Broken Dolls (A Jefferson Winter Thriller) (14 page)

Cole stared at the photos for a while longer, shadows of emotion flickering across his hard face. He picked up Patricia Maynard’s photo and studied it closely.

‘Okay, I’ll retract the reward.’ Cole shot me a look that was both a challenge and a warning. ‘But you’d better get my little girl back.’

Cole’s PA escorted us to the elevator and waited with us until it arrived. We got inside and the doors closed and Templeton hit the button for the ground floor.

‘You really get off on all that alpha-male stuff, don’t you?’ she said. ‘You like to lock horns? Do a little rutting?’

‘For the record, we were not rutting.’

‘Antagonising Cole like that might not have been your best move. If you’re not careful you’re going to wake up with a horse’s head in your bed.’

Before I could respond, my cellphone rang. Hatcher’s name was lit up on the screen. I answered and said hi.

‘You’re not going to believe this,’  said Hatcher. ‘Despite that stunt of Cole’s, we might actually have got a halfway decent lead.’

26

Springers looked shabby, but most bars did in sunlight, even in an upscale area like Kensington. There was nothing like moonlight and streetlamps and tasteful lighting to paper over the cracks and make things appear more presentable than they were. The woodwork was purple, the lettering silver. Hippy colours, designer bohemian.

Most of the bar’s frontage was taken up by four large windows that gave a good view of the interior. Three o’clock in the afternoon and there were ten drinkers inside. Most were dressed for work but I didn’t see much business going on. The Christmas decorations were expensive and tasteful, nothing too garish.

‘Fancy a small wager?’ I said.

We were parked on the yellow lines outside the bar. The heater was on full and ‘Layla’ was playing on the radio. This was the extended version rather than the radio edit. Slide guitars and piano and Clapton wailing away on his Fender Stratocaster.

‘Okay, I’m listening,’ said Templeton.

‘I’m betting Cole has a Bentley.’

‘What do you think I am, Winter? Stupid? You saw the car at his office.’

‘I didn’t, but I can see how you might think that, so let’s make it more interesting. Check the records and you’ll see that he also drives a Maserati. The Bentley will be a Continental. The Maserati, a Gran Turismo.’

‘Okay, you’re on. Ten quid. But you need to be right about both cars. Make and model.’

‘I am.’

Templeton held out her hand and we shook to seal the deal. Her touch was electric and it lit up my synapses in a way that was better than any artificial stimulant. We got out the BMW and went inside.

Andrew Hitchin was waiting behind the bar for us. He introduced himself as Andy and got us some drinks on the house. Whisky for me, coffee for Templeton. Andy had a Budweiser straight from the bottle. He was Australian, a surfer-dude with scruffy black hair, a blue stone on a strand of leather around his neck, and enough of a tan to indicate he was still fairly new in town. His pupils were dilated and there was a sweet tinge to the tobacco smoke that clung to his clothes. He spoke carefully to hide the fact he was stoned. Templeton placed a photograph of Rachel Morris on the bar, the Eiffel Tower shot. It was blown up to the point where it was starting to lose definition.

‘Yeah, that’s her,’ said Andy. ‘I’m a hundred per cent sure. A hundred and ten per cent. She was sat over there.’ He pointed to a sofa and low table hidden away at the back of the room.

‘Is she a regular?’

‘I’ve never seen her before. Then again, I’ve only been here a couple of weeks. I showed the CCTV footage to a couple of the other guys who’ve been working here longer, but they didn’t recognise her, either.’

‘We’re going to need that footage,’ said Templeton.

‘Thought you might. I already checked with the manager and he said no worries.’

‘You obviously get a lot of people coming through here,’ I said. ‘How come you remembered Rachel?’

‘We weren’t all that busy last night because of the snow. Also, we don’t get many women coming in on their own. Usually they’re with their friends or partners. The ones who do come in alone don’t tend to stay alone for long. They’ve just arrived early and are waiting for their friends. Men drink on their own, women don’t.’

‘How long was she here for?’

‘I’m not sure. Long enough to have a couple of glasses of wine.’

‘Red or white?’ I asked.

‘Red.’ Andy paused, thought for a second. ‘Wait a minute, I’ve just remembered something. It’s probably not important, but she started off with a soft drink then switched to wine.’

‘That’s good,’ I said. ‘Anything you remember, please tell me. You never know what might be important.’

Andy smiled like he’d just been given a gold star and moved to the top of the class. He took a long pull on his beer.

‘Okay,’ I added, ‘you said it wasn’t busy, which means you had time on your hands. What do you do around here to kill time?’

‘Load the dishwasher, empty it, tidy the bar. That sort of thing.’

‘Check out the women?’

I grinned and Andy grinned right back. ‘Busted.’

‘You thought Rachel was attractive, didn’t you? At any rate, you thought she was attractive enough for you to keep tabs on what she was drinking.’

Another grin. ‘Busted again.’

‘I want you to close your eyes.’

Andy looked at me suspiciously.

‘Probably best to humour him,’ said Templeton. ‘And don’t worry, if he tries to make off with your wallet, I’ve got your back.’

The barman shrugged.
What the hell.
He shut his eyes.

‘Okay,’ I said. ‘I want you to imagine that it’s last night. You’re looking for things to do to keep busy. It’s a cold one, and you’re bored, so you’re more aware than usual when the door opens. Every time it does you get a blast of cold air and you look over. The door opens and Rachel comes in. The reason you notice her is because she’s on her own. What are you doing?’

‘I’m just finishing serving someone.’

‘Is anything else going on at the bar?’

‘Yeah. Lisa’s just winding up her shift.’

‘What time does she clock off?’

‘Eight. She needed to get home for her kid.’

‘Rachel comes over to the bar. Who serves her? You or Lisa?’

‘Lisa.’

‘And because it’s not too busy, and because she’s on her own, you notice she has a soft drink.’

Andy nodded.

‘What happens next?’

‘She goes over to her table.’ A nod towards the table he indicated earlier.

‘What’s she doing?’

‘She’s waiting.’

‘For what?’

A shrug. ‘Her date, I guess. Her phone’s on the table next to her glass and she keeps checking it. Every time the door opens she looks over.’

‘Did you serve her when she came to the bar for a glass of wine?’

Andy nodded. ‘Yeah.’

‘Did she say much?’

‘Not really. She was giving off a vibe that she didn’t want to talk. Some people want to talk, some don’t. Do this job long enough and it gets so you’re pretty good at reading that one.’

‘She wasn’t wearing a wedding ring, was she?’

Andy shook his head. ‘Nope, no wedding ring.’

‘Did her date turn up?’

Another shake of the head. ‘When did she leave?’

‘Some time after nine but I’m not sure when exactly. Maybe quarter past, but it could have been later.’

‘You can open your eyes now.’

Andy took a long pull on his Bud. ‘So does any of that help?’

I nodded. ‘It does. A lot. Thanks.’

‘No worries.’

Templeton handed over a business card that had the Metropolitan Police’s logo embossed at the top and her direct line printed at the bottom. She asked Andy to call if he remembered anything else. Handshakes all around, then we went over to the table Rachel Morris had sat at last night. I sat at one end of the sofa and Templeton sat at the other end, a patch of artificially distressed leather separating us. We had a good view of the door, and the bar, and the other customers. It was a good spot to watch what was going on without being noticed.

‘Okay,’ said Templeton. ‘We know Rachel Morris got here just before eight, left some time after nine and likes red wine. Do you mind telling me how any of that helps?’

‘It helps because I’ve now got a pretty good idea how the victims are kidnapped.’

‘And you got that from the fact that she prefers red wine to white.’

‘No, I got that from the fact she wasn’t wearing a wedding ring.’

Templeton started to ask something and I held up a hand to shush her. Without another word, I closed my eyes.

27

I walk into the bar, stamp my feet on the mat, shake the snow from my coat, and for a second just stand there and check out the customers. My eyes flit from person to person, but don’t linger. Just a quick glance, long enough to see if he’s here, then on to the next. The unsub has given me a description, but nobody matches it. And the reason nobody matches it is because he’s given me a false description.

And the reason he did that is because he’s here right now, watching me.

I take another look at the customers. No, that doesn’t work. The bar is too public. It’s too risky. This unsub is careful. He wants to limit the amount of time he could be seen with his victim, limit the exposure. There’s nothing to be gained from being here.

At the bar I order a drink. A cola or a lemonade, or maybe a soda water with a splash of lime. Money changes hands and I come over to this table. It’s out of the way, which means nobody will bother me or try to chat me up. There’s an unobstructed view of the main entrance, which is important because there’s no way I’m going to miss my date when he arrives.

We’ve arranged to meet at eight because nobody ever arranges to meet at five minutes to or seven minutes after the hour but I’m early because this is all new and I’m wired, totally hyped.  I walked too quickly from the Tube station. I’m doing everything too quickly.

I tell myself to relax but it’s no use. Every time the door opens my head snaps towards it, heart pounding. At this stage it doesn’t occur to me that he might not be coming. It’s only just gone eight so he’s not really late. Not yet. I check my phone for messages or missed calls. There won’t be any, but I check anyway. There’s got to be a logical explanation why he hasn’t got here yet. Maybe he’s been held up at work. Maybe he’s been held up by the snow. I put the phone on the table and try not to stare at it.

Time passes. I drink my drink, watch the door, wait. Every time the door opens and it’s another false alarm, I feel more foolish, and angry. The longer this goes on, the more likely it is that I’ve been stood up. I go to the bar and get a glass of wine.

Back at the table, I drink my wine and check my phone and wait some more. How long do I wait? According to Andy, about an hour and a half. That feels about right. If my date hasn’t got here by then, and he hasn’t phoned, you can bet he isn’t about to turn up any time soon. I finish my wine, check my phone one last time, then put my coat on and head for the door.

*

I opened my eyes and drained my glass. The alcohol seared my throat and burnt my gut, heating me up from the inside out. Templeton was staring across the table.

‘Wedding rings,’ she prompted.

I ignored her. ‘Take a look at the customers and tell me what you see.’

‘A bunch of business people. So what?’

‘Now take another look and tell me what you don’t see.’

‘Alcoholics, homeless people, down-and-outs. Factory workers.’

‘Statistically speaking there’s at least one alcoholic in the room right now, probably a coke addict, too, but yeah, you’ve hit the nail on the head.’

We stood up and headed for the door. The second we stepped outside a blast of arctic air hit us. The harsh wind cut away at my face and I pulled my coat in tighter and hitched the collar up as high as it would go. A discreet camera was hidden above the doorway, positioned to catch the faces of anyone entering. The bar owner had no interest in the people leaving because once they’d left his premises they were someone else’s problem. I made a mental note to make sure we got the footage from all the cameras.

I stopped on the sidewalk, looked right, looked left. Late afternoon, daylight fading to dusk, the streetlights already on. This street wasn’t a main thoroughfare, but it wasn’t a dark alleyway, either. It sat somewhere between those two extremes, busy with cars and taxis and people who were hurrying more than they would in the summer because they wanted out of the cold.

‘Look at the shops,’ I said. ‘Look at the restaurants, the cars, the people. What do you see?’

‘Money.’

‘This is our unsub’s hunting ground. He feels comfortable here, he feels at home. He blends in.’

‘Which backs up your theory that he comes from money.’

‘Predators stalk their prey. They pick a spot in the tall grass and they wait. So where’s the tall grass around here?’

I glanced around and spotted a small café on the other side of the street. It wasn’t directly opposite, but it was worth checking out. I crossed the road, dodging around the back of a Mercedes that swerved so it wouldn’t hit me. There were two tables for the smokers outside.
Mulberry’s
was painted in friendly red letters on the window. Hot air blasted from the heater above the door as we entered. Mulberry’s was a medium-sized establishment, big enough to offer anonymity, which was all the unsub cared about.

There were two window tables, and both offered a great view of Springers. From here we could see right inside those four big windows. The interior of the bar was lit up like a jack-o’-lantern. I could make out individual faces and I could see lips moving in conversation and I could see the Christmas decorations and coloured lights. I saw Andy the barman zip up his coat and make for the door. The sofa where Rachel Morris had sat was tucked away in the shadows, but I could just about make it out.

‘This is the tall grass. Now, there are two ways I see this playing out. Either you have the unsub here, watching and waiting for Rachel, or his partner.’ I thought about this for a second, then shook my head. ‘No, that doesn’t work. It has to be the dominant partner. Remember what Andy the barman said. A woman on her own would have stood out.’