She thought I was asking if she was legal to drink. ‘Eighteen,’ she said, defiantly.
‘Well I just spoke to a girl the same age who met a scumbag here last week. All I need is the guy’s name to go and set him straight. Your friend in there thinks that’s too much to ask. Do you?’
‘Depends on the scumbag.’
‘Ollie or Oliver something.’ She didn’t move. ‘Look, if you know who I’m talking about, do me a favour. His surname, anything.’ I stepped closer to allow a group of people past us, into the club.
She folded her arms. ‘Cartwright,’ she said quietly.
‘Oliver Cartwright?’ She nodded almost imperceptibly. ‘You wouldn’t happen to know where he lives?’
‘Do you know Imperial Point?’
‘The Quays?’
She nodded. ‘Flat 1003.’
‘Tell me about him.’ But she’d already turned and started for the club, her arms wrapped around herself. ‘You knew,’ I said to her back. She stopped walking. ‘As soon as I said sexual harassment to Russell, you knew who I was talking about.’
She half turned. ‘Me and Ollie were a bad match, y’know? We both liked being in control.’
‘Let us drop you somewhere,’ I said.
‘Like where?’
‘Like home.’
She smiled. It was just a flicker at first, then the real thing. She ran the back of her hand over her mouth, like she was trying to wipe it off her face. I saw the hot-pink lipstick, smeared across her wrist.
‘This is as close as I get to it.’ When I didn’t say anything she laughed again. ‘Guy Russell’s my dad.’
6
The Quays were only a twenty-minute drive from Piccadilly, skirting around the city centre, and the roads were clear at this time of night.
‘What’s all this about?’ said Sutty.
‘It wouldn’t interest you.’
‘Suit yourself,’ he said, turning to look out the passenger-side window. ‘Just don’t drag me into it.’
‘Drag you into what? Doing your job?’
‘Whatever it is,’ he said. ‘You and those fucking girls again. Last year not enough for ya?’
‘If anyone can turn a blind eye, it’s you, Sutts. You’ve got two of them.’ He shot me a look but didn’t say anything else, and we drove the rest of the way in silence.
It was around 12.30 a.m. when we arrived at the Quays. Formerly the site of the city docks, a port on a busy stretch of the Manchester shipping canal, they’d fallen into ruin when the industry went abroad. In the eighties the boomers had swept in and redeveloped everything into half a billion pounds’ worth of shiny, ultra-modern high-and low-rises, glittering out on to the water. The buildings were uniformly steel and reflective, jutting out from the ground at crazy angles like enormous shards of anti-climbing glass. The architecture, and the economic reality of the people living in it, made for an uncomfortable fit with a lot of the city’s down-at-heel housing.
I got out of the car and went for the building’s entrance. When I looked back at Sutty he was already running a wet wipe along the steering wheel.
Imperial Point had been the first high-rise here, and still stood tallest. The tower had a slanting, asymmetric shape. It looked like the visual expression of a slumping stock market. Unlike Owens Park the streets and the buildings were quiet, and I felt no pull from my personal history. I’d only ever visited the area to break up domestic disturbances. There were either some especially thin walls here, or some especially unhappy people.
I found the entrance, rang the bell and explained myself to the bleary-eyed doorman. He’d been wedged in behind a desk and I got the feeling that I’d woken him.
‘I can take you up …’ He was tucking his shirt in.
‘I’ll manage,’ I said, already going for the lift.
I stepped out on to the tenth floor, felt the quality of the valeted carpet underfoot. Air conditioners hummed overhead and the walls, when I touched them, were like blocks of ice. Automatic lights came on as I passed beneath, dimming again once I was out of their range. The corridors were quiet, still and identical. I got turned around once or twice but eventually found 1003. There was a peephole set into the door and I had the sensation of being watched. Before I could knock, it opened a couple of inches on the chain, and I saw a man squinting out at me.
‘Ollie Cartwright?’
He considered me for a moment. ‘And you are?’
‘Detective Constable Aidan Waits.’
‘It’s the middle of the night, Detective Constable. What’s this about?’
‘Perhaps we’d be quieter inside?’
He looked at me.
I looked back at him.
He closed the door and I heard him taking the chain off. When he opened it again he spoke to me through literally gritted teeth.
‘Right this way.’
I went in, past some hung-up jackets, noting a well-worn denim one that stood out against his shoulder-padded blazers. I went into the beige-grey living room. The furniture was brand new and there was a TV on the far wall that was bigger than the front door. There was an upright hard-shell flight case beside it. I sat down, felt the chill of the air conditioning. In the corners of the mirrored coffee table, I thought I could see powder residue.
Oh, happy day.
Cartwright stood in the doorway watching me. Trying to look like he meant business in his monogrammed dressing gown. He was a big man, older than I was, somewhere in his mid-to-late thirties, as Sophie had said. His hair was thinning and his cheeks were two fleshy pouches hanging off a red, booze-tanned face. I felt a twist of jealousy that the girl I’d spoken to earlier had actually spent a night with this man, and I decided to take it out on him.
‘Take a seat,’ I said. As he crossed the room I saw he was wearing flip-flops, that he dragged them across the floor when he walked. I closed my eyes for a moment then opened them again.
Cartwright collapsed into the chair opposite. ‘What’s this about?’
‘I want you to tell me that.’
He glared at me, radiating annoyance.
‘I’ll wait, then.’ As I said it, I felt my phone vibrate in my pocket. I ignored it. ‘Tell me about yourself.’
‘Like what?’
‘Full name, job description …’
‘Not a big TV watcher?’
‘Are you more annoyed that I woke you up or that I don’t know who you are?’
‘Badge first,’ he said with a sniff. I passed it over. Watched him memorize my name before handing it back. He gave me a meaningless, bland smile. It did look familiar.
‘Name’s Oliver Cartwright. I’m a commentator for Lolitics.’ His inflection went up at the end of the sentence like it was a question. It was a name I associated with vengeful, right-wing web journalism. The odd talking-head appearance on TV that always meant it was time to change the channel.
‘I’ll look out for it. What’s the luggage about?’
‘Dubai on Tuesday.’
‘Business?’
‘Stag week …’
‘You’re single?’
‘Yeah, look this is harassment—’
‘Harassment. I’m glad you brought that up.’ He started to respond but thought better of it. ‘What’s your social life like, Ollie? Where do you drink?’
‘Wherever they serve it. Something wrong with that?’
‘Ever get along to Incognito?’ He sat back, uncomfortable. ‘You might lie for a living, but remember you’re breaking the law when you do it to a police officer.’
He smiled at me. He looked like a man checking for food in his teeth. ‘I haven’t lied, Detective.’
‘You know why I’m here. There’s a girl’s jacket hanging up in the hallway. Somehow I don’t think you’ve got the shoulders for it …’
‘Oh, classic,’ he said, watching me through half-open eyes. ‘She has a one-night stand and it turns into rape a week later.’
‘What makes you think that?’
‘These girls fall off the fucking assembly line unable to live with themselves. Any instinct they follow’s just something new to regret the next day. And she was well up for it, if that’s what you’re asking.’
‘Difficult thing to prove,’ I said. ‘And we have to take these things seriously …’