Four Below (36 page)

‘Yes, unfortunate, that. Just when the funding is getting cut to ribbons. That was arson, you know?’

‘It would be,’ McLusky said, thinking. ‘This is digital photography we’re talking about?’

‘Oh yes, it’s all digital now, isn’t it.’

‘That means you’d need a camera and a computer.’

‘Well, yes. But even if you didn’t have your own, they had a bank of computers you could use, all donated, at the centre. They were all destroyed in the fire, I hear.’

‘So no more photography course?’

‘Oh, that folded anyway. The tutor left to take a better-paid job and the funding cuts meant they couldn’t find anyone else to run it.’

‘Did Mike Oatley also attend this course?’

‘He did. He was very enthusiastic. He said it was the best thing he’d ever done.’

‘Did Deborah Glynn?’

Not a flicker of surprise. ‘You know, she might have done. I may have mentioned it to her. She’d just been rehoused after leaving a difficult relationship, if you know what I mean,
and needed new friends in the area. Mr Morris could tell you. He runs the centre. But do you think there’s a connection?’

Mr Morris, when McLusky found him later at the Hope Centre, asked the same question.

‘It’s a possibility,’ McLusky said.

‘I was hoping you were here about the arson.’

‘That might be connected, too. Tell me about the photography course.’

They were sitting in the café area, which was furnished with an array of non-matching tables and chairs. Information posters and No Smoking signs adorned the walls. Even here, the smell
of the recent fire was strong. Morris scratched his salt-and-pepper beard and pulled a face. ‘Not much to tell. It didn’t last long.’

‘How many people were on the course?’

‘Five or six. A few more signed up but didn’t turn up for it. Always happens. So I think Ellen just had a few regulars.’

McLusky had his notebook open, pen poised. ‘Ellen is the lady who ran it? What’s her surname?’

‘Carrs. Not sure if you’d call her a lady if you met her. She was twenty-two, wore Doc Martens and swore a lot.’

‘You have an address for her

‘I did have. All our records died in the fire. Everything was kept on computer.’

‘No backups?’

‘Melted.’

‘No problem, we’ll find her.’

‘I’m not sure she’s back yet. When she left here, she went on an assignment with some nature guy, to take pictures in the jungle. South America.’

‘Nice job if you can get it. So what kind of things did they get up to on the course? Was it just how to use a digital camera, how to—’

‘Oh, there was more to it than that. There was some theoretical stuff, but also what to do with the pictures once they’d taken them and so on. They had projects where they went out
to take pictures of stuff. They’d go out in the van and—’

‘They used a van?’

‘Yes, our van. That got torched too, and the insurance are mucking us about; they think it was worthless junk. Same with all our computer equipment. Mind you, that really
was
worthless junk, that’s why we were given it.’

Back outside, McLusky stood on the pavement and looked up at the burnt-out first floor. Computers turned to junk every three years or so. If they crashed, they could take all
their files with them. Or a fire might do the trick.

A Mini drew up beside him. Philippa Warren parped her horn and rolled down her window. ‘Are you here about the arson?’

McLusky started to walk away. ‘No comment.’

Warren kept pace with him in her car. ‘We had a very similar fire at the
Herald
. Quite a bit of damage in the newsroom.’

‘Go away.’

‘There’s something I’ve been wanting to talk to you about, something I want you to look at.’

‘Warren, if you don’t go away, I’ll have you picked up for kerb-crawling.’ McLusky’s mobile chimed in his jacket pocket.

‘Suit yourself.’ She accelerated away. Of course at the
Herald
they backed up everything properly, and online. Every file, every archive, every photograph. Even
bits
of
photographs.

McLusky watched the reporter drive off as he answered his phone. It was Austin. ‘They found Darren Rutts’s mobile.’

‘That’s something at least. Where did it turn up?’

‘In the melting snow under the flyover. It was pretty dead when they found it, but digital forensics got it going, and there’s stuff on it they think we might want to see.’

‘I’ll go there straight away.’

Digital forensics had passed the files contained on the phone to technical support, who were still working on them. McLusky drove to Trinity Road station.

The technician was perhaps twenty-five, with bleached hair and a silver ring through his eyebrow. ‘We stuck all the usual gubbins on disk for you, mainly pics and some dippy music,’
he said, ‘but one thing we’re still working on.’ He had offered McLusky a creaking office chair next to his in front of a computer. The long desk, which held several monitors, was
cluttered with gadgets as well as papers, crisp packets and empty soft drinks bottles. The technician swept some of it aside, apologizing. McLusky recognized a kindred spirit. ‘Is his address
book there?’

‘It is, but there’s only a few names in it.’

McLusky didn’t recognize any of Rutts’s contacts, apart from the Royal Infirmary. ‘He was starting a new life, I think.’

‘Judging by the amount of phone numbers, he hadn’t got very far.’

‘Can we look at the pictures next?’

‘If you insist.’

A few clicks of the mouse brought them up on the screen. ‘He was supposed to have been interested in photography; I’d expected more pictures.’

‘If you’re interested in photography, you won’t use a mobile to take pictures. The camera on his phone was crud.’

There were thirty pictures. The most recent one was of snow, taken from a window. Several others showed hospital staff, self-consciously posing; one showed Rutts himself, wearing inflatable
water wings in a small hospital swimming pool, frowning up at the photographer. The ones that interested McLusky most came last. They were shots, some taken on the move and all from the low
elevation of the wheelchair user, of people with cameras. He recognized Mike Oatley, looking seriously down at the screen at the back of his camera, and Deborah Glynn, smiling, pointing at
something outside the frame. In several pictures a young woman with short dark hair made an appearance; she appeared to carry the camera with the longest lens, which probably meant he was looking
at the tutor of the photography group. One picture, though extremely dark, showed the group against a background of trees. In one corner, the back of the Hope Community Centre van was just
visible.

‘That’s all there is by way of pictures. There’s something potentially more interesting, though. A voice recording.’

‘His own voice?’

‘No. It’s quite murky and muffled, lots of background noise. Two voices. I’ll run it for you.’ The first sounds were of scratching and crunching close to the microphone,
then a constant drone and rattle took their place. Human voices were just audible in the background. The counter in a corner of the screen ran on into its second minute. ‘That sounds like
it’s in a van. You can hear the gear changes,’ the technician said. He watched the counter. ‘Coming up now …’

One voice came closer, and the words ‘with car behind’. The other voice, presumably turning towards the microphone of the mobile, became only just distinguishable for the end of a
sentence: ‘out, then go find the bitch’. A loud noise obliterated everything and the quality of the droning changed.

‘That’s the van door opening,’ McLusky said. The sound continued for a few seconds, then the recording stopped. ‘Why has it stopped?’

The technician tapped at the screen. ‘Three minutes. Factory setting on the phone was for three minutes’ maximum recording.’

‘I think what we heard there were Darren Rutts’s last three minutes. He must have been alive to turn on the voice recorder.’

‘He may have been trying to call somebody, maybe dial 999, and ended up launching the voice recorder instead. It’s easily done on that model if you blindly tap the screen.’

‘Okay, play it again. The first speaker has a foreign accent.’

‘Eastern Mediterranean, we think, though not a strong one, and quite a fluent speaker of English.’

They listened to the entire sequence again. The last three minutes of Darren Rutts’s life. The voices of his killers. The rage that had been rising in McLusky for the last weeks hardened
into a fist in his stomach.
Bastards
. ‘What about the other one?’

‘From the rhythms of his speech, the bit we can’t make out, the computer came up with nothing much, except it’s native English, southern counties, quite educated. Personally I
think it sounds like London.’

‘Yes. That was my thought. It’s only six words, though.’
Out, then go find the bitch
. A killer in a hurry.

McLusky himself hurried away from Trinity Road, talking incessantly on his mobile. Had they found an address for Ellen Carrs yet? And why bloody not? No, he was not coming into
Albany Road now, he was too busy to talk to Denkhaus.

Because he thought he had recognized both voices.

Chapter Twenty-Three

The Boat House was still closed. Through the glass doors, McLusky saw bar staff moving inside, setting up, straightening, polishing. At the Boat House, leaning time was
cleaning time, he had no doubt, if his impression of the management style was correct. Armed with nothing but the thinnest hunch, he was glad he’d had a run-in with the man the night he had
taken Louise out; it gave him an excuse, equally thin, to follow it up.

He rapped his car keys against the door. It attracted the attention of a white-shirted teenager but wasn’t enough to bring him to the door. McLusky rapped again. The kid tapped his wrist
where a previous generation would have worn a watch, then flashed his open hands twice:
twenty minutes
. McLusky unfolded his warrant card and slapped it against the glass:
now
. The
young man relented and opened the door. ‘Anything the matter?’

‘You should know, you’re the one who works here. Manager in?’

‘Erm, that depends.’

The two other staff, both dressed identically in black and white, minded their own business. ‘Crew cut, leather jacket.
Unpleasant
.’

‘He’s in the office, downstairs.’ The kid nodded towards a door marked ‘Private’. ‘I’ll call down for you.’

‘I’ll find my own way.’

‘Oh no, he won’t like that.’

‘That’s the idea.’ Then he relented; the kid would get into trouble. ‘Oh, all right, get on with it then.’ The place was full of CCTV anyway; if the manager
didn’t know he was here, he would have to be asleep.

Behind the bar, the boy spoke on the phone, then told him: ‘You’re okay to go down.’

The interior designer responsible for computer-designing the Boat House ambience had not been allowed beyond the door marked ‘Private’. Raw concrete steps, scuffed white-washed walls
and strip lighting kept McLusky company on the way downstairs. There were several doors, one marked ‘Office’. He tried the handle but found it locked. A lock release buzzed and he
pushed in.

The office was simply, even dingily furnished, apart from the leather swivel chair the manager occupied. He was wearing the same jacket as before. The collar was half folded over, as though he
had only just put it on in a hurry. ‘Where I come from, it is polite to knock.’

‘And where would that be, Greece?’

‘Now you are insulting me. The Greeks are a rude people. I am from Turkey. Now, what do you want here? I am a busy man.’

That was the voice. It was the accent, anyway. Three words, just three words. ‘Oh, I just wanted to show my face. It’s called neighbourhood policing. Letting you know we’re
never far away.’ McLusky took a few steps to the side of the desk, from where he could share the manager’s view of a split-screen CCTV monitor showing views of the door area, of the
till and the rest of the bar. ‘How old are those kids up there?’

‘They’re all over eighteen.’

‘And all under twenty-one so you don’t have to pay the minimum wage.’

‘I think this is harassment. Can I see your card, your ID?’ McLusky produced it. ‘Mc … Lusky.’ The man scribbled it into a corner of his open diary and nodded
heavily.

‘Indeed. And while we’re at it, what’s yours?’

‘Kaya.’

‘That’ll be your surname?’

He rolled his eyes. ‘
Yes
.’

‘And what’s your first name, Mr Kaya?’

It was Ilkin. McLusky knew this was futile. He couldn’t question Kaya without giving away his suspicions, and he didn’t have a single lead that pointed to him.
Three words
.
‘Just out of interest, what car do you drive, Mr Kaya?’

‘Why do you ask about my car? Are you traffic police now?’

‘I just wondered … You’re sure you’re not behind with your tax and MOT?’

‘I am not behind with my tax. What is the matter with you? You will please explain what you want or go. Otherwise perhaps I can arrange transfer to traffic police for you.’ He
glanced down at his diary. ‘
McLusky
.’

‘You must be quite an influential man, Mr Kaya, because that’s been tried before, without success.’

Kaya just raised his eyebrows and tapped his plastic biro against his thumb.

‘Well, thank you for your time, Mr Kaya. The bar looks ready for business and I must admit, I do feel like a drink. Goodbye for now.’ When he pulled at the handle, the door was
locked again. It took three heartbeats before Kaya buzzed him through.

At the bar, he ordered Pilsner and swigged from the bottle. ‘What kind of car does Mr Kaya drive, d’you know?’ he asked the barman.

‘Not sure. A Japanese one, silver, I think.’

‘How about a van? Does the Boat House have a van?’

‘Not that I know of.’

Another barman, who was stocking a glass-fronted fridge with mixers, looked over his shoulder. ‘I thought I saw Mr Kaya driving a van a couple of weeks ago. I could be wrong. It was really
clapped out. Only saw it for a sec.’