Take Two (A psychological thriller) (18 page)

‘I don’t know,’ said Carolyn. ‘Seriously. The first time I saw him I thought he was, but now I’m not so sure.’

‘You can’t remember?’ asked Terry, sitting back in his chair.

‘I’ve got a terrible memory for faces, Terry. I just have. I can’t remember what my mum looks like. I mean, I can, but all the memories I have are based on her photographs. That’s the face I see.’

‘What are you saying? The man in your memory doesn’t have a face?’

‘No, now he has Warwick’s face but I’m not sure if that’s because my memory is playing tricks on me or because I’m deliberately picturing him there.’ She shrugged. ‘That sounds stupid, doesn’t it?’

‘No, it doesn’t sound stupid at all. I understand what you’re saying. The police always say that eyewitness evidence is the most unreliable. No one has a perfect memory.’

‘It doesn’t feel like it’s him,’ she said. ‘But that might be because he’s such a nice guy.’

‘And handsome.’

‘And handsome,’ agreed Carolyn. She pushed herself off Terry’s desk and began pacing up and down.

‘Ted Bundy was handsome and he killed a hell of a lot of women,’ said Terry.

‘Warwick’s not a serial killer, he might have killed Nicholas Cohen but…’ She shrugged and didn’t finish the sentence. ‘I just don’t know, Terry.’

‘Why not just talk to the police?’

Carolyn stopped pacing and folded her arms. ‘And say what?’

‘Well for a start tell them you think you might have seen Richards smack an accountant over the head.’

‘And if I’m wrong?’

‘If you’re wrong then he can tell the cops where he was at the time and all’s right with the world.’

‘And then he sues me for libel.’

‘He won’t know it was you.’

Carolyn laughed. ‘You know the cops talk to the press every chance they get,’ she said. ‘It’s me, Terry.  If I so much as go out without make-up on it’s at the top of the Mail’s website. And remember that time I put on a few pounds? The tabloids were all over me. So think what they’ll be like if they know I’m involved in a murder investigation.’ She went back to lean against his desk.

‘I think you’re worrying too much.’

‘Yeah, well, you work in a bloody office and no one knows who the hell you are. I’m in the public eye and trust me, if it gets out that I witnessed a murder it’ll be all over the papers.’

Terry flashed her a tight smile. ‘Darling, I know how famous you are. And that I’m just one of the unsung backroom boys.’

Carolyn laughed and patted him on the arm. ‘You know what I mean,’ she said. ‘Look, the network is planning to reorganize the show and they’ll use any excuse to push me out.’

‘Rubbish,’ said Terry.

‘I’m serious, Terry.  The last thing I need right now is to be tied in with something like this. And it might all be about nothing. Warwick’s a lovely guy. Maybe he just looks like the guy I saw at Cohen’s house.  I mean, how likely is it he’d want to have lunch with me if he thought I’d seen him commit a murder?’

‘Maybe he’s as crazy as you are,’ laughed Terry. ‘So what are you going to do now?’

‘I’ll give Max Dunbar a call. He can run a check on Warwick.’

‘I don’t like that guy.’

‘Max? He’s okay.’

‘He’s sleazy, Carolyn. And he keeps looking at your tits when he thinks you don’t know.’

Carolyn laughed. ‘I think you’ll find most heterosexual men do that, Terry.’

‘I’m serious. I’ve never really trusted him.’

‘He gets the job done,’ said Carolyn. ‘That stalker I had, I never heard from again after Max had a word with him. He’s got great police connections and he’s discreet.’ She looked at her watch. ‘Anyway, I’d best be going. Billy’s waiting for me out front.’

‘Just be careful,’ said Terry, kissing her on the cheek. ‘And if you feel like a sleepover, call me.’

CHAPTER 39

Richards had just locked up his Porsche and was heading for the lift to take him up to his penthouse flat when a figure stepped out of the shadows. His hands bunched into fists but he relaxed when he saw it was Halpin. ‘What the hell are you doing?’ asked Richards. ‘You almost gave me a bloody heart attack.’

‘Sorry boss, I wanted to know how it went, that’s all.’

‘So why stalk me? Couldn’t you have phoned?’

Halpin moved closer to Richards and lowered his voice. ‘No, I couldn’t phone because if the cops are on to us they’ll be listening in. You know what Five-O are like.  They’ll be all over us until they’re sure they’ve got a cast iron case.’

Richards nodded and took out a cigar. ‘Yeah, you’re right.’ He bit off the end and spat it away, then lit it.

‘So how did it go?’ asked Halpin.

Richards blew a cloud of smoke before answering. ‘I think we’re okay.’

‘You think? We need more than that, boss.’

Richards narrowed his eyes. ‘You’re starting to piss me off, you know that?’

Halpin put up his hands. ‘I’m sorry, but this matters, boss. If she can identify us we’re going away for a long time.’

‘She was as sweet as a nut,’ said Richards. ‘Chatted away about her job and her family, said she might come on out to the club. I didn’t pick up on anything.’

‘But she’s an actress. Maybe she was acting.’

‘Yeah, but why meet me, why have lunch with me?’ said Richards.  ‘If she’d recognised me, why not just call the cops?’

‘Maybe she was wired.’

They reached the lift and Richards pressed the call button. ‘Wired?’

‘Maybe the cops fitted her with a wire. Maybe they were listening in.’

‘What, while I confessed to murder in the studio canteen? You’ve been watching too much TV.’

‘Maybe she didn’t see everything. And don’t forget they don’t have a body and there’s bugger all forensics. Plus we’ve got alibis. So if she does go to the cops, chances are they’re going to be looking for us to confess.’

‘That’s not going to happen, is it?’

‘Which is why they might think about wiring her up.’

Richards blew smoke up at the roof of the car park as the lift doors opened. ‘She didn’t ask anything like that. It was just chit-chat.’

‘So you think we’re all good?’

Richards stepped into the lift and Halpin followed him. ‘I think so, yeah.’

‘Boss, we need more than that.’ The lifts doors closed and Halpin pressed the button for the top floor.

‘We’re in the clear,’ said Richards. ‘I’m sure of it. She didn’t see anything.’

Halpin nodded, but he didn’t look convinced. ‘So it’s business as usual?’

‘Yeah. You can start phoning me instead of jumping out of the shadows, and I’ll arrange to see The Mint tomorrow.’

CHAPTER 40

Carolyn waited until Saturday morning before phoning Maxwell Dunbar. She didn’t have his number stored in her phone but she had kept his business card. She’d put it in a large glass bowl with several hundred other cards and, when she got home, she tipped them out onto her dining table and spread them out.  Dunbar’s was a plain white card with black lettering – Maxwell Dunbar Investigations. There was a landline and a mobile number. She tapped out the mobile number and Dunbar answered after a few seconds. ‘Max? It’s Carolyn. Carolyn Castle.’

‘Miss Castle, long time no hear. I hope your stalker isn’t back.’ He had a slight lisp and a habit of breathing too hard, as if he was asthmatic.

‘No, you sorted that little problem for me just fine, Max. But I have something else I need doing.’

‘At your service as always, Miss Castle.’

‘Max, I know it’s short notice but could you come around now? I’m working long days all this week and it’s fairly urgent.’

‘Not a problem, Miss Castle. Are you still in Notting Hill Gate?’

‘I am, Max. I’ll be waiting for you.’

Carolyn cut the connection. She made a cup of coffee and she was just finishing it when her doorbell rang. She had the door on the chain and checked through the viewer to make sure it was Dunbar before opening the door. He shook her hand, wiped his feet on the doormat, and took off his raincoat. She hung it on a coat rack and took him through to the kitchen. He sat down and exhaled. He was a heavy-set man in his early sixties. Carolyn had last seen him three years earlier but he seemed to have aged a decade. His hair was thinner and greyer and there was a waxy sheen to his face that suggested he wasn’t in the best of health.  His beer gut strained at his shirt buttons and there was a dribble of something that could have been mustard down his shirt front.

‘Would you like a coffee, Max? Or water?’

He winked at her. ‘You know, a whisky would go down a treat and keep out the cold,’ he said. He tapped the side of his nose, which was threaded with red veins. ‘Maybe a splash of water, just to take the edge off.’

Carolyn went through to the sitting room and retrieved a bottle of Johnnie Walker Blue Label. She took it back to the kitchen, poured a decent measure into a glass and added some tapwater. He took it from her, raised the glass in salute, and drank almost half of it in one swallow.  There was a sour smell coming from him as if he hadn’t bathed in a couple of days.

‘So what’s your problem, Miss Castle?’ he asked.

‘I need you to check someone out for me. A man I’ve met. Warwick Richards is his name.’

‘Warwick Richards?’

Carolyn nodded. ‘He’s about six two, good shape, dark hair, he’s clearly got money. Drives a Porsche Cayenne. He says he runs a nightclub in Leicester Square and has a few properties.’

‘And what do you want me to do?’ asked Dunbar.

‘I need to know everything about him. Who he is. Where he lives. Friends. Enemies.’

‘Is he giving you a problem, Miss Castle?’

‘Not really. I’ve met him and I just need to know more about him. Can you do that?’

‘Of course. Now you say you’ve met him. Did he give you a card?’

‘Yes.’  She handed him the business card that Richards had given her. ‘Oh, and see if you can find out if he has any connection with an accountant called Nicholas Cohen. He’s a partner in a firm called Cohen and Kawczynski.’

‘No problem,’ said Dunbar.

‘How long do you think it’ll take, Max?’

‘A couple of days.’ He drained his glass and stood up. ‘I’ll call you as soon as I get anything.’

‘You’re a lifesaver, Max, thank you.’

‘Shall we say five hundred, on account?’

‘It’ll have to be a cheque, I’m afraid.’

‘A cheque’s fine, Miss Castle.’

Carolyn wrote him a cheque as he stood behind her, breathing heavily. She gave it to him, showed him out then went back to the kitchen and poured a glass of wine.

CHAPTER 41

Richards had arranged to meet The Mint at a canal-side pub in Maida Vale, north London. The Mint was seeing his mother for lunch and said he’d be at the pub by three. He was waiting in the car park when Richards drove up. Richards parked, climbed out, and hugged his old friend. Murray Wainwright was in his sixties and the two men had known each other for more than twenty years. In a business full of liars, cheats and violent psychopaths, The Mint was one of the few men Richards totally trusted.  He had long grey hair tied back in a ponytail, skin tanned from years in the Spanish sun, and pearly white teeth that were the best implants Harley Street could provide.  There was a gold Rolex on his left wrist, a chunky gold bracelet on his right and a two gold sovereign rings on his right hand that were as effective as any knuckle duster.

‘Times are hard, are they?’ asked The Mint, looking over at the Porsche.

‘The Bentley, you mean? It was a red rag to a bull for the traffic cops. So many drug dealers drive Bentleys these days, we all get tarred with the same brush.’

‘And they ignore white Porches, that’s the plan?’

‘Don’t knock it if it works.’

‘MPG?’

‘Who the hell knows, Murray? And more to the point, who cares?’  The two men laughed and Richards opened his cigar case and offered it to The Mint. He took one, sniffed it, and bit off the end.

Richards did the same and lit them both before they walked along to the pub and sat at a table on the terrace overlooking the canal.

‘I remember when this was a right dangerous boozer,’ said The Mint. ‘You wouldn’t step in here without a gun in your pocket or a machete down your trouser leg.’

‘Gentrification,’ said Richards. ‘It’s happening all over.’

‘You’re not kidding,’ said The Mint. ‘I bought my mum her flat twenty years ago for a couple of hundred grand and you know what it’s worth now? A million quid. A bloody million. It’s a nice flat, mind, but it’s only got two bedrooms.’  A waiter came over and Richards ordered a bottle of Cristal.

‘I need to do some business,’ said Richards after the waiter had left.  ‘I’ve run into a bit of a cash flow problem.’

‘Move to the Costa full time, mate. The Spanish are much easier to deal with.’

‘I need to stay close to the club. And you know I don’t like the sun.’ He leaned towards him. ‘Can you put something together for me? Rush job?’

‘What did you have in mind?’

‘I’ve got seven hundred and fifty grand tucked away for a rainy day. I was figuring we split that into three. You fix me up with three runs, if one gets through I’ll be covering my costs, if all three get through I’ll be a very happy bunny.’

The Mint nodded. ‘I’ve got a supplier in Morocco who’s champing at the bit,’ he said. ‘Do you want to go solo or mob-handed?’

Richards blew a cloud of smoke over the canal. Putting his money together with other investors meant more profits by virtue of economies of scale, but the more people involved the greater the danger that someone would grass them up.  ‘I’ll leave that up to you, Murray. You’ve never steered me wrong in the past.’

The waiter returned with a bottle of champagne in an ice bucket and two glasses. He poured a splash into one glass but The Mint waved his ringed hand over the glass. ‘Just pour it, it’ll be fine,’ he said.

They both sipped their champagne until the waiter had left. ‘Is your money in the system or are we talking used notes?’ asked The Mint.

‘It’s in the bank,’ said Richards. ‘Jersey. I’ve put most of my cash through the club over the last few years so it’s all legit. I was planning on leaving it there for the long haul but now I’ve got no choice other than to put it into play.’