The boy took a final look over his shoulder into the shadows, where he knew Bateman was waiting. ‘I’m lost,’ he said, sounding convincing. He heard the lock being turned from inside. The door opened and a concerned-looking young woman stared out at him. It was Holly, the same girl he’d seen in the market square, but this time she wore pyjamas, a dressing gown.
‘Hi,’ she said, crouching down to him. Her eyes went wide with recognition. ‘Wally?’ For a second she didn’t know what it meant and, too late, looked over his shoulder. She got up and tried to close the door but Bateman swung his steel-toe boot into the gap. The door stopped short and he shoulder-barged it back open, sending the girl sprawling on to the floor.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I’m really sorry.’ It took the boy a moment to register that she was talking to him. Bateman stepped past, into the hallway. He was carrying a claw-hammer in one hand and a large holdall bag in the other. He dropped the bag and took a fistful of Holly’s hair, dragging her across the floor and into the next room.
‘Door,’ he said over his shoulder. The boy pushed the front door until he heard it click shut. He stood with his back to it, trying to breathe, sliding down until he was sitting on the floor. He could hear the rumble of footsteps from the next room. Raised voices. Furniture being thrown around. Glass breaking. Through it all he could hear Holly’s small voice, saying that she was sorry over and over again.
‘The bag, Wally,’ Bateman shouted. ‘We haven’t got all night.’
The boy picked up the bag and walked into the room. He was surprised by its size, its opulence. Enormous bookcases lined the walls and there were expensive-looking pieces of furniture throughout. It was bigger than their entire flat. He followed the disarray, the overturned table, the dent in a wall, the shattered lamp, until he turned a corner and saw Holly, crying on the floor with Bateman standing over her. He was flexing his hand, gripping and re-gripping the claw-hammer.
‘Now, I need a favour,’ he said to the girl.
‘Sure,’ she nodded, wiping her eyes and trying a smile.
‘I need you to get in that bag for me.’ He nodded at the large holdall that the boy had dragged in.
‘What?’ she said quietly.
‘Need you to get in that bag for me,’ Bateman repeated, not looking at her.
‘But …’ She swallowed. ‘Can I ask why?’
‘Can I ask why?’ he said. ‘Cus we’re not all born fucking rich, darling. Some of us have got work to do. I like peace and quiet, one way or the other.’ He raised the claw-hammer in illustration. Holly looked suddenly out of breath. She nodded, got up and, in a blur, made a break out of the room. The boy went out into the hall and watched her at the door, shaking as she undid the lock. Bateman materialized behind him, chuckling as she stumbled out into a blinding light.
She threw both hands up in front of her face and stopped.
‘Back inside,’ the boy heard his mother say.
Holly’s shoulders slumped, she went weak at the knees and had to lean into the door. Bateman went forward, lifted her up and carried her back into the other room. ‘Told you,’ he said. ‘I’ll have peace. One way or the other.’
The boy stood in the hallway, trying to disappear into the wall. Trying not to look at his mother as she passed. She followed Bateman into the next room and he closed his eyes, listening to their movements. All three of them grunting with effort.
‘Please,’ he heard Holly say. ‘Please …’
Dizzily, the boy edged to the door. Bateman was pushing Holly down with his heel, folding her double so she’d fit inside the holdall. She started to say something as he drew the zip up but it was muted by the bag.
The black holdall lay packed, bulging on the floor, shaking with quiet sobs.
It was impossible to see which parts of the girl were where, but some strands of her long hair protruded through the zip. Bateman took a padlock, linked it through the hoops and punched it closed with his palm.
‘Shut the fuck up,’ he said, touching the bag with his boot. ‘We’ve had bigger than you in there, darling.’ The boy felt the chill of his mother’s eyes on him and moved, too late, back out of the room.
‘Go and play with your sister,’ she said flatly.
The girl inside the bag was screaming for help now but the boy kept on walking. His ears were ringing and his mouth had started to water. A haze of sunspots blistered in front of his eyes and he had the feeling that he was lifting, effortlessly, out of his body. When he got to the front door he heard Bateman lose patience with the girl.
‘Shut,’ he screamed. ‘The. Fuck. Up.’ Each word was punctuated with the sound of a steel-toe boot slamming into a person. By the time the boy was outside he couldn’t hear her any more. He was lifting, floating, rising up. First walking, then running, then flying away from the house.
* * *
III
China Town
1
‘Sorry about that,’ said Freddie Coyle, re-emerging from the bedroom. When I’d arrived he hadn’t been ready to receive me. He’d asked that I wait in the reception room of his spacious, city-centre loft while he changed out of his dressing gown and pyjamas. The room wasn’t quite in disarray but somewhere near it. There were half-empty bowls of party food scattered around, as well as some dirty glasses still giving off a strong smell of alcohol. There was also a faint, fruity scent hanging over everything that I traced back to an e-cigarette, stuffed down the side of the sofa. While Coyle changed I paced the room and found a silver cocktail shaker, tucked behind a curtain.
It looked like it had been hastily hidden.
Watching the bedroom door, I twisted the lid off and smelt the mixture. Although the shaker was cold to the touch I was still surprised to see un-melted ice cubes in there.
It was 10 a.m.
I dipped a finger in and tasted it. Gin and juice. Either the party had only just ended, or it started to pick up again, moments before I arrived.
I heard movement behind the door and took a seat.
Coyle re-entered the room in a crisp, electric-blue suit and apologized for the delay. His thin pencil moustache looked like a crack in white ceramic, and his jet-black hair had been slicked back, welded into place with product. I thought at his age, mid-to-late forties, it must be a dye-job. When he went to the window I thought he was checking on the shaker hidden behind the curtains, but he twisted the venetian blinds closed while he was at it, filtering the sunlight so it broke through the room in strips.
‘A little bright in here this morning, if you know what I mean.’ He took a seat and clapped his hands together, as if to activate me. When I didn’t say anything he began cautiously. ‘You’re here about the breakin at the Palace …’
‘It goes a little further than that, Mr Coyle.’ I wasn’t sure if Natasha had apprised Aneesa or him of the details after our discussion so I let him fill the silence.
‘This attack on our security chap …’
‘Ali,’ I said, helping him out.
‘Ali, yes. I was sorry to hear about it. We’re not liable, though, if this is related to a claim …’
‘I don’t work for an insurance firm, Mr Coyle. As I said, I’m a detective.’
‘I take it you’ve caught the burglar if you’re banging down people’s doors at this hour?’
There was a sound from the bedroom. We both looked towards it and Coyle smiled, aiming for self-deprecation. Missing it by a mile.
I leaned forward. ‘I’m sorry if I’m interrupting something, but we did have an appointment for this morning. A man died in your hotel, after all …’
I didn’t think edging towards it would get the best out of him.
‘Died? Ms Khan informed us he was injured …?’
‘In Mr Nasser’s case that’s correct, but I’m afraid that following the assault on him we discovered a dead body on the fourth floor.’
‘What the hell?’
‘We suspect foul play.’
He rubbed his index finger back and forth across his moustache for a moment. ‘And who is the man?’
‘As yet he remains unidentified. Any assistance you could give us there would be greatly appreciated.’
‘What assistance could I give?’
‘You might have an idea of who he could be.’ Stromer had provided us with a facial shot of the man. I’d emailed it to Natasha Reeve to no avail. When I showed it to Coyle he grimaced.