Behind Closed Doors (11 page)

We watched the place for fifteen minutes while I filled Shaughnessy in on Slater–Kline.

Shaughnessy thought about it. ‘So we're looking at a mistress or a hooker,' he said. ‘But it's hard to see the connection with Rebecca's disappearance.'

‘Maybe it's coincidence,' I said.

Shaughnessy looked at me like I'd abandoned religion.

‘On the other hand,' I jabbed a thumb across the street, ‘Slater watching this place just now day and night is stretching coincidence.'

The lower floors of the house were lit. The top apartment was dark, as always. It looked like Brown didn't stay home much.

‘Unless Brown is hiding out up there,' Shaughnessy said.

Only one way to find out.

We crossed the street. The outer door was open and let us into a vestibule with three post boxes. Junk mail was bursting from the top one. The vestibule's inner door was locked, with a keypad and electric release. Shaughnessy went to work whilst I pressed the bell push for the top apartment. No point breaking in if someone was home. I gave it a single brief push. Nothing to stir up the apartment below. We didn't want an audience when we went up. The bell brought no response.

Shaughnessy beat the lock in under two minutes and we went in. A light came on automatically to illuminate hallway décor that matched the affluence of the street. Plush carpeting and varnished woodwork, framed prints. Not bad for a communal space. The stair carpet muffled our footsteps and we walked up in silence, wary of nosy neighbours with fisheye peepholes.

At the top Shaughnessy started on the apartment door without knocking. If anyone was home we'd soon find out, but I was betting against it. If someone was home there would probably be deadbolts drawn across which would stop us. I'd not packed my sledgehammer.

No deadbolts. Shaughnessy released the door and held it open to reach inside for the light switch. We went in and closed the door.

The air was hot, with a taste that said that the windows had not been opened in a while. Maybe it was just my overactive imagination but the place had an abandoned feel. I didn't get a sense of someone away on vacation.

And what owner leaves houseplants to die? Shaughnessy and I both spotted the dracaena on an ornamental table under a skylight. The plant's leaves had yellowed on collapsed stems. I looked at Shaughnessy for comment. Dead plants were too commonplace in my life for reliable judgement. My house plants died like they had a suicide pact unless Arabel was around to resuscitate them.

‘The heating's accelerated the drying,' Shaughnessy said. ‘These things wilt after three days without water. I'd say someone was in here a week ago.'

Shaughnessy and I looked at each other. A week had a particular resonance in relation to our missing girl. Made me wonder if we had another unaccounted-for person.

We split up and walked through the apartment. I took the front. Opened a door onto a lounge. Found a dimmer that brought wall-lamps to life. Gold tessellated shades. Italian furniture. Matching table lamps. Pearl, gold, green everywhere. Expensive wall fabrics. An ornate fireplace. And a sixty-by-forty gilded mirror that might have graced the original drawing room downstairs. I drew the curtains, turned the dimmer up and went through to the adjacent room.

A modern kitchen, also facing the street. Venetian blinds that wouldn't hide the light. I'd have to take the risk. I threw the switch. The kitchen was compact but expensively kitted out. High-tech appliances. Marble worktops. All clear and clean. Just a few dishes stacked on the draining board. A small corkboard beside the door held half a dozen Post-It stickers.

I left them and went back into the hallway and opened the next door. Sensed soft furnishings as I walked over to close the curtains. I hit the light switch. A woman's bedroom, as lavishly kitted out as the lounge. Lots of free-standing teak furniture and a queen-size bed. Bright colours splashing over browns and creams. A dresser spread with girl things, and a bedside table topped by an ornate lamp featuring an entwined couple each holding aloft one arm to support the fixture. Under the lamp were two framed photographs. One was a faded shot of a middle-aged couple posing in a garden. The woman had short-cropped hair framing an attractive face that watched the camera with an affectionate smile. The man was tall, dark-complexioned. Similar smile, slightly strained. The second photo featured two girls in t-shirts and shorts. One was standing behind the other with her arms wrapped around her companion's stomach. The background was a hotel swimming pool, a hint of ocean and palm fronds. The girls had a beauty that stole the breath. Sisters, maybe twins. Carefree smiles and crescent eyes. Identical long black hair and natural long lashes. The faces suggested that they were the daughters of the older couple. Instinct told me that one of these girls was Brown.

When I got back to the hallway Shaughnessy had finished scouting the back.

‘A woman's stuff in the bathroom,' he said. ‘One bedroom used for an office and a small room for ironing and airing.'

We started at the front and worked back. Shaughnessy took the kitchen. I worked through the lounge.

It didn't take long to come up with an identity for Brown. A display cabinet held pull-out drawers cluttered with photo albums and old letters, postcards, foreign travel memorabilia. The albums had more pictures of the middle-aged couple, a decade or two younger with two young girls beside them. The girls' beauty blossomed in the later albums, or at least one of theirs did. After mid- or late-teens there were no pictures of the two together. Was the photo in the bedroom the last? The sister who featured in the later albums was snapped in a variety of desirable locations, sometimes in a group, a couple of times with a male companion. The girl looked to be in her late teens, maybe early twenties. The guys with her were three decades older. A final album captured the girl as a fully-bloomed beauty in her mid-twenties, mixing with different crowds at different locations but always looking somehow alone. Every photo captured the same breathtaking beauty. In amongst the albums was a scattering of loose photos, including passport shots and head and shoulders. I slipped one of them into my pocket.

The last of the pull-out drawers revealed a Minolta digital SLR. I flipped it on and scanned for stored images. None. Who leaves their camera behind when they go on vacation?

I moved on. Brown's music taste was soul and reggae, two CD stacks brimming with Motown and Marley. A stack of hip hop albums in suspiciously generic covers. Pirated versions bought up Camden or on Petticoat Lane. Brown's home entertainment was a top flight Yamaha system with four-foot Ikon speakers.

Shaughnessy came out of the kitchen.

‘Someone left in a hurry,' he said. ‘There's stuff in the fridge that should have been thrown. The sell-by dates on the milk and salad packs say the owner was shopping about a week ago.'

I asked about the corkboard.

‘Nothing,' Shaughnessy said, ‘unless we're looking at a dry cleaning conspiracy.'

I handed him the last photo album, opened at a set of pictures of the dark-haired beauty. He looked at me.

‘Our absentee tenant,' I deduced. Shaughnessy pursed his lips.

‘She's not someone you'd easily lose,' he suggested.

‘All we need is a name,' I said.

Shaughnessy headed off to the back and I sat on the couch and picked up the phone. There were six recorded messages. I played them, expecting to hear Larry Slater's voice, but the first five messages were from two females. One identified herself as Julie and had left a breezy greeting a week ago, asking for someone she called “Sis” to call her back. No return number. The other caller left four messages, starting a week back and ending two days ago. In the first message the caller identified herself only as “me” and asked someone called Tina to ring. A mobile number was logged.

The second and third messages were more urgent.

‘It's Sammy,' the caller said, ‘What's happening, Tina? I need to sort out with the agent's. Call me.'

Sammy's final message was more assertive.

‘Tina, where are you? Bloody well ring me, girl.'

I noted Sammy's number then played the last of the six messages.

Bingo! Larry Slater's mobile number and the most urgent voice of all.

‘Tina! It's Larry! For God's sake talk to me.' A short pause and a final plea: ‘For pity's sake, Tina, what are you doing? Call me!' The message clicked off.

The desperation was clear in his voice. Mirrored the long vigils in the street outside. I sensed things shifting, centring. The silence of the apartment thickened around me.

I replaced the phone and went to take a look at the bedroom.

I felt like a sneak going through the woman's private things, just like when I'd rooted through Rebecca Townsend's room. But you've got to be resolute in this business. Tina's wardrobe matched her looks. Sexy stuff – short skirts by the inch-load, low-cut dresses, designer jeans that looked like Tom Thumb's sister wouldn't squeeze into them but probably looked just right packaging Tina Brown's curves.

Her lingerie drawer would have made a sergeant major blush, might even gain Arabel's respect. A riot of silk and lace, thongs cut so tiny the labels stood out like banners. Underwear designed to kill, or at least disable. I kept my mind on the task. I wasn't looking for lingerie. I was looking for the stuff Ms Brown might have hidden beneath it, mislead by the woman's universal misconception that the lingerie drawer is a safe place to hide secrets.

I found nothing apart from several packs of condoms shoved amongst the stuff in a top drawer – assorted styles and colours. Not so much hidden as pushed away where they could be conveniently retrieved.

Her dressing table was covered in a couple of thousand pound's worth of cosmetics. I wondered how many of them were gifts. If this woman didn't get expensive gifts then there was no hope for the rest of the female species. Nothing of interest, though, amongst all the extravagance.

The bed was tidily made and patted over. Decorated with half a dozen throw-cushions. I searched in and under the bed and in some less likely spots – on top of the wardrobe, underneath the wardrobe, underneath rugs – but nothing turned up.

Shaughnessy was having fun in the office room. That was where Tina stashed her bills and that's where he found the documents that confirmed her ID.

He gestured to the top of an old desk he'd been emptying.

‘Driver's licence and birth certificate,' he said. ‘Tina Brown. Date of birth seventeenth of August, nineteen eighty. Driver's licence seven years old. Same face as the photo album.'

‘Any sign of who's paying the bills?' I asked. The oldest connection.

‘The bills are all in her name,' Shaughnessy said. ‘The lady is self-sufficient. Rents this place at two-five a month. Shorthold contract signed four years back. The girl's a high earner.'

‘She's not your average sales girl,' I agreed. ‘Makes you wonder what her line of business is.'

‘Take a look at this,' Shaughnessy said. He picked up a biro from the back of the desk.

The pen was a click-top with a slender, solid feel. Black with a gold band. The sort presented as promotional giveaways. This one had a name in gold lettering along its length.

The Royal Trafalgar, Brighton.

The same as Larry Slater's Amex bill.

Bingo again.

Beautiful woman. Rich guy. Mysterious hotel bills. Slater staking out the place. Something was going on between them that Jean Slater for sure didn't know about. Was the woman Slater's mistress?

If so, what had taken her out of town right now? Had she ditched Slater for a bigger fish? I hadn't noticed any holes in her wardrobe to suggest she'd packed a suitcase.

More importantly, why was this woman top of Slater's agenda the week his stepdaughter was missing? Why the desperation in Larry Slater's voice? My First Law was screaming the obvious: Tina Brown was connected. Maybe central to it all.

We had everything we were going to get without asking Tina or Slater.

We tidied things and switched off the lights, drew back the curtains. The street light washed back into the front lounge and restored the apartment's deathly stillness. As we walked out, a sense of oppression tingled at the nape of my neck, like a ghost was looking over my shoulder. We closed the door quietly and went back down to the street.

We'd got what we came for. Brown was ID'd. But now we'd got something else: another missing person.

What was the connection with Rebecca?

At eight a.m. I ate two rounds of wholemeal toast and washed them down with a cup of Buckaroo loaded with cream. Then I headed out.

The city was buzzing with rumours of spring. I drove through Sunday traffic, slowing for cagouled tourists crossing the roads. I played Wyn Marsalis loud with the Frogeye's windows down, let his Levee stuff swirl around me as I skimmed in and out of lanes. I hit greens and made Hampstead in under twenty minutes.

I drove up to the Slater home and turned into the driveway, circled behind the lawn and parked by the front porch. The Lexus was absent. A bonus. I rang the bell.

It took a couple more attempts but eventually Jean Slater opened the door. The five days since I'd last seen her hadn't improved Jean. Today she looked too weary even to question the appearance of an education official on a Sunday morning.

I greeted her with my most harmless smile, which must have worked because she stepped back instinctively. I took it as an invitation. By the time her senses caught up I was in the house. I wondered where Larry was.

‘Can we sit down for a moment?' I said. ‘Your husband should join us if he's here.'

Despite my request Jean made no move to invite me further in.

‘I'm sorry, I don't understand,' she said. Something was finally getting through her cloudy mind. Something about education officials and Sunday mornings not mixing.

‘We need to talk about Rebecca,' I said.

‘What about her?'

‘Why don't you tell me?' I suggested.

Jean Slater looked like I'd spat on her shoes. She shook her head emphatically.

‘Mr Anderton,' she said, ‘why are you calling on a weekend?'

For a moment the name threw me. Then I remembered the card I'd left.

‘I'm not Mr Anderton,' I said, ‘and I'm not with the Education Authority.' I gave her my real name and one of my real cards. Her eyes glanced over the card and she jumped like she'd touched a bare wire. Suddenly she was fully alert.

‘What is this?' she said. ‘Who the hell are you?'

‘Like it says, I'm a private investigator.'

‘Who sent you here?'

I gestured into the house. ‘Let's sit down,' I said. ‘I'll explain.'

‘No!' Jean Slater's voice gained strength. Anger breaking through her lassitude. ‘How dare you come into my house under false pretences? I asked who sent you here!'

‘Jean, I'm here to help.'

‘Leave!' She swung the door wide. ‘My husband will be back any moment. Please go!'

Private investigation. It's like being a Jehovah's Witness. Everyone wants a piece of you. I took a chance and stood my ground.

‘I'm working for a friend of Rebecca's,' I said. ‘She's concerned for your daughter's safety. My agency has taken a look and it's pretty clear to us that your daughter is in some kind of trouble.'

Jean's anger didn't diminish but I could see distress gaining the upper hand.

‘Five minutes,' I repeated, ‘that's all I need.'

Jean hesitated then eased the door closed. She turned and walked stiffly into the lounge. I followed. The unopened post from four days ago was still unopened, the pile bigger. Jean sat down but didn't invite me. I perched myself on a convenient chair.

She waited for me to speak.

‘Someone's taken Rebecca.' I said it for her.

She opened her mouth, on the verge of denial. Then she thought better. She shook her head.

‘Maybe we can help,' I suggested.

‘Who sent you,' Jean asked again.

‘Two of Rebecca's friends,' I said. ‘Sadie and Gina Redding. You know them.'

Jean's eyes widened. She struggled for composure.

‘Mr Flynn,' she said, ‘Rebecca's friends are well intentioned but they are not helping. This is a private matter. You could help us by telling them that.'

I raised my eyebrows. Waited. She stared back.

‘Eight days is a long time,' I said.

Jean flinched as if I'd lashed her with a whip. Her eyes flared but then the beaten look came back. I saw fatigue, helplessness. The woman was terrified.

‘Eight days!' I said. ‘I don't know what's happened but I do know that your daughter needs help.'

Jean Slater shook her head again. ‘You don't know anything,' she said.

‘Tell me,' I said.

She was still hesitating, wanting to hope, but afraid to believe.

‘Start at the beginning,' I suggested. ‘Tell me when it started.'

I heard a footstep.

‘When what started?' A man's voice. Authoritative. No hint of trepidation in this one. Jean Slater looked over my shoulder and drew herself in.

I stood and turned to face Larry Slater. He was looking at me with the expression of someone who's eaten a cheeseburger too fast.

He glared at his wife then glared at me again. I took the initiative and held out my hand.

‘Larry,' I said, ‘I'm Eddie Flynn.'

Slater left my hand hanging. I dropped it with what I hoped was a semblance of dignity. Slater's rebuff brought my count in kiss-off handshakes to forty-nine since primary school. Private detectives attract kiss-off handshakes the way double-glazing reps attract closed doors. Familiarity made them no easier to take. If my face showed anything Slater didn't notice. He was too busy scowling at his wife.

‘Who the hell is this?' he asked. He saw that Jean wasn't capable of explaining so he redirected his interrogation.

I repeated my name.

‘Who sent you here? What the hell are you doing in my house?'

‘I'm a private investigator,' I said. ‘I've already explained to your wife that I'm acting for two of Rebecca's friends.'

‘Which friends? What the hell's going on?'

‘What's going on is that I'm trying to find out what has happened to your daughter,' I said.

Slater did an idiot act. Open-mouthed. Phoney right through. When he'd impressed me with his acting skills he switched back to business.

‘Whatever might have happened or not happened to our daughter,' he said, ‘is none of your damned business. That's all you need to understand.'

‘I was explaining to your wife,' I continued, ‘that in my professional experience your daughter may be at risk, whatever has happened.'

‘But whatever you think may have happened,' Slater repeated, ‘is none of your damned business. Your business is to get the hell out of my house.'

I looked back at Jean Slater. She looked at her husband. ‘Larry–' she began.

‘Stop!' Slater barked at her. She fell silent. ‘Have you said anything to this person?'

‘Of course not.' Her face hardened.

But in another minute she would have. One lousy minute. That's the investigation business. All the minutes you never get.

And right now Larry Slater wasn't giving me any more minutes.

He jabbed his thumb over his shoulder. ‘Mr Flynn, I want you out of my house.'

‘Larry,' I said. ‘It's essential we talk. Just be reasonable for one minute.'

‘Reasonable, hell,' he said. ‘You've got ten seconds then I'm calling the police.'

I stayed put. Figured he was bluffing. I said: ‘You don't want the police here any more than you want me. But with me there's less paperwork.'

Slater walked out into the hallway and showed me his bluff by picking up the phone. Gave me a good view as he punched three numbers. All nines, I wouldn't be surprised. Next he was going to bluff a report of an intruder in his house and a squad car was going to turn up and bluff my arrest. I had important business waiting. Business that would be tricky from the holding cell at the local station. I turned to walk towards the door.

‘Don't bother,' I said. ‘We'll call them ourselves tomorrow. We'll have enough by then.'

I nodded to Jean Slater, pointed to the card in her hand. ‘Any time you want to talk,' I said.

I walked out. Neither of them followed me through. See yourself out, Eddie. Another tradition of the investigation trade.

I jumped into the Frogeye and headed back to town.