Stalkers

Chapter 37

When Ian Blenkinsop checked in for work that morning, he looked better than Sally had seen in some time: bright-eyed, clean-shaved, wearing a pressed suit. He was even smiling. But she was a little surprised when she saw that he was carrying an overnight bag instead of his briefcase, and especially so when he informed her that he was taking some unplanned leave.

‘I’m joining Yvonne and Carly at Lake Como,’ he said cheerfully. ‘I think I’ve been overdoing things a little and I need a break.’

‘Well … okay,’ she answered. ‘I mean, there’s probably nothing in your schedule that we can’t rearrange.’

‘Good, that’s excellent. Because I’ve got a flight booked for two o’clock this afternoon.’

‘I see.’

Sally wasn’t quite sure what else to say. This was a little irregular. Even someone as highly placed in the firm as Ian Blenkinsop occasionally had responsibilities that he couldn’t just drop on a whim. Of course there was no question that he’d been ‘off-colour’ the last few days; he’d almost gone through a personality change. This morning, though he’d only been in for a minute or so, he seemed a lot more like his old self.

‘I can’t wait to see them,’ he confided in her. ‘It isn’t a good thing being left on your own all summer, Sally. I think we’ll have to reconsider this arrangement in the future.’

‘Absolutely,’ she agreed.

‘Anyway, I’m just letting you know.’ He slipped an envelope across the desk towards her. ‘Here’s the appropriate paperwork. No doubt, Mr Brahms upstairs will have something to say about it. Just refer him to my mobile if he does. I’ll take full responsibility. Oh Sally, there’s one more thing … if any more police officers come and want to speak to me, I’m abroad but you’re not sure where.’

‘I’m sorry?’ She looked astonished.

‘To be honest, it’s all becoming a bit of a nuisance. I’m not sure if you’re aware, but that chap who was here yesterday, he’s from the Fraud Squad. They want me to witness for them in an embezzlement case. I’ve told them everything I know, which isn’t much. But they keep pestering. Frankly, I can’t be doing with it.’

Sally still looked astonished. ‘Is this wise?’

‘Whether it’s wise or not, that’s what I’d like you to tell them. From this moment on,’ and he checked his Rolex, ‘I’m officially on holiday.’

‘But Mr Blenkinsop, if it’s a pending court case …?’

Blenkinsop kept smiling, but suddenly his smile didn’t reach his eyes. There was a glint of sweat on his brow. ‘Sally darling, I don’t know anything. And if they need to go to the trouble and expense of tracking me down and sending a summons abroad, I’m sure they’ll finally realise that.’

Sally didn’t look placated, and he knew why. She’d probably be quite happy for him to take a few weeks off. It would mean she could keep lax hours and that all she’d really have to do was answer the phone and make coffee for herself — but now she might have to divert a police enquiry too. Well, it was tough. She could thank her lucky stars it wasn’t her disappearance they were looking into.

Blenkinsop left, but only after removing certain items from his desk. He extricated a diary from his top drawer, tore a single page from it and fed it carefully into the shredder. He nodded and smiled to her as he finally departed, but she had difficulty reciprocating, even though she intended to do as he asked. Sally knew which side her bread was buttered on. She was well paid here and Mr Blenkinsop was hardly a demanding boss. If it came to it, she wouldn’t be comfortable telling the police a lie. But then of course she’d only be following orders and couldn’t possibly be held to account for it. More than likely, as he’d repeatedly assured her before leaving, there was almost no chance the police would come to see him again.

But ten minutes later they did.

Sally descended to the lobby dry-mouthed with worry. It was a different officer from the one yesterday. This one was much younger, and, if he hadn’t looked rather beaten-up, he might’ve been quite handsome. He certainly dressed well. His suit was Armani, his tie by Yves Saint Laurent. He was seated on one of the sofas in the company’s waiting area, alongside a young black woman wearing baggy running gear.

‘Hello,’ Sally said. ‘I’m Sally, Mr Blenkinsop’s PA.’

The male officer stood and extended a hand. ‘Detective Sergeant Heckenburg.’

‘What can I do for you?’

‘Actually I was hoping to speak to Mr Blenkinsop himself.’

‘I’m afraid that’s not possible. He’s gone abroad.’

‘Ah. Whereabouts?’

‘I’m sorry, I don’t know.’

Heck raised a sceptical eyebrow. ‘You’re his PA, and you don’t know?’

‘Well, he’s on holiday … and it’s a travelling holiday. He likes to tour the continent with his family. He could be anywhere.’

Sally was rather pleased with that response. She’d come up with it on the spur of the moment, and felt certain it would deflect any further questions. But she was surprised at how frustrated the detective now looked.

‘When is he expected back?’ Heck asked.

‘I’m afraid I can’t say.’

‘Miss, you’re aware this is an official enquiry? Anyone deliberately hindering us …’

‘No please, you misunderstand.’ She spoke urgently, suddenly frightened. ‘What I mean is I can’t say for sure.’ This part was true. Before leaving, Blenkinsop had suggested rather vaguely that he might be away as long as three weeks, but he’d offered no specific dates on which to expect his return — which, now that she thought about it, did seem rather odd. ‘I would think he’d be three weeks or so.’

‘And in the meantime, do you have a contact number for him? A mobile maybe?’

‘He has his mobile with him, of course. But all I can do is leave messages, which he’ll pick up from time to time.’

‘Maybe if you’d give that number to me, I could leave him a message?’

Sally shook her head. ‘I can’t do that, I’m sorry. But I’ll help you any other way I can. I’ll ring him every day.’

Heck regarded her carefully.

She blushed. ‘I’m sorry, but it’s his private number and he is on holiday.’

‘Thanks very much for your help. We’ll be back in three weeks.’

‘You’re sure there’s nothing I can tell him in the meantime?’

‘It’s fine.’

Looking more relieved that she probably should have done, Sally turned and walked stiffly back towards the elevators. Heck slumped onto the sofa alongside Lauren.

‘You’re surely not buying that bimbo’s story?’ she said.

‘It doesn’t matter whether I do or don’t. As I’m not here in an official capacity, there isn’t much option.’

‘Maybe we can blag our way up to his office, give his desk a going over?’

‘Let’s keep this on a realistic footing, eh.’

‘Okay, we’ve got his home address. If he’s away on holiday, we’ll have all the time we need.’

‘You mean to commit burglary again?’ Heck sighed. ‘I’m getting tired of only making progress by committing criminal offences. You know, Lauren, I’ve never been much of a churchgoer — not after what happened to Tom. But it would be nice if, just once or twice, we got a spot of help from Him upstairs.’

‘Yeah,’ came a loud Cockney voice from the Reception counter. ‘That’s a taxi for Mr Blenkinsop. London City airport, yeah. Soon as you can, please.’

They turned to look.

The concierge, an elderly, ex-military type wearing a green frockcoat with golden braid at the shoulders, was on the telephone. ‘Yeah, he’ll be waiting in Mad Jack’s — you know that place, the pub on Cornhill? Ten minutes, that’s great. I’ll let him know.’

‘Ask and it shall be given unto you,’ Heck said quietly.

They crossed Cornhill side by side. As they entered the pub, they again checked the photo they’d taken from Deke’s file.

‘Think you’d recognise him?’ Heck asked.

‘I already do,’ Lauren said, stripping off her tracksuit top, regardless of the fact she only had a bloodstained vest underneath. ‘Look.’

It was only mid-morning, so there weren’t many people in the pub, but one or two men in suits were sitting at tables reading newspapers. One was standing by the bar, with a bag at his feet. He was a dead ringer for the guy in the photo.

‘Ian Blenkinsop?’ Heck said, using his best official tone.

‘That’s right,’ Blenkinsop said, turning and smiling — only for his smile to fade very quickly when he realised they were people he didn’t know. His smile faded even further when he saw Heck’s warrant card.

‘I’m DS Heckenburg from the Serial Crimes Unit. Can you come with me, Sir?’

Blenkinsop kept a tight grip on his half of bitter. ‘What’s … what’s this about?’

‘I assure you it’s very important.’

‘Am I being arrested?’

‘I’d rather hoped it wouldn’t come to that.’

Blenkinsop shook his head. ‘If I’m not being arrested, I’m not going anywhere.’

‘Sir …’ Heck spoke quietly, but leaned close, getting right into Blenkinsop’s personal space. ‘I’m assuming that many of the punters in this pub are people you do business with. Do we really want to make a song and dance out of this?’

Blenkinsop’s face had gone grey and sickly as melted snow. His lips had visibly dried. ‘I … I need to see your identification again.’

Heck showed his warrant card.

‘And hers.’ Blenkinsop nodded at Lauren, belatedly thinking it odd that one of these cops should be a young girl in a vest and running suit.

‘Everything alright, folks?’ Andreas the barman asked, leaning over the counter.

‘Everything’s fine!’ Lauren snapped. ‘Back off.’

Heck flashed his warrant card, and Andreas hastily retreated.

‘Listen, you piece of shit,’ Lauren hissed, crushing herself against Blenkinsop’s body. ‘Don’t fuck us around. We know exactly the sort of people you’ve been keeping company with and it’s all I can do not to waste you on the fucking spot. Now you walk out of this pub right now, or I’ll blow your fucking guts out.’

Hardly able to believe what was happening, Blenkinsop glanced down and saw that she’d drawn a firearm. She was doing her best to conceal it with her rolled-up running top, but its steel barrel was pressed hard against his stomach.

Heck added: ‘Believe it or not, Mr Blenkinsop, this is for your own protection.’

Unable to do anything else, Blenkinsop allowed them to hustle him from the bar. When he reached down for his bag, Lauren slapped his hand. She picked it up herself, but once they were outside, tossed it into a bin. The bustle of the street suddenly felt ominous. Everywhere they looked the pavements thronged. Log-jammed traffic honked and shunted. The attack, if there was going to be one, could come from anywhere at any time.

‘Do you have some wheels near here, Mr Blenkinsop?’ Heck asked.

‘Look, whoever you people are …’

‘I’ve told you who we are.’

‘I’m sure this is a terrible misunderstanding …’

‘I said do you have some wheels?’

‘Don’t you have some yourself?’

‘Answer the frigging question!’ Lauren snarled.

He nodded, swallowed. ‘My Jaguar’s in the company car park. It’s just down that passage over there.’

‘Take us,’ Heck said. ‘Quickly.’

‘Try anything cute and you’ll be dead before you hit the ground,’ Lauren added.

They threaded their way through the traffic, and walked down the side-alley to the multi-storey car park. The pedestrian door stood alongside the main entrance, in which a uniformed security man was standing smoking a cigarette.

‘Just keep walking,’ Heck advised. ‘Don’t try and signal to anyone — you’ll be getting them in the worst trouble of their lives.’

‘Morning Mr Blenkinsop, Sir,’ the security man said.

‘Morning Ted,’ Blenkinsop replied as they passed.

‘Fancy QPR’s chances this season, Sir?’

‘Oh yes, no question.’

Inside the pedestrian entrance, they jumped into an elevator and closed it behind them. Lauren kept the gun concealed as there’d almost certainly be a camera, but jabbed Blenkinsop with it repeatedly, just to remind him.

‘It’s on Level Six,’ he said shakily.

Heck hit the button, and they ascended — only for the elevator to stop three levels short. Its door slid open. Two parallel rows of parking bays, all empty, stretched about fifty yards in front of them. The only illumination came from electric lighting. This gave a stark glare to the concrete pillars and slick, oily floor. The level appeared to be deserted. On a stanchion opposite, a red number ‘3’ had been stencilled. Heck stabbed the button hard, feeling distinctly uneasy. The only reason why they could have stopped at Three when he’d requested Six was that someone on Three had called them first. Yet now there was nobody there.

The next time, they stopped on Six. Again, two parallel rows of parking bays stretched away. The lighting up here was dimmer. Heck saw why: though the bulbs were housed in metal cages, quite a few — each alternating one in fact — had been broken. Scatterings of recently smashed glass strewed the floor. Was that normal? he wondered. Wouldn’t a firm like Goldstein amp; Hoff keep things in good working order? Or had the lights been broken recently? Dim shadows now lurked behind every pillar.

‘That’s my car down there.’ Blenkinsop pointed thirty yards ahead to where a lone vehicle, a black Jaguar, occupied one of the bays.

‘Okay,’ Heck said, ushering him forward.

They advanced in a tight group.

‘Who are you supposed to be protecting me against?’ Blenkinsop asked.

‘You’re genuinely telling us you don’t know?’ Heck replied.

‘Yes … and I might say you’ve got a strange way of doing it. Would you please take that wretched gun out of my …’

‘Shit!’ Lauren halted sharply.

They all halted sharply.

The Jaguar’s four tyres had been cut, slashed repeatedly — until they were nothing but shredded rubber and severed ply-cord.

‘Shit,’ she said again. ‘They’re already here.’