The Heights Page 11

  ‘A 2006 Sassicaia from Toscana?’ The woman was thumbing back through the pages.

  ‘What was the price?’

  ‘Three hundred and sixty pounds.

  ‘Sounds about right.’

  ‘It doesn’t happen every day, not even every week. Someone trying to impress a woman, you know?’

  ‘That’s the usual story.’

  ‘I understand now. Your boss wants to put this on his expenses.’ She excused herself and went into the back to make a copy. When she returned Crane asked her if she was on that night. The woman shrugged.

  ‘To be honest, I’m on most nights. Between you and me, the manager is a bit handsy when it comes to the girls. Waitresses don’t last, so we are always short-handed.’

  ‘You don’t have that kind of trouble?’

  ‘Me?’ The woman rolled her eyes. ‘He’s my husband, he stopped bothering me that way years ago. Thank god.’

  ‘Do you remember this group?’

  ‘Actually, I think I do. First of all, the man was older. Two women. One of them very pretty, the other, a lot of hair. Pelorosso.’

  ‘A redhead? Were all of them drinking?’

  ‘Yes,’ the woman nodded. ‘That’s what surprised me, why I remember.’

  ‘What surprised you?’

  ‘The man was … well, I didn’t expect him to order wine.’

  Crane raised her eyebrows. ‘Because of his looks?’

  ‘Si. I was surprised that he ask for such expensive wine.’ She gave a shrug. ‘What can he know about wine from the Toscana, right? But today everything is upside down.’

  ‘You can say that again.’

  After she left the restaurant, Crane walked. It was raining lightly, but that didn’t bother her. The chill helped to clear her head. What was Howeida’s uncle up to? Was the wine some kind of a test? He takes his niece to a fancy restaurant and orders the most expensive bottle in the place. Was he trying to impress her, or Savannah? Perhaps it was all an act, trying to look sophisticated and worldly, a man who is at ease with the West and its ways. Comfortable ordering and drinking expensive wine.

  Still, there was something not quite right about the whole picture. If Howeida’s uncle was playing games, perhaps he was trying to convince the world that he was the last person to get all patriarchal and attempt to drag her back home. In which case all of this was part of an elaborate smokescreen.

  The rain made the afternoon seem to evaporate. The light dimmed and Crane’s face and hair were soon damp. Underneath her jacket she was dry and, for the moment at least, she was warm. She took a deep breath, enjoying the walk.

  Crane had no direct training as an investigator, which was why the whole idea of starting up a bureau was contingent on joining forces with Drake. She had realised almost right away that her main problem was learning to trust him. Learning to trust anyone really. That had always been an issue. She was too much of a lone operator, which might have had something to do with being an only child, although she wasn’t too bothered about digging into all of that.

  Her experience came from the work she had done with the Met, but also before that, when she was working for Stewart Mason both at home and abroad. She had found herself in the company of some very good investigators in Iraq, Afghanistan and across Europe on Interpol cases. A missing persons case was, if anything, underwhelming after that. But this was no ordinary missing person. Marco Foulkes was no ordinary client. He knew her and that in and of itself made her uncomfortable. She felt vulnerable and that was affecting the way she was thinking.

  The second thing was the connection to her father. Any link to him was disturbing and for him to be mixed up somehow in a case she was trying to run was also a distraction.

  The Triumph was parked up on Long Acre. Ray walked up to the bike and carried on past it, deciding to circle the block rather than break the chain of her thoughts. She had been reluctant to accept Drake’s initial response to Foulkes, partly because she had wanted to take the case. She was eager to make this partnership work. Now she found herself wondering. There were a lot of question marks hanging over Foulkes. Taking an interest in her father, for example, when so far as she knew they had never been close. It might have all been thanks to his mother, but Ray wasn’t sure that was it. Foulkes was advising her father on how to handle his finances. Why would he do that? She was more concerned about his interest in Howeida, the person he was hiring them to find. The concern for her welfare might have been explained simply. Perhaps he really was smitten and, despite the voice of cynicism in the back of her head, this was a case of him being in love. Difficult to judge. She herself had never found Foulkes attractive. He was too full of himself, for starters. But she had never met Howeida, so anything was possible. Maybe she was being too harsh. Maybe she was listening too much to Drake.

  Returning to the motorcycle, Crane pulled on her helmet and climbed onto it. Kicking down the stand she pushed the starter and listened to the engine come to life. Then she pushed the gear lever down and sped away.

  19

  The Moonstone was crowded with builders from nearby construction projects who were huddled around the bar. Drake emerged from within the scrum carrying drinks for both of them and then managed to find a small table in the back.

  ‘How did it go with your father?’

  Crane sighed. ‘The thing you have to understand is that we’re not close.’

  ‘Yeah, I think I got that bit.’

  ‘The point is, I haven’t seen him for years. I disagree fundamentally with him.’

  Drake sipped his lager. ‘Because he’s a lord, or whatever.’

  ‘Whatever sounds about right. The estate is crumbling down about him and overrun by animals.’

  ‘Sounds kind of sad.’

  ‘Pathetic would be more accurate.’

  ‘So, no love lost between you.’ Drake was curious about where this harshness Crane felt towards her father came from, but he knew that she would only tell him when she felt she was ready. Until then, he would have to wait.

  ‘There’s something going on with his finances. He took his business away from the solicitors he has used all his life and put his faith in some snake oil salesman by the name of Nathanson.’

  ‘Barnaby Nathanson? That’s Foulkes’ pal.’

  ‘Foulkes was advising my father.’ Crane raised a hand. ‘And don’t you dare say I told you so.’

  ‘I wouldn’t dream of it. But I have a question.’

  ‘Shoot.’

  ‘Why would a successful writer be peddling financial advice to your father?’

  ‘Even successful writers don’t make a lot of money. Not that kind of writer.’

  ‘I thought they were all raking it in.’

  ‘When was the last time you bought a novel?’

  Drake had to nod. ‘Point taken.’

  ‘Marco is the kind of writer who is respectable, he wins prizes. People talk about his work. I’m not sure how many people actually read him.’

  ‘But he has money. The family estate, the sports car.’

  ‘He has expensive tastes.’

  ‘So, Nathanson encourages him to start investing to cover his extravagant lifestyle.’

  ‘Possibly Foulkes got a commission for bringing in new business.’ Crane sipped her wine. ‘The firm had just been taken over. What did you find out about Nathanson?’

  ‘I tracked him to Dalston.’ Drake reached into his pocket for the sheet of paper Milo had given him. He pointed to the underlined entry. ‘This is the log from a minicab firm. Nathanson has an office in Kingsland Road and a home address in Pimlico.’

  Crane frowned. ‘That sounds a little off.’

  ‘My feeling too.’ Drake folded up the piece of paper. ‘Seems a long step from St James’s.’

  ‘My father’s problems are not the issue here. What we should focus on is Foulkes and his finances.’

  ‘You think his financial troubles are connected to Howeida’s disappearance?’

  �
��It’s a possibility, don’t you think?’

  ‘Only if we treat our client like a suspect,’ said Drake. ‘Did you learn anything about her uncle?’

  ‘I spoke to her flatmate, the one from Virginia.’

  ‘Ah, yes, the delectable Savannah. How did you get on with her?’

  ‘She’s touting the same story as Marco, highlights the uncle as an old-fashioned sleaze who wants to get his mitts on his niece before she’s corrupted by bad old London ways.’

  Drake raised his glass. ‘The family honour and all that jazz.’

  ‘He took both of them out to eat one night, at an Italian place nearby.’ Crane handed him the receipt for their meal. ‘He paid nearly four hundred pounds for a bottle of wine.’

  ‘People pay that much for a bottle of wine?’ Drake found it hard to believe.

  ‘Some would consider that a snip.’

  ‘Not in my neck of the woods.’

  ‘Maybe you’re moving in the wrong circles,’ said Crane, taking back the receipt and putting it away. ‘But you’re missing the point. Why would a conservative, old-fashioned man worried about family honour be shelling out nearly four hundred pounds for a bottle of Tuscany red?’

  ‘Maybe he likes to impress the girls.’

  ‘Or maybe he’s not as conservative as they would like us to think.’

  ‘Also a possibility,’ nodded Drake.

  ‘I’ll get Heather to start digging into Marco’s financial history.’ Heather was Crane’s unlikely assistant. A matronly figure, she had been inherited along with the practice from Crane’s former mentor, Julius Rosen. ‘Then I’m going to try and meet this uncle.’

  ‘What makes you think he’ll agree to meet you?’

  ‘If he’s truly concerned about his niece, then he has no choice. He has to meet me. And if he’s playing the innocent he’ll do it too.’

  ‘How do you know he hasn’t left the country already?’

  ‘I’ve already texted him. Savannah had his number. He’s been in Germany on business, but should be back in London tomorrow. And he sounded keen to talk.’

  Drake turned the rim of his glass. ‘Just looking at this from an ethical point of view for a moment, are we in breach of contract by investigating our client?’

  Crane gave a deep sigh. ‘Marco came to us because he’s worried about Howeida. We’re still working on that. So far all we’re doing is background research.’

  ‘That works for me. I have another potential problem, or not.’ Drake set the envelope of cash on the table. ‘Donny Apostolis wants us to work for him.’

  Crane reached for the envelope and peered inside. ‘Are you pulling my leg?’

  ‘I wish I was. The problem is that Donny isn’t the kind of person who takes no for an answer.’

  ‘That doesn’t matter. We’re not going to work for a gangster.’

  ‘Technically, he assures me he’s going legit. Actually, all he’s asking is to be kept informed about anything I turn up on the Zelda case.’

  ‘The woman whose head was found on the train?’

  ‘There’s a chance it might be Zelda.’

  Crane frowned. ‘Your old informant?’

  Drake nodded. No further explanation was needed. The two of them had discussed the case enough times for Crane to know how important a role Zelda had played in Drake’s life. She also knew that he had never given up the hope of one day solving her murder.

  ‘I’m not working to help Donny. If I turn up anything about him, it gets handed to the Met.’

  ‘So what does he get out of it?’

  ‘He wouldn’t say,’ said Drake. ‘My feeling is that he thinks it’s tied in to a rival, someone who is coming after him.’

  ‘I’m not sure I like the idea of taking his money.’

  ‘We don’t have to take it. We can hold on to it until such time as we feel we have to give it back, or accept it.’

  Crane studied him for a moment. ‘You’re comfortable with that?’

  ‘I’m fine with it. How Donny feels is another matter. On the other hand, I think his interest could tell us something about the case. I want to find out who killed her and why her head was left on that train.’

  ‘I get it, but I’m not sure I like it.’ Crane tossed the envelope down. ‘This sounds less like a case and more like a personal obsession.’

  Drake shrugged. ‘Either way, I’m going to get to the bottom of it.’

  ‘You said Donny was worried. What about?’

  ‘Like I said, he wasn’t particularly forthcoming, but I get the feeling he knows more than he lets on and that maybe he thinks whoever did this might be coming after him next.’

  ‘So you’re suggesting we might be getting ourselves into the middle of a gang war?’

  Drake held up a hand. ‘Not so fast. I’m suggesting we string him along, take his money and look into the case.’

  ‘And where do we stand with the official investigation? You’re no longer a detective, remember?’

  ‘As I understand it, they have no objection to me looking into it. It’s a cold case and they don’t have the appetite or resources for it.’

  ‘You’re involved, Cal, front and centre. Zelda’s murder, the whole thing with Goran, that’s the reason you were demoted, remember, sent to the far north? The reason you’re no longer a police officer.’

  ‘You’re asking if I can be objective?’

  ‘I’m asking if there is a chance in hell of you being able to handle an investigation that you were so closely tied up in.’

  ‘Whether we take Donny’s money or not, nobody knows this case better than I do.’

  ‘It’s not your problem any more.’

  ‘It’s always going to be my problem.’

  Crane rested her elbows on the table. ‘Listen to me, Cal. We’re trying to run a business here, not settle old scores.’

  ‘I understand that. We’re partners. We both have the right to veto a case. The moment you get the feeling it’s getting out of hand, I’ll pull the plug.’

  ‘Fair enough.’ Crane sat back. ‘You should be careful, though.’

  ‘Always. My feeling is that Donny wouldn’t have done something quite so obvious as shooting Goran in broad daylight.’

  ‘But he did move into a lot of Goran’s businesses.’

  ‘Yes. Clubs mostly, some of them places Donny had run years ago. He claimed them back, with interest. Property. That was his real thing. Goran owned a lot, mostly run-down buildings that he could claim housing benefit on. He wasn’t interested in doing them up or selling them. Donny used them to move into the property market.’

  ‘Nobody was ever charged with Zelda’s murder, right?’

  ‘Nope. Officially she was a missing persons case, and even then it took three weeks before the landlady started to get antsy about her rent. Zelda didn’t know anyone in Brighton. Nobody missed her.’

  ‘So the connection was only made when the body washed up?’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘I never understood why you were made to take the blame.’

  ‘I broke the rules. I took a prime witness in a major case and hid her away without telling anyone. When you take a risk like that and it goes wrong, then you’re the one left holding the can.’

  ‘They threw the book at you.’

  Drake nodded. ‘The fact that I had kept it to myself suggested I didn’t trust people in my own team. The Met doesn’t like hanging out its dirty laundry in public. And I had offered no evidence.’

  ‘So they drew the logical conclusion that it was you who was on the take.’

  ‘Simpler and easier. They couldn’t prove it, so they couldn’t bring charges, but they could demote me and farm me out to the sticks.’

  ‘Whose pocket did they think you were in?’

  ‘They had no idea, but the suspicion was that it was either Goran or Donny.’

  ‘There were no other players in the game?’

  ‘I asked Donny that same question a few hours ago and he to
ld me what I remembered. Small fry, nobody major.’

  ‘You had a rough time of it,’ she said. ‘I mean, it must have felt like a betrayal.’

  ‘It did.’

  ‘Which explains why you’re here now. And why you’re interested in seeing this through.’

  ‘I have to put this behind me, once and for all.’

  Crane considered the situation before finally nodding her assent. ‘Okay, just don’t forget we’re trying to run a business.’

  ‘I’ll try to bear that in mind.’

  ‘And we need to keep an eye on Foulkes and Nathanson. There’s something there that’s not right.’

  ‘I hear you.’

  ‘Something tells me we’re going to have our work cut out to pull this off,’ said Crane, raising her glass. ‘Where are you going to start?’

  ‘With our mysterious man on the train. Fender.’

  20

  Drake spent the following morning in Victoria station, wandering in circles. He retraced the path from the Tube platform up to the main station. He walked round through the crowds, up and down the escalators. Then he moved to the main concourse and beyond in the surrounding streets. He stopped to look into coffee shops and supermarkets, pharmacies. His eye ran methodically over the people around him, dismissing them as soon as he got a handle on them. He saw the same thing everywhere: mostly commuters bored with their routine, tired, angry, fed up, clutching briefcases, rucksacks, handbags, newspapers and cups of coffee, and of course phones, praying to get home or to work without any delay. Then there were the tourists. He was good at spotting where they were from. Brash Americans, loud Spaniards, along with the French, Germans, Japanese, Chinese, Malaysians, Russians. It was all about clothes, luggage, language, hesitation, even types of confusion. Despite global fashion trends people still dressed and behaved in their own way. They carried themselves differently.