Fade to Black (19 page)

It was an obvious thing to say, but it echoed what they were all thinking. The photos they had viewed earlier were one thing, but witnessing the woman begging for her life, then the remorseless carnage that followed had left them all with a churning dread in their stomachs and hearts. There was nothing anyone could add to Strauss’s sentiment.

“Take a break, everyone,” Allie said, shepherding Wilkinson out of the room. Allie deposited Wilkinson in her chair in the main office and called Margaret Daly aside. Daly looked at Wilkinson and knew immediately what Allie was about to ask.

“Leave it to me, ma’am. I’ll see that she’s ok.” Allie thanked her and said she’d catch up with Jacinta a little later. Falling into her office chair, she rubbed her itching eyes and opened them to see a blurry Banks about to knock on her door.

“Ma’am, are you, you know…?

She smiled. “Yes, Peter, I’m fine. Thank you.” She waved her hand towards the media room. “At least as much as anyone can be after viewing that…”

Banks nodded and pulled a face. “You look terrible, ma’am. Sorry, but you do.”

“Oh, I don’t doubt it. Been burning the midnight oil a bit—events haven’t confined themselves to the day shift this week have they?”

Banks offered a thin smile. "No, they have not. Anything I can do?”

She sat back in her chair and blew out a long breath. She looked at Banks—all six feet three of him. His belly hung down below his belt line, his food-stained shirt in no way camouflaging hips that overflowed his trousers like overcooked dough.

“You can catch the murderer, book him, and shout us all a beer by 6:00 p.m., if you would,” Allie said.

He laughed, the first real laugh anyone had probably heard in the office for a few days. Heads turned. “Hmmm, that’s a tall order. Might have to make it 7:00 p.m., if that’s ok?”

“Done.”

Allie glanced down at her computer screen and saw that an email had come in from the photographer, Everett Blight. She looked back at Banks who seemed to be expecting more conversation.

“How are you going with rounding up the customers from the Golden Bamboo? Just about finished?”

“I’m starting the interviews shortly. I have a complete list now. I’m going out with Strauss to Ms. Konstanzo’s address. Rachel is going to advise her parents, assuming they lived with her, and conduct an interview.”

Allie had to work hard to maintain her composure. That was not Strauss’ job.

“When is she leaving?”

“Any minute, I think.”

“Send Rachel in, please,” she added. “And Peter, just requisition a car and start the interviews with the customers yourself. Leave a copy of the list here as well. Thanks.”

Banks left the office, exhaling a long breath. Allie saw him beckon Strauss over and tell her something. She saw Strauss smile grimly, straighten her back and walk purposefully toward her.

“Grab a car, Rachel,” she said as Strauss reached her door. “You and I are going to visit Georgie’s place. How about I meet you in the garage in ten minutes?” She looked back at her keyboard and resumed typing. Strauss stood for a long moment before finally acknowledging the order and leaving the office. Allie printed off the address and shoved it in her bag. She advised Wilkinson where she and Strauss were headed and said they’d be back by 6:00 p.m.—maybe a little later—and for Wilkinson to hold the rest of the team there for a briefing. This business with Strauss was going to get sorted, one way or the other.

*****

Being granted the best table at Michelin Star rated Il Forno restaurant near Oxford Circus had been far easier than Arthur had anticipated, although, being nearly midafternoon helped. Paula Armstrong had not realized he had failed to make a reservation. Palming the maître d' a fifty-pound note had facilitated a seamless, satisfying transaction, one that Arthur had previously never contemplated. He had entered a new realm and he felt immediately comfortable in it. Wine was ordered, entrées were chosen and conversation flowed easily. The afternoon meandered along and Arthur marveled at Paula’s wit and erudition. He came to understand how she had become one of the top Women’s magazine editors in Britain. There was a sharp mind there; he could see that. He really could
see
it. More importantly, though, for him, she was clean—no heavy make-up, no ladled on antiperspirant, no bloodshot eyes. She had looked after herself for him.
And those legs, Lord above!

“Below, you mean."

Arthur jumped at the voice. Sometimes he forgot Mr. Black listened to him. Paula looked up from her meal and smiled, a line of perfect teeth dazzling him.

“Are you ok?” Her voice was soft, intimate, caring. She was letting him know she was interested.

Laughing it off, he raised his glass of St. Henri and proposed a toast. Giggling, she touched her glass to his. He looked her in the eyes and smiled. Had Paula Armstrong been just a little more sober and a little less carried away by this newfound romance, something deep within her, some ancient survival mechanism—the thing that sensed danger in the night while you were asleep—might just have spotted the predator.

*****

Allie strode toward the pool car parked in the underground garage. Strauss already had the motor running. Allie opened the passenger door, threw her bag on the floor and started to buckle herself in. Strauss accelerated away before she had finished.

Allie looked across at her and saw a determined face staring out over the wheel. She was hunched, tense.

“You know the Shepherd’s Bush area, Rachel?” Allie asked.

“A little better than you might, I imagine, ma’am.”

There it was
, Allie thought,
the little jibe
. People of wealth and privilege don’t frequent the ‘Bush’. That was the message.

“Is it near Sloane Square?” Allie asked with wide-eyed innocence. Strauss didn’t react; she just drove. Allie watched the buildup of traffic. It was now 3:15 p.m.—no way they could get back by six, but there was no time to waste. It would be a long day. As if reading her thoughts, her mobile phone pinged. It was DS Carr.

“Allie?”

“Yes, ma’am?

“I just viewed the CCTV footage. This is…”—there was a long pause—“
monstrous!
I hope you will be very careful.”

“Thank you, ma’am. I,
we
will. I'm travelling with DS Strauss to the victim’s address. According to records, it is a bedsit in Shepherd’s Bush. We've had no luck in finding parents or next-of-kin. There are no Kostanzos listed in the telephone directory.”

“I see. Strauss, eh?” Allie glanced at Rachel to see if she heard her name. It seemed not.

“Yes, ma’am, we hope to back by maybe 6:30 p.m., if you would like to attend the briefing?”

“I’ll do that. Watch yourselves.”

Allie flipped her phone shut and told Strauss that Carr had said to take care. Strauss raised her eyebrows.

“That’s rare.”

Allie nodded. “It is. The footage got to her, I guess.”

“You handled it alright, I noticed,” Strauss said, not in a complimentary way. The inference was clear—Allie was cold. She waited while they negotiated a roundabout near Hammersmith and straightened out on to the A40. Shepherd’s Bush was a little way yet.

“Depends what you call ‘handling it,' doesn’t it? I’m not paid to fall about sobbing; I have to think.”

Strauss acted surprised. “Of course! Yes, you would be paid
even more
as a DCI wouldn’t you? I’d forgotten that!”

Allie opened her mouth to speak, but shut it again. There was no point rising to that bait. It seemed traps were being set everywhere for her. They travelled in silence for the balance of the journey, pulling up outside number 45 Erskine Road. It was just two hundred yards from Wormwood Scrubs prison.

“Great,” Strauss said. “The clink on one side and the Queens Park Rangers football ground on the other. Welcome to Hell.”

“Welcome to Hell, indeed.” Strauss jerked her head around to look at Allie. They stared at each other a moment longer before St. Clair opened her door and got out. She stood on the pavement, arching and stretching her back to iron out the kinks. She appraised number 45. It was the worst house in a street which spoke more of middle class than not.
Too close to the A40
, Allie thought,
but there you go
. It wasn’t a bedsit at all, as records had suggested. This was a little grander than that—not quite a young lawyer’s pad, but not bad. It would depend on what the inside looked like. They still had no idea what Georgie had done for a living. There was no clue in her handbag.

Strauss knocked at the door. There were bars on the window and rubbish flowing over the garbage bin. A faded blue curtain hung inside the glass-paneled door to exclude any view of the inside of the flat. A scratched, poorly maintained bicycle was jammed in between the fence and the corner of the house. Strauss raised her hand to knock again, but the door swung open.

A young man stood peering out into the light. Naked to the waist, he wore red and white striped pajama bottoms. He lifted a hand to his long, disheveled brown hair and squinted at his visitors. Seeing two women standing there, he straightened visibly, eyes widening further as he realized they were police.

“Hi. What can I do for you, officers?”

He was well spoken.
Not from around here
, Allie assumed. She held up her warrant card for his inspection. “DCI St. Clair and DS Strauss. May we come in?”

Conscious of his state of dress, the young man made a lame attempt to cover his chest as he stepped aside.

“And you are?” Strauss asked.

“Jeremy Watts.” His voice was thick; clearly, he’d only just awoken.

“Does Georgeta Konstanzo live here?” Allie asked without further preamble.

“Who? No, there’s only…
Georgie,
you mean?” Realization hit. “Georgie Stanton?”

“Yes,” said Allie, “I imagine that’s who we mean.”

“She’s not home—I don’t think. I haven’t heard her,” he said, looking vaguely toward the stained ceiling.

“You live with her?”

“Yes. Well, no, not in the sense you mean! She lives in the upstairs room. My room is here,” he said, pointing to his left.

“When do you expect her home?” asked Strauss.

Jeremy, with the smooth chest, laughed. “Who knows? Georgie works crazy hours.”

“And what’s your story, Mr. Watts?” Allie asked pleasantly. “Are you a student or do you work? It is rather late in the day to still be in your… jammies, is it not?”

“I work at the TV studio at the end of the street,” he said, pointing to the big, brown brick block to the east of them. Allie glanced back at the studios; they were well known. Some of Britain’s most popular television shows were filmed there.

“Doing?”

“Post-production. That means—”

“I know what it means, Mr. Watts, thank you.”

He blushed; even his chest reddened. “Sorry, most people don’t have a clue.”

“Indeed,” Allie replied. “One of the great mysteries of television, second only to how some of the vacuous young tartlets ever get on there in the first place.”

Jeremy Watts’ smile was uncertain. “I guess.”

Allie turned her attention to the house and moved toward the stairs.

“DS Strauss will ask you some further questions while I look around upstairs. Do you want to put a T-shirt or something on?”

“No, I’m ok.”

“Put one on, Mr. Watts,” Allie insisted. She glanced at Strauss, who clearly wasn’t bothered at all by the young man’s attire, or lack of it.

Georgie’s room at the top of the stairs was, by any measure Allie could apply, a pig’s sty. It was small, multi-colored, hideously decorated, and airless. It stank of alcohol and God knew what. Careful not to touch anything, Allie picked her way across rumpled clothes strewn about the floor, along with chocolate wrappers, empty flavored-milk containers, photo magazines and, not unexpectedly by this stage, condoms of varying sizes, colors… and flavors.

“Jesus, girl,” Allie muttered, “what were you thinking?”

She shook a thin plastic glove out of her pocket, blew it open and put it on her right hand. She pulled open a bedside drawer. More of the same debris was crammed in, plus some CD’s, an iPod, beer coasters and assorted receipts. Allie would have someone go through all that tomorrow. Moving to the dark wooden wardrobe, she gingerly opened the door. It was stuffed with clothes of all types—thousands of pounds worth. She gently poked at some as she moved along the rack. Most of the clothes were gaudy, flashy and common—take your pick. She found herself thinking less and less of unfortunate Georgie. She flung aside some clothes to look into the wardrobe proper. She reeled back, tripping over clothes and falling hard to the floor. Georgie stood there, staring at her from the back of the wardrobe.

Allie’s heart tried to leap out of her chest. She levered herself to her feet, backing away from the wardrobe.

“It’s just a poster,
ma’am
.”

Allie flinched. Strauss had come up the stairs and was standing behind her.

Blood still pounding in her brain, she fought hard to control her breathing, even managing a strangled laugh of sorts. She looked hard at the wardrobe. A full-length poster of a near-naked, posing Georgie was pinned to the back wall.

“Sure is. Tripped over all these damn clothes and shoes.”

Strauss remained impassive. “So I see.”

Allie smoothed her clothes and stepped closer to the poster, examining it closely. Georgie had been attractive, no doubt about that, but for Allie, the image of the decimated face from King’s Lane stubbornly imposed itself on the poster. She shook her head, noticing a logo in the bottom right corner of the poster as she did so. It featured an inverted camera and the stylized profile of a woman’s breast. ‘
InCamera Photographics’
was printed below it. She made a note in her iPhone diary.

“Ok, let’s get the boys in to have a look at the place.” She turned to face Strauss. “Did you glean anything interesting from 'Blue Lagoon boy'?”

Strauss’ mouth twitched into a half-smile at that. “Yes, Georgie apparently works…
worked
at the Black Crow Hotel in Earl’s Court.”