[Alicia Friend 01.0] His First His Second Read online

  “Lawsuit? Lawsuit!” He stepped closer to Alicia so quickly that Murphy moved toward Windsor, who did not back down. “A lawsuit is the least of your worries. I’m going to destroy each and every last person involved with that clusterf—”

  “Yes. Absolutely,” she said. “The police screwed it up worse than we can ever apologise for, but there is still a girl missing. We need to find her.”

  “Then why are you here? You must have a file with all our statements.”

  Murphy placed his hand on Henry Windsor’s shoulder, outwardly friendly but really ushering him out of Alicia’s personal space. He was a head taller than Windsor, so looking down at him had a calming effect.

  Murphy said, “The file was put together by the same people who left Tanya in the hands of this killer.”

  Mr. Windsor breathed slowly, shook off Murphy’s arm, and leaned on a sleek-looking purple sports car. “Wellington. Yes, he was Mr. Friendly when we were accommodating him. Liked a cigar. Appreciated good brandy. Knew his cars.”

  A lull in the anger. Perfect.

  Alicia said, “I like that purple one.” She was about to touch a sports car but remembered the previous admonishment. “Which is the E-type?”

  “This one,” he said, indicating an animalistic racing-green machine. His face slowly drained of the fierce red as he led them to the Jaguar.

  Alicia took it in from all angles, seeing why some girls were shallow enough to grade men according to material possessions. Even Murphy would jump three or four sex-points if he pulled up in this.

  Murphy said, “Tanya had a tattoo at her time of death. Would you know anything about it?”

  “A tattoo? No, I’m afraid not. Do you mean the man who … who did this to her … he branded her as well?”

  “She did it herself a week or so before she disappeared.”

  Alicia guessed Windsor was about to deny this, then, “I suppose she could have. She was acting strange before she disappeared. Different. More…” He nodded at Alicia. “More like her.”

  “Like moi?” Alicia said, feigning shock.

  “What?” Murphy said. “You mean flaky?”

  “Yes. Flaky.”

  Alicia now feigned insulted, her bottom lip sticking out.

  “But also,” Henry continued, “she was determined to renounce her heritage, at least temporarily. The only reason she didn’t give all her money away was because it was everything her parents left her, all she had to remember them by. You know about them, I assume?”

  “Yes.”

  “Terrible. Terrible.” He shuddered. “And now this.” He guided Alicia away from the Jag and ushered her and Murphy toward a staircase that ran alongside the lift. “Would you be interested in the aviary?”

  Up in the open air, Alicia was colder even than before. The wind had gotten up and the mist danced icily upon her face as she tried to look happy and enthusiastic at the prospect of seeing caged birds. Henry feigned being unaffected by the cold, and Murphy also pretended badly too. They walked along a narrow path through a glade of trees, Alicia having transformed into the Michelin Man, waddling along with her freezing face poking out the top of her coat.

  “Tanya paid for the garage, by the way,” Windsor said. “She loved my cars but they were suffering in the old barn that I used. The aviary you’re about to see, she had this built too. It used to be a … play area for James. He hadn’t used it for a while and Tanya asked if she could do something … pretty with it. James said of course.” He paused, staring at the house, then resumed. “She didn’t like me much, didn’t care for the traditions of our people. But she was grateful. Knew we didn’t have to take her in.”

  “You cared a great deal for her,” Alicia said.

  “For the first two years of her being here I didn’t even know there was a fortune. Nor did she. I thought my brother’s businesses had gone the same way as mine, but I suppose that was only for tax purposes.” He gave a proud little chuckle. “A solicitor turned up on her sixteenth birthday with a cheque and an invoice for his services. Another two years before she could touch it. Turned her into a frightful little madam.”

  The trees gave way to a chicken wire cage the size of Alicia’s flat. It was full of not-so exotic birds—not native to Britain, but no parrots or parakeets: a few brown things with colourful tummies, twittering blue and white ones, like large swallows, and two fluffy, ground-based birds with bright yellow Mohawks.

  Such beautiful creatures, caged, for the amusement of one man.

  “Sir,” Murphy said. “Hillary Carmichael—”

  “Gold digger,” Windsor said dismissively. “No cash of her own. No title. Needed to marry into money. Had the lifestyle, the friends, but no genuine class. For all her elocution lessons, her mother was still a civil servant, and her father was basically a factory worker.”

  “I read that Hillary’s father owned a chain of factories making plastic moulds for the mobile phone industry.”

  “Yes. A millionaire. But he had to work for his money. They bought their way into the social scene. Hillary’s family were middle-class at best. I didn’t like her hanging around with Tanya.”

  Alicia felt the cold more intensely; wet and deep and all around her. The birds seemed to be looking at her, twittering, clattering their hard feet against the wire. One more shriek, and Alicia said, “Oh, come on, stop fannying around.” She rubbed her icicle of a nose, trying to thaw it. “Tanya was shagging someone you wouldn’t approve of. Do you have any idea who he might be?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Sir,” Murphy said. “Hillary knows Tanya was seeing someone. She also wanted to go to university, live with other students, like students.”

  “Like ‘common’ people.”

  “Yes. Like the song,” Alicia said. “She was either going to the same uni as this guy you wouldn’t approve of—which, by the way, sounds like everyone but the royal Windsors—or she was running away for good. Like the tigers.”

  Windsor’s breath misted and billowed from his nose. Alicia’s was daintier, wisps floating from her mouth like angel-steam … whatever that was. Murphy coughed a giant cloud.

  “I expect,” Henry Windsor said, “it’s time you were leaving. I doubt I can help any further. I’ll be in touch about claiming Tanya’s body. And my lawyers will be in touch about the gargantuan balls-up you people made.”

  Murphy said, “We’ll be sending you a FLO—a family liaison officer—to keep you in touch with the investigation and offer any help or advice.” He handed the pompous twit a card. “Can we contact you again if we need to ask anything else?”

  “Of course. Anything to help.” He turned to the cage, the card clasped in both hands. “I think I’ll stay here with the birds a while. Feed them myself this morning.”

  “Thank you for your time,” Murphy said.

  They started back for the car, through the trees and around the corner of the house. Upstairs, a curtain twitched and then closed. Both officers clocked it.

  “Lawrence?” Murphy said.

  “Don’t know, don’t care,” Alicia said. “It’s too cold. Let’s go. You drive.”

  In the car, Murphy started her up and turned on the heaters and set off down the drive. “So what am I missing?”

  “Aside from Mrs. Rochester in the window up there?”

  “Who?”

  “Mrs. Roch— You never read Jayne Eyre? Mrs. Rochester—never mind. Let me think. My brain doesn’t like the cold.”

  “Guess that makes me the brainy one for a change. I know what we achieved there.”

  “Go on then.” She prepared a prod.

  “He didn’t ask about the tigers,” Murphy said proudly.

  The prod would wait. “What do you mean? What tigers?”

  “Exactly. You blurted out the comparison between Tanya’s plan and the tiger story. He didn’t look surprised. My first question would have been ‘what tigers?’ He carried on as normal and chucked us out.”

  Alicia repla
yed the conversation in her head as it defrosted. She imaged microchips coated in ice, dripping slowly, lights flashing and information stuttering back to life.

  She said, “We need to stop in the next village.”

  “Why?”

  “I need to buy a hat.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Cleaver was nervous about asking DCI Streeter for help. Perhaps it was his disrupted sleep patterns; partial night shifts, swinging back to evening, and now it was morning after three hours kip in a vacant cell. But Ball seemed less hesitant, perhaps for the same reason. He bulldozed in and came right out with it.

  “We’re stuck, sir. Alicia and Murphy are incommunicado, and there’s movement on the case.” He ran down the happenings at Doyle’s Emporium, giving Cleaver credit for the receipt, which Ball presented to Streeter in an evidence bag. Streeter asked for more details and Ball explained the ledger.

  “Paavan Prakash,” Cleaver said, once Ball finished. “That’s the name we’re interested in. We ran it through the usual databases and there are a few of them, but we can’t get hold of Murphy and Friend. We need a senior officer’s sign-off to go deep on this credit card.”

  “Fraud squad,” Streeter said. “Go see Darla Murphy over at Sheerton. I’ll make a call.”

  “Murphy?” Ball said. “Any relation to the boss-man?”

  “None I know of.”

  Streeter held the phone in one hand, his other poised over the buttons. He glanced at the clock, 9:32 a.m., and stared the two officers down, indicating that they were already wasting time.

  Richard Hague sat in a ten-year-old Volvo outside a branch of the IBA Bank in Chapel Allerton, an area of Leeds that had, over the last decade or so, become a miniature Greenwich of the North. Bohemian types earning more money than Bohemians really should resided alongside residents who’d lived here decades prior to the 90’s housing boom. He was waiting for someone he’d gambled on actually existing. Earlier that morning, the gamble had paid off.

  She was four or five years older than Katie, far thicker around the hips, fleshy face, most likely couldn’t sprint up the stairs let alone complete the Great North Run. That was no sin, though. Single mother, working, doing what’s right. The bank would be a great job for her. Drop little Charlene off at the school down the road, then straight behind that little window, earning whatever tellers earn.

  Yes, Richard Hague knew the name of this woman’s six-year-old daughter.

  It was part of his gamble. Hanging around the school, mingling with the mums and dads, a peaked Disney hat with floppy ears to indicate what a fun father he was, seeing his pride and joy off into the care of strangers.

  It was surely only moments ago that he did the same with Katie.

  This part of the gamble—identifying a target—was more an educated guess. Little risk. And when he saw a bank uniform poking out from under the coat of the woman who called her daughter Charlene, his chips were getting cashed.

  Now he wore a large coat with a furry hood, and running shoes, just in case. The Volvo was his, stored in another lockup under yet another assumed name. He called himself paranoid for procuring the lockups, all the trouble of faking an ID, opening credit cards, obtaining bills, basically creating a new person out of thin air. But you never knew. Perhaps he left a fingerprint in the States. Plus, DNA technology had come a long way since his extra-curricular adventure over there.

  Richard entered the bank with his hood up. There were three tellers, although only one was serving. Luckily it was the one he wanted. Unluckily she was currently occupied, the other two busying themselves with something not related to customer service. Richard read leaflets, his hood still up, until the customer left. He waited thirty more seconds, then approached the glass, and removed his hood to reveal the floppy “good-dad” hat.

  To put her at ease and obscure his face from the cameras.

  “Morning,” the single mum said. Her name badge indicated she was called Donna. “How can I help you today?”

  “I’d like to request my credit card statement, please,” Richard said.

  “You have your card?”

  “No, Donna, I’m afraid I don’t. Here’s the number.” He presented the piece of paper on which he scribbled the number from Doyle’s ledger.

  She smiled awkwardly. “Are you not registered for internet banking, sir?”

  “I don’t trust it. I just need a statement, if it isn’t too much trouble.”

  “What name is it?”

  “My name is Paavan Prakash.”

  Her face visually tied itself in knots over the disconnect between Richard’s skin tone and the name offered.

  She said, “Do you have other any ID, Mr, er, Prakash?”

  “Of course.” Richard took a square of glossy paper from his pocket and slipped it under the glass.

  She read it. My name is Paavan Prakash—honest!

  “I’m sorry, is this some sort of joke?”

  Richard smiled affably. “There’s a photo on the other side.”

  She turned it over and the fake smile dropped. She brought it closer to her face.

  “No crying,” Richard said. “Don’t want your colleagues thinking there’s anything wrong now, do we?”

  Donna shook her head, eyes fixed on the Polaroid of little Charlene, bound with leather straps and gagged, squatting in the back of Richard’s Volvo. Polaroids. Yes, another old-school resource he favoured over the new.

  “Now. My name is Paavan Prakash, and I’d like a printout of my statement please.”

  She sniffed. “Six months? Sir?”

  “Eighteen would be better. Also, I could do with being reminded of my address. I’ve been a little absent-minded of late.”

  She stared at the photo some more. “Please. I don’t know why you’re doing this—”

  “Donna.” Richard held out his hand for the photo. He took it and placed it back in his pocket. “She’ll be fine. I need you to breach that pesky data protection act for me. For Charlene. She’s a brave little girl. Hasn’t cried once. Not yet.”

  “I can’t simply hand it over the counter.”

  “Yes you can.” He thought about his actions here. Threatening a little girl to save his own. It was justifiable, but not by much. He wasn’t like that man, had no intention of killing Charlene. But putting Donna through this, did it make him a monster all the same? “You want to see your girl first, yes?”

  She stared, blankly.

  “That’s okay. When’s your break, Donna?”

  “Ten.”

  “Thirty minutes then. Come alone, bring the statement. The bowling green up the park.”

  She nodded.

  “And, Donna? Don’t worry. I’m not a monster. All I want is that statement.”

  Upon arrival at Sheerton, the first thing to hit Cleaver was a sense of jealousy. Why did he have to work in the most dilapidated building in the whole of the West Yorkshire Police Force? In their reception, you walked on floor tiles, linoleum ones; in Sheerton, it was polished wood. The desk itself was like something from a corporate headquarters rather than a butcher’s counter.

  He and Ball signed in and the kid on duty made a call. Ten minutes passed, during which Cleaver commented on several fittings, the nice rug, and the air conditioning. Ball eyed up the noticeboard, grunting agreement with everything Cleaver said.

  Ball said to the kid on reception, “Had your own murder up here yesterday, right?”

  “Yeah,” the constable replied. “Looks a few years apart, but we’re pretty sure they’re linked. Press conference this afternoon.”

  “You arrested someone?”

  He grinned. “Probie got him. Dobson. His first arrest. Some tramp lived up there. Been telling everyone his theory on the subject—bloke’s gone back to nature, he reckons. Feral.”

  Ball smiled through his beard.

  Probies. They’re loads of fun.

  A woman showed up from somewhere nobody noticed. “You the two from Millgarth?”

&nb
sp; Darla was a skinny runt, Ball thought, a plain girl with mousy hair and glasses. Classy specs, though; designer frames—didn’t suit her one bit.

  “I haven’t much time,” she said without introductions. “But DCI Streeter said it was urgent. Follow me.”

  They did. Ball slouched, hands in pockets.

  “So you worked here long?” Cleaver said.

  “Yes,” Darla replied.

  “How do you like it?”

  “Fine. When I can do my job. I was watching a series of transactions on a Debenhams credit card stolen from an eighty-three-year-old woman. Beaten into a coma a fortnight ago.”

  “Is someone watching it now?”

  “What do you think, we drop everything when Serious Crimes comes a-calling?”

  “No, but…”

  “Here.” She opened the door to an office, sat behind the desk where a computer hummed quietly. “This is the best we have. It’s a system that talks to all the major credit card retailers. We do have a live action one, but like I said, that’s in use. This one, you have to hit the refresh button every few minutes to update. It’s a little slow, but it’ll give you what you need.”

  Cleaver was impressed. The last two years of transactions on Paavan Prakash’s Barclaycard scrolled up and down the screen.

  “Here,” Darla said, moving the mouse around, “is where you print it. This is where you click if you need details of the place where the transaction went down, and this is how you turn it off on your way out.”

  She stood to leave.

  “Wait,” Cleaver said. “You can’t go yet.”

  “You computer illiterate or something? I’m trying to coordinate an arrest in there.”

  “Okay.” Defeated. He accepted that. “Thanks.”

  She left them alone, both pretty sure she’d have slammed the door if it wasn’t on an automatic closing mechanism.

  Ball said, “If there’s one woman I’ve met this week who needs a good shag…”

  Cleaver tried to laugh, but he was on the computer, scrolling, hoping for more good news.