One minute you have everything, not even realising that your life is at its fullest, and then it runs off to nothing.
I told Angel I thought we should go to the police – lay it all out there, tell them everything about the Carlton Mayfair and Jade. Let them investigate it all so that she didn’t have to run any more. She looked at me with hollow eyes – an expression that said ‘it doesn’t make any difference’. Like she’d lost all her faith in the goodness of human beings, like no one would help her. It was my job to prove her wrong. There are lots of good people, aren’t there?
I went to my local nick, couldn’t think what else to do.
Reception was the colour of sick. Yellow floor, yellow walls. The desk was behind a sliding window, its thick frame painted blue gloss. An empty chair on the other side of the glass. I pressed on the intercom. Eventually, someone said, ‘Yes?’ like I’d interrupted their favourite TV show.
‘I need to talk to a police officer.’
‘Have you called the main switchboard telephone number? It’s there, on the wall.’
‘Why would I do that when I’m here, in person?’
‘What’s it about?’
Well, how d’you answer that in a nutshell? A murder. A prostitution racket. The City and all its money. The death of a child. A cover-up.
‘It’s a bit complicated,’ I said.
‘Someone will be down soon.’
I sat down on welded-together seats that were stuck to the back wall. Took out my phone and texted Angel.
Everything in hand. You bought that salon in Fuengirola yet?
Not yet.
We could call it British Hairways.
Curl up and dye?
Are you feeling down? Have you eaten anything?
Haribo.
HAIRibo would be better.
I think we should call it Birdie & Sass.
That pulled me up short. She was putting my name first, even though she was miserable and scared and probably pissed seeing as it was past 11 a.m.
Still no sign of anyone, I wrote to her.
A little later, wondering if she was sleeping or watching TV, I wrote again.
This is taking ages. Mind if I pop to the cash and carry on my way back?
After an age, some pissed-off officer wandered into reception and asked me what I wanted the police for. I gave a short precis, during which he looked at me like I was a delusional fantasist, then he said, ‘Well, you’ll need to speak to a more senior officer. You can either go to a larger police station, such as Kilburn CID, or come back tomorrow when we’re fully staffed.’
I’ll be honest, I didn’t have the energy. And I’d been out for long enough. I thought I would nip to the cash and carry for some crisps and then hurry back to Angel.
Manon
Davy has called her, saying, ‘Right, so we’ve discovered Ross’s iPhone passcode. We got his bank card PIN and tried that. Bingo. I’m sending you the file, OK? Delete the email after you’ve downloaded it.’
‘Righto,’ she says, logging on to her laptop and throwing her mobile onto the table.
The phone work shows texts from something called Titans VIP.
Meeting with Saskia confirmed.
Please contact us to rate your experience.
Payment received. We offer a discreet service.
The reference on your bank statement will read Claybourne Leisure.
She Googles Titans and the screen tessellates with images of pouting women, scantily clad, with diamond ratings beside their details. ‘Tina has huge brown eyes and an incredible sense of humour. The Brazilian model is a student of international relations in London. She speak five languages and loves to travel.’ She is also on all fours in a bustier, with a whip in one hand.
Manon searches for Saskia but nothing comes up. So, he used prostitutes – Ellie warned her as much. Back to the phone work.
Meeting with Kristen confirmed.
Payment received with thanks.
Texts between Ross and unknown 618.
Enjoyed last night, must do it again. J-O
I am here for your pleasure. With you it’s different – special. We can make private arrangement if you’d like. Sass.
Busy guy. Then in late July, he texts:
Cut the shit. I mean it, Sass. These people do not fuck around.
A couple of days later:
I can’t help you any more. Leave me out of it.
Look for the affair? This is the affair, an affair with a prostitute, which got him embroiled in something heavier than he wanted; drugs perhaps, or the violent world of pimps and gangsters – all too much for a suited City boy.
She calls Davy, who tells her to wait so he can take the call somewhere private. From the echo, she’s guessing the gents.
‘Where are the texts between Ellie and Jon-Oliver?’ she asks.
‘There aren’t any,’ he says. ‘Either they didn’t text, or they used something else, like Snapchat or WhatsApp, which can be erased.’
Shaggerapp, she thinks.
‘Any luck with the trace on unknown 618?’
‘Not yet,’ Davy says.
While she is waiting, not knowing if the phone trace will give them anything other than the mast in London the phone last pinged off, she thinks about Paddy Driscoe and cooks. Browning mince, sweating onions, thinking about how to get to him. Tupperware boxes of homemade sausage rolls – Fly’s favourite. Vanilla biscuits and meatloaf that tastes as good cold as warm. Manon is not an enthusiastic cook, certainly not one to pore over recipes from the colour supplements involving forty-eight ingredients. But certain basic signature dishes she has become good at through repetition. Beef stew, spaghetti bolognese, one-pot hearty casseroles. There is pleasure in tending to children with these.
She drives to Arlidge House and turns on the charm with Toad woman on reception, persuading her to deliver the food to Fly personally.
‘Anything to report?’ she said, pseudo-casually. ‘Everything all right with him, as far as you know?’
‘You’re still not on his AV list,’ Toad responded.
‘No, right, well if you could make sure he gets the food.’
The next time she went, with tubs of tuna-sweetcorn-mayo, Toad said, ‘The sausage rolls went down well. He cracked a smile.’ She said this without looking up from her computer screen. Manon had to resist the urge to blow her a kiss.
‘Bring you some next time,’ she said.
She can’t search Paddy Driscoe’s name on the police database, because it’ll show up on her computer. But anyone can look on Crimestoppers, gnarly-faced beauty pageant of the UK’s most wanted. Expressions pale and undernourished against the grey police mugshot background. Wanted on licence. Wanted for recall to prison. Absconded prior to sentencing. Shaved heads and the weary look of recidivists: must I go on with this depressing cycle?
She types in Driscoe. Nothing. Types in Drisco. Nothing. Patrick, Paddy. Nothing.