Down into Darkness (8 page)

Neil Morgan was an exception only in matters of taste: a Lowry, not a Hirst; a Lexus
GS300
, not a boy's toy. In all other respects, he measured up, with his house in Norland Square, his flawless wife, his directorships. Delaney sat in a large, elegant room, his back to the light, and listened to Morgan telling him about wealth and ambition. The essence of the story was you can't have one without the other. When Morgan started in on politics, Delaney held up a hand to interrupt, but only while he turned the cassette in his recorder.

‘New Labour,' Morgan said, ‘now New Conservatism. It's time for a change, you can feel it. Blair only found power and held it by parking his tanks on our lawn.'

In addition to being a multimillionaire, Morgan was a Conservative MP: a back-bench activist. He liked to think of himself as one of the coming men. This was because the press had labelled him ‘One of the Coming Men'. Twice
Morgan had turned down shadow cabinet posts; he was biding his time, waiting for the big one: Home Office, Foreign Office. Until that happened he would be a mover and shaker. Mover and shaker and lurker.

He talked about money: it was a key that unlocked doors.

He talked about the war in Iraq: it was a good thing.

He talked about a global economy: it was the one true way.

While Delaney sat, Morgan walked. He roamed the room, speaking in a low, passionate voice: a slight man in his early forties, formally dressed, his narrow, carefully shaven face glowing with conviction. His eyes had an odd, upwards slant; they glittered.

‘Remember Gordon Gecko?' he asked.

Delaney offered, ‘Greed is good.'

‘That's what people quote, that's their memory: greed is good, greed is right, greed works. They don't recall the rest of it.' Delaney waited. ‘Greed in all its forms,' Morgan said, ‘greed for life, for money, for love, knowledge – has marked the upward surge of mankind.'

‘You've got it by heart.'

‘By heart is right. By
heart
. And the country will feel that, and the people will respond, and they'll see that we're the future.'

Delaney wanted to dim the light in Morgan's eye. He turned his questions away from the future and asked, instead, about death. He asked about six hundred thousand dead Iraqis, he asked about Abu Ghraib, he asked about Guantánamo Bay and Extraordinary Rendition.

Acid leaked into Morgan's voice. ‘Everyone knows I voted in favour of that action. I would do the same again. Some unfortunate things have happened, but it's war, not a stroll in the park.'

Off-the-shelf phrases, and old stock at that; Delaney
allowed himself the ghost of a smile. He said, ‘A lot of people opposed it – ordinary people; there were marches, millions of people on the streets.'

‘This country isn't run by straw poll,' Morgan informed him. ‘Governments govern, that's their job.'

Morgan wasn't a day-time champagne man and, anyway, Delaney had taped enough. He stood up and got a firm, politician's handshake. As he hit the street, Stella and Harriman were just arriving to let Morgan know that his principal researcher had been found on a bench by the river, his throat cut back to the cervical vertebrae.

DI Mike Sorley was getting into his second pack of the day. Stella watched as he snapped his lighter, lit up, then allowed the flame to come dangerously close to the stacks of paper on his desk.

‘It's one way,' she observed.

Sorley laughed. ‘Don't think I'm not tempted.' He pushed one set of files aside to accommodate those Stella had just brought in. The file on Elizabeth Rose Connor aka Bryony Dean had moved up a little but still lay five deep. He said, ‘We've got all manner of shit here. We've got a crazy person, we've got a multiple, and we've got a prominent MP. I know it's a multiple because I can count, I know it's a crazy because the press have it in page-high headlines, and I know the MP is prominent because the pompous bastard told me so.'

He drew on his cigarette so the coal crackled: a lungful wasn't enough for Sorley.

‘A crazy person, right? Has to be.'

Stella knew Sorley was being wry – he was too good a copper to jump to easy conclusions. She said what was in his mind: ‘That, or it's what we're supposed to think.'

‘So either way we're looking for connections between the two.'

‘Would be if we had an ID for Tree Girl.'

‘What are we holding back?'

In every investigation, certain details would be kept from the press in order to eliminate the professional confessors who stood in line for their chance at fame, to be loathed and feared, to be up there with the best of the worst.

‘The writing,' Stella said. ‘Dirty girl; filthy coward.'

‘There's your link,' Sorley observed. ‘There's your connection.'

‘I know. Except I don't know what I know. Whether it's a real connection or a connection the killer's making in his mind. I need to find out more about him.'

‘Talk to a profiler?'

‘Yes.'

‘Stay in budget, Stella.' There was enough of Sorley's cigarette left to light the next. He said, ‘This Morgan looks a problem.'

Stella grimaced. ‘I thought he was pro-police: more money, more powers. Didn't he vote for ninety-day detention?'

‘He did. But it seems we've let him down – a brutal and horrendous attack in broad daylight, an innocent man's life cut short, maniacs roaming the streets, a police force that seems unable to deal with the ever-increasing blah-fucking-blah.'

‘He has friends in the press,' Stella guessed.

‘Friends everywhere, flash fucker.' After a moment Sorley said, ‘He likes public places, our maniac.'

‘He does.'

‘Big risk.'

‘Maybe that's what he likes.'

The rest of the team were going different ways.

Sue Chapman was cross-referencing forensics.

Maxine Hewitt and Frank Silano were talking to Mrs Pigeon.

Andy Greegan was reviewing the scene-of-crime material.

Pete Harriman was kissing a whore in a pub up by the Strip.

It was just a kiss hello, because Stacey didn't do professional mouth to mouth. She was a natural redhead with a neat body and the perfect lips for kissing, but you couldn't buy them. Stacey had a repertoire second to none: slow hand, good head, straight all ways up, dealer's choice, three-way humps, name your shame. She would look up for a facial, or stand in the rain, and if the money was right she might even stretch to anal, but kissing was off the list.

Harriman's lips brushed her hair, and he only got that because he'd known Stacey for five years and helped her out on a couple of occasions.

Occasion one: malicious wounding during an attempted fuck-and-run. Stacey had multiple abrasions and a cracked rib; the punter had criss-cross knife lines on his buttocks. Harriman reported person or persons unknown.

Occasion two: a pimp takeover complete with death threats. Harriman pulled the pimp on suspicion and just happened to find, in the boot of the guy's Ferrari Modena, an attaché case full of street-ready crack.

Stacey was drinking Breezers because there were still some working hours left in the day. Harriman was on duty, so he'd decided on Scotch with a Becks chaser. He took out the retouched morgue photo of Tree Girl and pushed it across the table to Stacey. Underneath the ten-by-eight was the price of a blow-job. That was their real relationship.

The trade-off for having a cop as a friend in times of need made Stacey Harriman's ‘chis'. That's
c
overt
h
uman
i
ntelligence
s
ource. Stacey wasn't crazy about the arrangement, but
some worked the kerbs and cars, some worked the pubs and bars, and if you were an indoors girl, like Stacey, you needed good connections. She had an apartment in North Kensington, a client list and an advertising network that brought the punters to her door. She was almost a class act and only hit the bars when the cash flow was low.

She palmed the money and held the photo to the light. ‘Is this the girl in the tree? Is this Tree Girl?'

‘Yes.'

Stacey looked closer; her mouth twisted in a little grimace.

‘What happened to her?'

‘Someone hung her in –'

‘Happened to her face.'

Harriman tried to think of another way to say it, but gave up. ‘Birds took her eyes.'

Stacey looked for a long time, and Harriman knew she wasn't running through a mental file-index, she was thinking how all the girls on the Strip were just a step away from something like this. Just a step, a wrong word, a bad connection, a piece of lousy luck.

She said, ‘It's Lizzie.'

That was all Stacey could offer: Lizzie. Lizzie Someone. Lizzie No Name. Though she did have more on Lizzie's connections and her way of life.

‘She was freelance. The pimps tried to muscle in, add her to their list, but she wouldn't talk to them: she was like a guerrilla-whore, you know? Hit and run. She'd arrive out of nowhere, scoop a trick, go off in the guy's car, do the business, then turn up twenty minutes later in a boozer or some pizza-pasta place just off limits looking for more.'

‘How did you know her?' Harriman asked.

‘She worked the pubs sometimes, especially if the pimps were down on her: safety in numbers, though your hit ratio tends to be poor compared to working the kerbs. Question of turnover.' She laughed at the word ‘turnover'; she'd heard it before. ‘Lizzie tended to do pretty good business.'

‘She was special?'

‘She was young. Fresh meat.' Pimp terminology: Stacey said it with a sneer.

‘Did you speak to her?'

‘No. I heard her speak, though. To punters.'

‘What nationality was she?'

‘You really don't know much about her, do you?'

‘She was dead, she was naked. No, not a thing.'

‘Local. South London accent, Essex, whatever you call it.'

‘Tell me about the pimps.'

‘You know… they hate a bandit. She was picking up their business. They tried to kidnap her a couple of times, but pimps are lazy, and she was fast.'

She finished her drink and looked for another. Harriman said, ‘Sure, in a minute. When did you last see her?'

‘Who knows? A week ago, maybe. She'd picked up a cruiser… at least, he'd seen her and was pulling over. Trouble was, Costea saw her at the same time.'

‘Costea –?'

‘Radu. Costea Radu. He runs ten or so from Romania: pays his street rental and doesn't take kindly to girls who stray in… or girls who stray out.'

‘He's violent…'

Stacey laughed. ‘He's a pimp.'

‘Where can I find him? What does he look like?'

Stacey held up her hands. ‘Pete, this only goes so far.'

‘I'm going to the bar to get us a refill,' Harriman said. ‘You could spend the time looking at Lizzie's picture. Imagine what she looked like before they did the computer cosmetics.'

When he got back, Stacey said, ‘Six three, carries some weight, long hair, looks like a roadie. He wears a big cross.'

‘Cross?'

‘Crucifix, you know.' She laughed. ‘He's from Transylvania, think about it.'

‘And can be found at –?'

‘On the street sometimes. He drives a silver jeep. Or there's a basement casino underneath a minicab company – Steadfast Cars. I'm going to need a smokescreen.'

‘We'll bust the casino: illegal gambling, nothing to do with Lizzie, nothing to do with you. Then some unnamed officer from vice will let us know what Costea does for a living. After that, he'll be helping us with our inquiries.'

‘Okay…' She sounded unconvinced. ‘Don't come back to me for a while, Pete.' Harriman nodded. Stacey picked up the ten-by-eight, looked at it, then shot it back across the table. ‘I used to work the Strip,' she said. ‘It's a fucking treadmill.'

‘Meaning?'

‘She might have turned twelve tricks a day; what's that a week?'

‘Eighty-four.'

‘Right. How many a month?'

Harriman couldn't do the maths. ‘A lot.'

‘In six months?'

‘Your point is?'

‘You only need one mad bastard, one crazy. Any one of them could have done her.'

‘You have to hate someone to do what he did to her.' Harriman was thinking of the brand on her back: Dirty Girl.

‘We're hookers,' Stacey said. ‘The men who use us – they all hate us; it's just a matter of degree.'

Maxine Hewitt, Frank Silano, Mrs Pigeon, Mr Pigeon. They sat in diamond formation in Mrs Pigeon's drawing room. The apartment was on Chiswick Mall, and the room over-looked the river. Maxine calculated that the bench where Leonard Pigeon died must be only just out of sight.

Mr Pigeon was Mrs Pigeon's father-in-law. His name was Maurice, her name was Paula. The older Mrs Pigeon had died five years before. Silano had all this down in his notebook. He wondered what Paula's name had been before she married and became Paula Pigeon; he wondered if she had stood at the altar and had second thoughts.

Do you, Paula, take this man
…

Silano was distracting himself this way, because he didn't think there was much to learn from the interview, but also because Maurice Pigeon was on a seamless law-and-order riff in which the police were looking pretty bad. Pretty inefficient. Pretty much willing to let throats be cut on towpaths, while teencreeps dealt dope, glassed each other and threw up in city centres without let or hindrance. It was the same speech Neil Morgan, MP, had delivered to the tabloids.

Paula was completely in control of her emotions, apart from frequent swallowings and the occasional fractured syllable: techniques designed to kill the urge to cry. She looked like a woman full to the brim.