The Bride's Trail Page 11

  Shaun must have suspected it, for he said sharply, “Amy doesn’t have a Birmingham accent.”

  “Nor does Kat,” Jeb extemporised.

  That seemed to satisfy Shaun, at least for a few minutes. He relapsed into gloomy silence. As the car passed another motorway junction, he said, “I knew I was missing something. Snow Mountain.”

  “Oh, the vodka?” Jeb said. “Kat’s dad used to sell it.”

  He cursed himself for saying it. Until then, he thought he’d deflected his boss from Kat’s trail, but Shaun’s reaction was immediate. “That’s it. Turn the car around. We’re going to see that Bridges fellow.”

  “Are you sure?” Jeb asked. “I thought you had to get back to take some deliveries.”

  “We’ve got time to see Bridges first,” Shaun said, grabbing the satnav. “The office is in the city centre,” he mused. “He must have more money than sense.”

  Jeb did a U-turn at the next junction, his heart heavy as they neared the sleek glass offices of downtown Birmingham. He had realised to his horror that his flick-knife was missing.

  Bridges’ premises were just outside the central area, in fact, in a road of factories and warehouses not unlike the trading estate where Shaun’s speakeasy was located. The car park next to it was full. Jeb parked on double yellow lines, paying no heed to Shaun’s frown. It wasn’t as if he had a choice.

  Shaun jumped out of the car, striding towards the dismal grey door that appeared to be the only entrance to the property. There was a buzzer next to it. Shaun pressed it eagerly, waiting several moments before a disembodied female voice said, “Yes?”

  “I want to see Marty Bridges,” Shaun said. “I’m a customer.”

  “Well, he’s not here.” The woman sounded bored.

  “Where is he?”

  “Out. Do you have an appointment?”

  Jeb could see Shaun was about to protest. He motioned to the CCTV cameras in the building’s eaves. Two were trained on the door.

  Shaun nodded, scowling. “When will he be back?”

  “Come here tomorrow,” she said.

  Chapter 22 Ross

  A morning of Amy’s company was as much as he could take, Ross decided. At the Malmaison, he told her he wanted to spend the afternoon and evening alone. He would order from room service, and he suggested she did the same.

  Their flight from the pub had unnerved him. It not only demonstrated how annoying Amy was – after all, they’d travelled a hundred miles and she could still encounter someone who disliked her – but it revealed a startling layer of dishonesty. She knew more about Kat’s disappearance than she’d told him. How were they supposed to work together when she was withholding information from him? Ross sat in his room, sipping a beer at last. Of course, Amy might argue that he didn’t need to know everything; that her secrets were of no consequence in their search. Ross’ lips pursed. He would rather be the judge of that.

  Lizzie, too, almost certainly knew more than she had divulged. At least he had Erik and Marty’s names, and half of Marty’s address. Ross began to search online. Erik, he assumed, would have the same surname as Kat: White. If what Lizzie said was true, it almost certainly wasn’t the name on his birth certificate. With no other information about Erik, Ross drew a blank. He was more successful with Martyn Bridges, obtaining the number of the house in Wellington Road, and of commercial premises in Florence Street.

  Ross saw that Florence Street was a short stroll from his hotel, and decided to walk there at once. Just to be sure of seeing Bridges, he phoned ahead for an appointment. He was told Bridges was away on business that day but would be available in the morning. His staff would not supply personal contact details.

  Ross paid a modest fee to a website that claimed to hold twenty million UK telephone numbers. He was given one for Wellington Road, but no one answered it when he called. Rather vexed, Ross spent an hour in the hotel gym before a few ruthless hands of online poker saw his bank balance increase even further. He paced his hotel room restlessly, bored. While he might have taken a more congenial travelling companion to dinner, he decided to leave Amy to her own devices and explore Birmingham by himself. Behind the hotel, there were several bars overlooking a canal lined with brightly painted houseboats. He sat outside with a beer, appreciating the short skirts of the young women passing by, if not their local accents. Finally, he took the lift to the top of the Cube, a squarish skyscraper mosaicked like a randomly-completed jigsaw. Here, he enjoyed a rare steak and a panoramic view of the city. Away from his daily routine, it felt like his holiday was beginning.

  After the intensity of his day, Ross wanted an early night. Another beer sent him soundly to sleep in his hotel bed. The rest stood him in good stead, as he was surprised to be woken at six by the West Midlands Police.

  They knocked on his door just as he was starting to rub sleep from his eyes. He was an early riser from habit; he liked to visit the gym before breakfast. “Police. Open up.”

  Somewhat alarmed, Ross did as requested. The two men outside were uniformed, so although he asked them for identification, he didn’t spend much time examining it before letting them into the room. “I’m Ross Pritchard,” he said smoothly, extending a hand to each of them in turn. Neither responded with a handshake. Taken aback, Ross asked, “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

  “I’m arresting you on suspicion of the attempted murder of Elizabeth Clements,” the younger of the two, identified as Darren Donnelly, said. “You do not have to say anything. But, it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence.”

  “This is a joke, isn’t it?” Ross asked. Although it would be an elaborate prank, and he struggled to imagine who’d arranged it, he couldn’t believe the men were serious.

  “Not at all,” Donnelly said. He and his colleague remained poker-faced. “Did you take a taxi from Harborne High Street yesterday?”

  “Yes.” Ross had no idea why that might be of interest, and was about to say so.

  “And you also saw Elizabeth Clements?”

  “You mean Lizzie? Someone’s tried to murder her?” Ross was dumbfounded.

  “Did you see her?” Donnelly persisted.

  “Yes,” Ross admitted.

  “Thank you, Mr Pritchard. We’re taking you to the police station, where we will be asking you to give a full account of your movements yesterday.”

  “In that case,” Ross said, still shocked, and sensing he might spend several hours in their company, “you will let me get dressed first, and I’ll also need to ask the hotel to extend my stay.” The cost was hardly an issue for a man of his means, especially as his tax-free poker winnings yesterday had been substantial.

  As they left his room, he saw Amy, similarly accompanied. He’d made an effort to look professional in a suit, shirt and tie, even wearing spectacles he only really needed for screen work. Amy, by contrast, appeared tired and drained, hair unkempt and skin free of make-up. Ross had little sympathy for her. She ought to learn to wake earlier, especially if she was dragging him into a criminal investigation. “Boo,” he said.

  Amy glared at him. Her eyes were red and moist.

  “I suppose you know what this is all about?” he asked her.

  “No.” Amy’s voice was subdued, her expression puzzled.

  The bewilderment might be an act. He couldn’t trust her. Nevertheless, he hissed at Amy, “Tell them nothing. I’m getting both of us a good lawyer. It’s no comment until then. Understand?” He remembered an old school friend, a criminal lawyer, telling him this was the best strategy and one used by all his long-standing clients. Saying nothing, they couldn’t either implicate themselves or find their words misconstrued before he arrived on the scene.

  Donnelly scowled at Amy, the WPCs with her, and finally at Ross. “Come along, Mr Pritchard. We haven’t got all day.”

  “Have you got that?” Ross yelled at Amy.

  “Yes,” she
nodded.

  He was allowed to speak briefly to the single member of staff on the hotel reception desk, a young woman whose professional polish was unaffected by the presence of police. Having extended their stay for two nights, he and Amy were taken away in separate cars. He glimpsed hers arriving as he was led into the police station, a gracious old red brick building. Still astonished by the turn of events, he wondered what awaited him behind its pretty exterior.

  Chapter 23 Amy

  Her tears had dried but the shock of her arrest remained. While her mind was in turmoil, Amy nevertheless realised Ross was right. She said nothing as the police car sped past the glittering offices of central Birmingham in the early morning quiet. It had rained overnight and the streets were still shiny, the air fresh and cool. Arriving at the Steelhouse Lane police station, she shivered in her thin summer dress.

  “It’s warmer inside,” said one of the WPCs with her, and indeed it was, as the windows were closed and barred. Amy was taken to an interview room, simply furnished with plastic chairs and a laminate table.

  “You do appreciate,” Amy said haltingly, “I won’t be making any statement until my solicitor arrives?”

  “When will he be here?”

  “I don’t know. Ross is arranging it.”

  “Your boyfriend?”

  Amy shook her head, weary of explaining once again that Ross wasn’t her boyfriend.

  The two WPCs exchanged glances. “You can see the duty solicitor if you like.”

  “No thank you.” Although there didn’t seem to be any harm in the suggestion, she had given Ross her word. She would wait, as he’d asked her to.

  “We’re going to have to leave you in a cell, then.”

  The cell was as Amy might have expected from a TV drama: a box-like room, painted white, with a barred window. The only seating was a bed with a thin mattress. Her handbag was taken from her, and with no phone, she had little idea of the time. After what seemed hours, she was given a mug of tea and two slices of buttered white toast. She thought longingly of the lavish breakfast on the London train, and the undoubtedly even larger spread on offer at the Malmaison.

  Fortunately, her solicitor arrived not long afterwards. The cell door was unlocked and she was asked to accompany the same WPCs to the interview room. The lawyer held out her hand.

  Although barely older than Amy, tall and ebony-skinned with close-cropped hair, she had a polish that screamed of money. Her manicured nails were flawless, her navy linen dress was perfectly pressed and her shoes were Louboutins. Amy was sure of it; they were identical to a pair Kat owned.

  “Lulu Lawson,” she said, dark eyes scrutinising Amy. Her patrician voice spoke of money just as much as her appearance. “I work for Ted Edwards, who went to school with your boyfriend and who’s with him right now.”

  “He’s not my boyfriend,” Amy protested, noting sceptical grins from the two WPCs. Lulu should already be aware of that, surely? Amy wasn’t inspired with confidence in the lawyer.

  “Sorry,” Lulu apologised. She turned to the police officers. “I’d like some time alone with my client, especially as you can see we don’t know each other very well.”

  They acceded without a murmur. It was obviously normal procedure for them.

  “Do forgive me,” Lulu said. “It took us three hours to get here. Quite a trek from London.”

  “Isn’t it?” Amy agreed. “Ross and I travelled up yesterday.”

  Lulu stared at her. “You came here from London, and within twenty four hours you’re facing an attempted murder charge. Would you mind talking me through everything? First of all, why did you go to Birmingham?”

  “We were looking for my flatmate.”

  “Tell me about her,” Lulu said, “and why you travelled a hundred miles to look for her. By the way, our conversation is totally confidential. The police don’t need to know about it. Ross told Ted you were keeping secrets. Well, you shouldn’t hold anything back from me. Whatever happens, I’ll say nothing without your consent. Is that OK?”

  Amy nodded. “Kat’s my flatmate,” she said, “and a few weeks ago, she married an illegal immigrant called Ahmed Khan. She stole my identity to do it.”

  “Have you told the police?” Lulu said.

  “Yes, when Kat disappeared five days ago, I ended up telling them. They thought I’d really married Ahmed Khan.”

  “I don’t mean to worry you,” Lulu said, “but if you had married him, you would be Mrs Khan in the eyes of the law. Although it’s an immigration offence, it’s still a marriage.”

  “Is Kat actually married to him then?”

  Lulu touched her arm. “That’s her problem. Let’s concentrate on you. When Kat vanished, why did you go looking for her? Why not just let the police do it?”

  “I didn’t think the police believed me,” Amy said. “Also, I thought she was in danger. There were strange visitors. One man had a key to the flat. I found him searching through Kat’s room. He took a couple of potted plants.”

  “Really?” Lulu’s eyes widened.

  Despite her predicament, Amy laughed. Lulu might as well have had a thought bubble rising from her head. “Not cannabis,” she said. “I don’t know what they were. He claimed they were his. He was looking for something else that belonged to him, but he didn’t find it.”

  “How bizarre,” Lulu said. “You said a couple of visitors. Who was the other one?”

  “Neither exactly introduced themselves,” Amy said. “The second man was scary.” She described her encounter with the knifeman.

  “Do the police know about these men?” Lulu’s face was grim.

  “No.”

  “I think that knowledge would help them.”

  “Even Ross doesn’t know.”

  “That’s between you and him,” Lulu said. “Anyway, please put me in the picture. How does Ross fit into this?”

  As Lulu listened attentively, Amy told her everything: how Ross, her colleague, was infatuated with Kat and they’d tracked down Lizzie. Of course, the knifeman knew about Lizzie too. “It was a shock to see him in a pub garden in Birmingham,” Amy said, “but I should have seen it coming!”

  “You couldn’t anticipate that,” Lulu reassured her. “On the other hand, the police reaction is everything I’d expect. Imagine you’re in their shoes. Lizzie Clements is discovered close to death. They know you’ve visited her. As soon as they release your description, a cab driver comes forward to say you took a taxi to the city centre in a hurry. They have no knowledge of the knifeman. What are they going to think?”

  She didn’t have to say more. “I see what you mean,” Amy said.

  “Exactly,” Lulu said. “It will help you if you tell them what you’ve told me. It will help Kat as well. Those men are dangerous. They’re not planning to see her for a cup of tea, are they?”

  Amy shivered, recalling the knifeman’s twitching mouth, the way he’d stroked his blade. She nodded.

  “Okay,” Lulu said. “I suggest we prepare a statement together, hand it over and ask them to release you.”

  “Will they?”

  “They might. I suspect they’ve taken statements from Linda Sweetman and the cab driver. That’ll suggest you, or someone who looks like you, was in Harborne. You’ll not only confirm that, avoiding the need for an identity parade, but you’ll volunteer a great deal more to them. It will help your case. You’d hardly admit to visiting Lizzie Clements if you really tried to murder her, would you?”

  “I guess not.”

  “Well then,” Lulu removed a thin silver laptop from her soft leather handbag, “Let’s get working on that statement.”

  It was typed within an hour. “Take a look and see if you agree,” Lulu said. “Also, if there’s anything you haven’t mentioned that strikes you as odd, let me know.”

  “There is one thing,” Amy said. “It isn’t so much that Kat had a visitor, but that she didn’t. I haven’t seen Jeb for at least a week, and that’s unusual.” She realised now tha
t it had niggled her when Linda Sweetman mentioned two men. She couldn’t imagine the plantsman and knifeman working in tandem. The knifeman and Jeb, with their Cockney accents and cold eyes, were a different matter entirely.

  “Who’s Jeb – her boyfriend?”

  “No, he’s never stayed over. He just takes Kat out for drinks, cocktails in a bar like Sykes on Charlotte Street.” Amy wished she could afford a night out in the pulsing heart of Fitzrovia. Of course, Kat never bought her own drinks. That was part of Jeb’s attraction. There was his bad boy image too, and here, Amy struggled to find the right words. “I have no proof that Jeb’s a gangster, but Kat suggested he was. I think he was just a bit of rough for her, a Cockney boy from Canning Town.” He took cocaine and probably sold it as well, or how could someone of his background afford a sporty BMW? Kat had intimated once that Jeb could hardly read. She didn’t care, though. A croupier was hardly in a position to be an intellectual snob. Jeb made her laugh, she said.

  “You described the other two men,” Lulu said. “Let me look at my notes. The first was exceptionally tall and thin, with a long nose, green eyes, spiky black hair thinning at the crown. He was solemn and rarely smiled, and he was possibly in his late twenties. The second: average height, neat black hair turning to grey, blue eyes, pale skin, slim but the start of a paunch and jowls. He was your father’s age or thereabouts, so late forties. Could you give a description of Jeb as well?”

  “Jeb’s probably the tallest of the three, and he’s broad as well. Not fat, but well-muscled. His hair is like yours.”

  “He’s black?”

  “Mixed race,” Amy said. “His skin’s light brown.”

  “Anything else?”

  “He’s about thirty. He wears a nose ring and a single earring.”

  “Thank you,” Lulu smiled. “Let’s see what the police make of that.”

  To Amy’s relief, Lulu was right. As soon as her statement had been printed and signed, she was free to leave.