Good Bait

2

Christmas came and went. Karen spoke to most of her close family on the day itself — mother, uncle, aunt, a smattering of cousins — trying not to count the cost of calls back and forth to Jamaica; talked to her sister later, reining in her impatience while her nieces vied with one another over never-ending litanies of presents.

Mid-afternoon, she sat herself down in front of the TV, a bargain meal from M amp;S assembled on her tray, a decent red to wash it down. New Year’s Eve she went for a meal in Exmouth Market with four of her girlfriends, then on to a club near the Angel; not for want of offers, she was home by half twelve, in bed before one alone, reading a book. There’d been a time, not so long ago, when if she hadn’t pulled she’d have reckoned the evening a failure.

God, girl, she thought, you’re getting old!

January kicked off with sleet, then rain, then snow, then sleet again. At night it froze. Coming down the steps from her front door her first full day back in the office, she’d almost lost her footing, had to grab hold of the railing to avoid going headlong. The pavement was like a skating rink, ice packed solidly along the kerb’s edge. Fresh snow fluttered, moth-like, in her face as she walked. The latte bought at Caffe Nero had lost most of its heat before she even reached the Tube.

Photographs and a description of the Heath victim had been passed on to the Met’s Intelligence Bureau before the holiday for possible identification. Since when, nothing. Karen had emailed the Intelligence Bureau’s Co-ordinating and Tasking Office from home and chased up her request. Co-ordinating and Tasking Office — it sounded like something out of Bleak House, the boxed set of which her sister had sent her for Christmas. Automatically generated, a reply had bounced back by return. This office is currently closed.

At her desk her stomach rumbled; coffee aside, no breakfast. Maybe she should give Mike Ramsden a call: Ramsden, for years now her bag man, aide-de-camp, her sergeant-at-arms. Mike, if you’re coming in, you might stop off at Pret and pick up one of those egg and tomato baguettes. Pain au something while you’re about it.

She wondered if he’d spent Christmas alone like her or whether he’d found company; Ramsden, who seemed to be permanently between wives, usually other people’s.

Pushing back her chair, she walked to where the detailed map of the area where the body had been found was pinned to the wall.

The road from the Whitestone Pond down towards South End Green allowed access to that side of the Heath at several points, none of which — Karen had found this almost impossible to believe — were directly covered by CCTV. The only cameras on that stretch of road belonged to private individuals intent on protecting their valuable property and focused accordingly.

‘Most of them locked up and shuttered,’ Ramsden had said in disgust. ‘Wintering in fucking Mustique.’

As far as they’d been able to determine, the actual killing had taken place off the path to the north of the pond: traces of a struggle that had been brutal and swift, branches broken, hard earth kicked up, filaments of blood that had proved, discouragingly, to be the victim’s own and nothing more.

There was no sign of the victim’s clothes in the immediate vicinity; stripped from his body, they’d likely been bundled into bin bags and burned or else been transported to some far-flung field, a contribution to the national landfill.

The area around the pond had been fingertip searched, bins, drains, bushes, everything. The pond itself had been drained. Thirty-one large bags of debris to be sifted and listed; at the last count, seventeen were still in storage, slowly festering. She had asked for volunteers to sort the remainder — no overtime, just a sign or two of her endearing love and respect — but with half the world still on holiday, takers were few.

Through the square of window, the sky was a resolute grey.

The snow had faltered to a halt.

Perhaps she would call Mike Ramsden after all. They could get miserable together, curse the world.

Even as she was thinking that, the phone rang at her desk.

‘Mike?’

It was Gerry Stine, Intelligence Support. Karen listened, made careful notes, confirmed the information and thanked Stine profusely, wishing him the happiest of new years. After checking against UK Border Agency records, he had come up with a name. Petru Andronic. Country of origin: the Republic of Moldova. Date of birth: 27 November 1994. Seventeen years old.

Almost unbelievably for someone his age, he had no account traceable on Facebook or any of the other social networking sites, nor on Twitter. Even more remarkable, an initial check of the major networks failed to register him as the owner of a mobile phone: presumably he used a cheap prepaid model or, if the need arose, borrowed a friend’s.

Karen shook her head: the Republic of Moldova. She didn’t think she even knew where Moldova was. Not enough to point to it on a map. She had heard of it, at least. Or was that Moldavia? The same country, different names?You say Moldova and I’ll say Moldavia.

She looked again at her notes. Andronic had applied for a student visa in the summer of the previous year.

She speed dialled Ramsden’s number.

The background noise suggested he was engaged in a one-man Status Quo revival.

‘Leyton High Road, Mike, you know it?’

‘Back of my hand.’

The college was squeezed between a discount DIY store and a halal butcher’s and, even though it was doubtful the new term had started, a dozen or more putative student types were standing around on the pavement outside, heads down, plugged into their iPods and MP3 players; smoking, most of them, occasionally stamping their feet but otherwise feigning not to notice the extreme cold.

A narrow corridor led to some narrow, uncarpeted stairs. This college is fully recognised by ASIC, read a poster on the wall, the Accredited Service for International Colleges. The No Smoking sign had been decorated with the smiley face of someone enjoying a large spliff. Please do NOT bring food into the building had been handwritten on a sheet of A4 and pinned alongside.

There was a door on the first landing labelled General Office, another poster, purple and gold, fixed to the wired glass: OTHM in big capitals — Registered Centre for the Organisation of Tourism and Hospitality Management, supporting the tourism and hospitality industry throughout the world.

‘Who’d have thought it?’ Ramsden said. ‘The centre for tourism and hospitality, here in downtown Leyton.’

The woman behind the desk — middle-aged, spectacles, brown hair dislodged on one side from the combs intended to secure it in place — scarcely glanced up from what she was doing. ‘If you want to enquire about courses, enroll a student, prospectuses are all online. Keeps the print costs down. Application’s the same.’

No immediate reply, she half-turned in her chair. There was another door behind her: Dr D. G. Sillet, College Principal.

‘Is it the gas? It’s not the gas? Gas and electric? Public utility bills, all paid, direct debit, straight from the bank. If payments are delayed, I’m afraid that’s not of our doing.’

Karen took out her ID and placed it on the desk.

The woman shook her head and another strand of hair slipped astray. ‘I’ve told them till I’m blue in the face, we’ve all told them, don’t block the pavement outside, it constitutes a public nuisance. But do they listen?’ A small grunt. ‘Do they understand?’

‘Petru Andronic,’ Karen said. ‘He was a student here.’

The woman removed her glasses and looked them up and down. Ramsden in well-worn leather jacket, stomach resting easily on the belt of his jeans. Karen, thanks to her boot heels, taller by a couple of inches; black trousers that accentuated the length of her legs, black woollen belted coat, sweater, scarf loose about her neck.

‘Was he?’ the woman said.

‘Apparently. He applied, at least. Summer of last year.’

‘Ah.’

‘Ah?’

‘Many apply. Few are chosen.’ Pleased with that, she allowed herself a little smirk.

‘Keep records?’ Ramsden asked.

‘Of course.’

‘Matter of minutes, then, if that. To check.’

The door to the inner office opened and a man stepped through, late forties, balding, a suit that had been to the cleaner’s too many times.

‘Mrs Dawes?’

‘The police, Mr Sillet, just a routine inquiry.’

‘Very well.’ He paused, a moment, no more; a quick glance towards Karen and Ramsden, an inclination of the head and he was gone.

‘Busy man,’ Ramsden observed.

Mrs Dawes’ fingers clicked briskly on the computer keyboard. ‘Yes, here we are. Andronic, Petru. Date of birth, November 27th, 1994. Passport number. Date of entry. Place of residence in this country. He applied to take three courses: ESOL, Administration and Office Skills, Computing and ICT.’

‘ESOL?’

‘English for Speakers of Other Languages.’

‘Of course.’

‘According to this, he was offered a place in September, September last, but never seems to have enrolled.’

‘Is that unusual?’ Karen asked.

‘Oh, no.’

‘And in that event what happens?’

‘We send a letter to the address we’ve been given. After that, a follow-up, if necessary, warning the student that unless the place is taken up by a certain time it will be forfeited and offered to somebody else.’

‘And that would have happened in this case?’

‘I assume so.’

‘After that? If you hear nothing after that?’

‘We’re obliged to inform the UK Border Agency of his failure to attend.’

‘Which you would have done?’

‘We take our responsibilities seriously.’

‘Give or take the odd gas bill,’ said Ramsden quietly, an aside.

‘I’m sorry?’

‘Nothing.’

September, October, November — by the time the Border Agency had been informed, Karen thought, Petru Andronic didn’t have so very long to live.

‘His details,’ she said. ‘UK address and so on, you can print us out a copy?’

No sooner said, almost, than done. The address was in Green Lanes, off St Ann’s Road. She knew the Salisbury pub.