn had gone, but if he walked right up to the gates there was a risk he'd not reach the Warrior in time when Flynn came back out.

Roker wondered what this place was. Had to be somewhere significant, judging by Flynn's bee line from Brighton. The more Roker saw the less he liked. He sensed the leak expanding minute by minute.

The way things were shaping up, they were going to have to take action.

Soon.

I passed a stone gatehouse and followed the driveway as it curved between twelve-foot rhododendrons. An old guy was digging in the gatehouse garden but he didn't glance up.

The Royal Trafalgar records gave David Hanlon's address as Sedgeworth Rise. I'd anticipated a detached house with a pretentious nameplate back in the village but I doubted if this driveway was leading me to anywhere that depended on nameplates. Hanlon, whoever he was, was another wealthy party. He'd probably drunk all the coffees he wanted in Brighton. I followed the rhododendrons, knowing I wasn't going to find a two-up-two-down.

Detective's instincts: I didn't find anything. I'd barely got out of sight of the gate-house when the estate's walls sprang afresh out of the foliage in a pincer movement. The way ahead was blocked by ornate gates featuring more ironwork than the Titanic. A call panel was set up at a height appropriate for visiting SUVs, which made it way out of reach when you're at the wheel of a Frogeye. I extracted myself and pressed the button. Nothing. I tried again with the same result. It looked like David Hanlon and his butler were both out.

You win some, you lose some. The diversion had been a whim, an off chance that I'd find the guy home. It would have been good to catch him cold, watch his reaction when I dropped a few names. I gave the bell one last try, held it for ten seconds. Maybe the butler was deaf. Maybe the sound didn't carry to the pool.

Nowt.

One for tomorrow. I turned the Frogeye around and headed back out. I stopped at the gatehouse. The old man looked up and scrutinised the car with interest as I hopped out.

The guy nodded at the Frogeye. ‘Long time since I saw one of those,' he declared.

The Frogeye is a great conversation piece if you meet anyone over sixty. The younger generation think I'm driving a kit car.

I spieled a few facts and figures, waxed lyrical on how sweet she ran. Didn't tell him about the defective heater or the oil change every three thousand miles. I asked whether he knew when David Hanlon was expected back.

The old guy shook his head and apologised. ‘Considering I live right here you'd think I'd know whether they were in or out. But I don't really notice, to tell the truth. I just see them coming and going from time to time.'

I clicked my tongue and looked at my watch like I was deciding whether to hang around for Hanlon to arrive. I dug a little further.

‘Any chance you'll be speaking to the Hanlons today?' I asked. ‘Maybe you could mention I was here.'

The guy shook his head again.

‘I don't know them past nodding, to be honest,' he said. ‘We've not been here long. I've met Faye a couple of times when she's been out with the dogs but that's about it. I've never spoken to David Hanlon.'

I thanked the guy, nodded farewell and went back around the car.

‘Obliged anyway,' I told him. ‘I'll call back.'

‘If I do see them I'd be happy to say you were here,' he offered. ‘Mr…?'

‘Coffee.' I smiled my gratitude. ‘Gerald Coffee.'

‘I'll tell them you were here, Mr Coffee,' he promised, and went back to his digging. If he did tell them he was going to get some funny looks.

I drove out through the gateposts and headed back to town. I'd pay another visit tomorrow. The Hanlons might turn out to be peripheral to whatever was happening with Rebecca Townsend but I was betting otherwise. David Hanlon's involvement with Alpha Security and the Royal Trafalgar linked him squarely to Larry Slater, and right now I was interested in anyone with funny connections to Larry.

Brighton had been a fishing trip. I'd half expected nothing. Picked up a hefty bite instead. A few new names to check out and something much bigger. Along the way the line had taken a tug like a marlin wanted to play.

Time to start reeling in.

They followed the Tonka back towards Heathrow. The car slipped away from them a couple of times in the congealing traffic.

‘Stay on him,' Roker growled. ‘I want to know everything this bird is doing.'

‘He's headed back to town,' Mitch enlightened him. He chewed gum, skipping lanes to keep the Tonka in range. Two minutes later another prediction bit the dust. The Tonka pulled into the Lodge Clacket services. Mitch cursed and followed it in, swung into a parking slot opposite the pumps as the quarry stopped in front of the unleaded. Mitch killed the engine and watched in his rear-view. Tonka-Man was out filling the car. No idea he was being watched.

‘How are we for diesel?' Roker asked.

‘Half a tank,' Mitch said. ‘We can stay on him.'

Roker looked unconvinced. ‘We can until the half tank is out,' he said. ‘After that we lose him, unless you push.'

Mitch shook his head. ‘We've got the range,' he said. ‘I can't see the Tonka holding more than a couple of gallons.'

Roker looked at him. ‘You ever see how far a motorbike goes on a couple of gallons?' he said.

‘Then it's our unlucky day,' Mitch said. What would be unlucky was if they were still following this joker by the time they ran dry. Mitch's stomach had been on residuals for hours.

‘How about I grab a sandwich?' he suggested.

‘Make it quick,' Roker said.

Mitch skipped out and hurried across to the shop. He was in ahead of the guy but he needed to take a leak and that lost him time. As he queued for the sandwiches Tonka-Man was nowhere in sight. Outside, Roker was gesturing frantically. Mitch spotted the Tonka tailing out through the far side of the pumps, heading back to the motorway. He cursed and fired up the engine.

He worked the Warrior as hard as the traffic would allow, bullying his way across lanes until they got back within shouting distance. After that he stayed close. Ready in case the target did something sudden.

At the next junction the Frogeye did something sudden. It swerved across the lanes and took the filter for the A22. Mitch's hopes lifted. The guy was finally headed back into town.

Inbound traffic was moving freely. Mitch drove one-handed, savaging his sandwiches as they followed the Tonka up through Croydon and Streatham. They got clear of the Common and headed towards the river. Then the Tonka cut off and turned towards Battersea Park. It pulled into a residential street lined with parked cars, then turned again, looking for a place. Mitch let the Warrior coast past the turn and they watched the Tonka backing into a parking spot. The guy was through. Hallelujah!

‘Pull over,' Roker said. He leapt out and jogged back to the corner. So fast that he nearly bumped into Flynn coming back round it. It was one of those moments, but Flynn went right past without noticing. Roker turned and watched him disappear into one of the houses.

The guy's pad, Roker guessed. Home for the night. He waited fifteen minutes but nothing happened. Then he made a call and walked back to the Warrior.

He got Mitch to stop off at the office as they passed. The place was empty except for Vicky who was finishing up ready to go. She had nothing for him so he went back out and had Mitch take him up the road to the Algarve Club which was located just off Fulham Palace Road. He told Mitch to wait and went in. It took a minute to adjust to the dim lighting before he spotted his man leaning at the bar. It was early. Just a half-dozen in for what the club jokingly termed happy hour. At most places happy hour meant half price. At the Algarve you got a normal-price drink and a discount token for your next. Happy hour finished at six on the dot when the floor show started and your tokens were good for nothing.

The man didn't offer a drink.

‘What's happening,' he said.

Roker was uneasy around the guy. He'd learned to play it straight. Say his stuff and get out. The Algarve's dim lighting did nothing for the man's appearance, which was grim in any light, something the guy seemed happy about. When you've been through the mangler it's good for people to see it. Saved misunderstandings.

Roker signalled the bar and ordered a scotch. When he turned back the man was still waiting.

‘He's on to something,' Roker said.

‘What's he onto?'

‘Brighton.'

‘How come?'

‘I don't know.'

Roker gave him details of Flynn's head-to-head with the Royal Trafalgar's reception clerk.

‘Why would reception tell him anything?'

‘Cash,' said Roker. ‘Stuff was going back and forth. There had to be readies.'

‘So he's on to us.'

Roker's drink arrived. He slid a tenner across the bar and lifted the glass.

‘He's on to something,' he said. ‘I figure he knows that Slater was there. Maybe he picked up some other names.' He thought of something. ‘How did you know this guy was chasing Slater?'

The man studied the display behind the bar. ‘Little bird,' he said.

‘Sure,' said Roker. He sipped the scotch, let it slide down his throat and picked up the change from his tenner. The change was bugger all, plastic token to boot. Happy hour! There were more important things on his mind, though.

‘This looks like a bit of a problem,' Roker said.

‘Yes,' the man agreed. ‘It's definitely a problem.'

They stayed silent while Roker drained his glass in a couple of sips. The fastest tenner he'd lost since he put his money on Frenchman's Creek in the National.

‘Who's Flynn working for?' Roker asked.

‘Haven't a clue,' the man said.

‘Slater?'

‘Nah.'

‘One of the others?'

‘That's what I'm thinking,' the man said. ‘We're going to have to find out. Did Flynn poke his nose anywhere else?'

‘Chevening,' Roker said.

The man's eyebrows lifted. ‘He went to Chevening?'

‘Yeah. Big place. Estate. High walls. He was in there ten minutes. Is there a connection to Brighton?'

The other man was still watching the bar.

‘That's bad,' he said to himself.

‘I thought it might be,' Roker said.

The man slid his glass across the bar and the girl refilled it. A double. No tokens needed. One rule for some, etc.

‘You want me to stay on him?' Roker asked.

‘I'll let you know tomorrow,' the man said.

‘And if he's onto us?' said Roker.

‘Then we'll stop him,' said the man.

‘What's the man say?' Mitch asked when Roker got back into the Warrior.

‘He's not happy,' Roker said.

Mitch grinned. ‘Is Tonka messing in one of Mac's little schemes?'

Roker didn't smile back. ‘The bastard has no idea,' he said.

He got Mitch to drop him back at the office. The place was above a bookmaker's on Fulham Road. A plate by the door gave the name Alpha Security. Roker walked up to shut up shop.

Upstairs the lights were still on. One of the crew must have come back in. But when he went in he saw it was Vicky, still behind her desk and looking like she'd lost a fiver. It had to be something serious to keep her in past five-thirty.

‘What's up, darlin'?' Roker said.

Then he saw that his office door was open. The lights were on in there too.

He looked at Vicky.

‘Jesus, Jimmy,' she hissed. ‘There's some guy waiting for you. Said you'd want to talk to him. I didn't know what to do.'

‘Some guy? In my frigging office?'

Vicky fluttered her hands. ‘What the hell could I do? Jesus, I've been peeing myself. Why don't you keep your phone on?'

Roker did keep his phone on, but the battery had quit after he'd made his last call. He felt another stirring of unease. Alpha Security was the kind of business that got visits from time to time. Went with the territory. Nothing he couldn't handle but this he really didn't need right now.

‘Okay, Vicky,' Roker said. ‘Go home.'

Vicky didn't need telling twice. She grabbed her stuff and ran out of the door.

Roker strode into his office. He'd had a hard day. Whoever had barged in here had picked the wrong time.

When he got inside the day got worse. The visitor slid his feet off Roker's desk and waved him through.

‘Glad you're back, Jimmy,' said Flynn. ‘How was Brighton?'