Fatal Crossing Page 6

  He took his time scrutinising every single photograph, every single face, before his gaze moved on to the next. Finally he looked up and shook his head sadly.

  ‘Unfortunately, Miss Sand, I don’t recognise a single one of these girls. I’m sure you’re an honest person, and that's why I’ll be honest with you: that investigation haunted me from the moment I was assigned to it. I had fifteen tongues and no bodies. If you knew how many weekends, how many hours and months I’ve spent walking through Underwood with and without sniffer dogs. How many missing persons files I’ve reviewed, and how many grieving parents I have visited. Then you would also know how much of my life this case has consumed. Even when the case was officially closed and Hickley went to prison, and everyone congratulated me and patted me on the shoulder, I couldn’t let it go. When there were no more man hours left in the budget, I investigated it in my own time,’ McCormey said.

  Nora could see a vein throb in his forehead, but the Detective Inspector pulled himself together with a deep breath and changed his voice to a softer pitch.

  ‘I’ll even be honest enough, Miss Sand, to admit to you that the case nearly cost me my marriage, and that I would probably still be working on it, if a farsighted boss hadn’t forced me to transfer to London, and later here to Dover. Now I try to catch human traffickers rather than killers. Although sometimes the two are the same.’

  McCormey remembered the half-eaten apple in his hand and tossed it into the bin under his desk as if he had lost his appetite merely by talking about the case.

  ‘My point is, I understand completely why you would think the pictures were connected to the Hickley investigation. They’re the same type of photos. But I’m telling you right now that if any of those girls had even the most tenuous connection to that case, even the very faintest link, I would have remembered. Sometimes I have nightmares about all the young girls who never made it home. Your suitcase probably belongs to some joker with a penchant for the macabre. It wouldn’t surprise me if these girls are all alive and well somewhere out there.’

  Nora produced from her bag a copy of the picture of Lisbeth and Lulu, which Magnus had scanned for her at Globalt. ‘How about these two? Have you seen them in connection with the case?’

  McCormey narrowed his eyes as he studied the picture. Then he shook his head.

  ‘They came from Denmark, they disappeared on the ferry to Harwich, and they’ve never been found. Do you remember the case?’

  McCormey shook his head again. ‘No, I’m afraid not. They weren’t on our radar during the Hickley investigation, this much I can tell you. Besides, there are two of them in the picture, so it falls outside his normal pattern.’

  ‘Could it be a copycat?’ Nora said, returning the picture to her bag.

  ‘I doubt it has any significance. All those girls couldn’t just vanish into thin air without somebody noticing,’ he said.

  Nora kept her mouth shut to encourage him to continue.

  ‘OK,’ he said with a deep sigh, gathered up the twelve pictures, returned them to the envelope and pulled off his gloves with a snap. ‘I’ll get someone to look into the whereabouts of these girls, if only to confirm that they’re safe and sound. The Hickley case is closed, the man is in prison, and I don’t have the resources to reopen the investigation. Certainly not on a Dover budget. But I know a man in London who might want to take a look at it. His name is Jeff Spencer, but don’t call him. He never takes calls from reporters. He’ll call you if he has any questions, understand?’

  There was a knock on the door, and the red-haired police officer popped round her head.

  ‘Mrs Amijehan is here. This time with her interpreter,’ she announced, while Nora gathered up her things and got up from the chair.

  ‘One final question?’

  McCormey looked at her with an impatient gaze.

  ‘What was the name of Hickley's lawyer?’

  His smile bordered on the sarcastic. ‘Ah. That's easy because it's the most bizarre name I’ve ever heard in court: his name was Christian Cross. I remember thinking he ought to be a priest with that name.’

  They shook hands, and she thanked him for his time.

  ‘Thanks for the suitcase, Miss Sand. Call me in a week's time, but don’t expect miracles. This is an old case.’

  Mrs Amijehan was already on her way, wearing a colourful lime green sari, a subdued-looking interpreter on her arm, when McCormey called out after Nora.

  ‘Don’t forget to get fingerprinted!’

  8

  The next morning Nora rang Cross Law Associates. They were easy to find on the internet, and Nora noted that the firm's offices were less than a stone's throw from Bow Street Magistrates Court. She asked for Christian Cross and was put through to a secretary whose well-modulated voice reminded her of a 1950s film star.

  The secretary apologised sincerely, as if it were a loss to her personally that Mr Cross was currently in court, and not expected back until late afternoon.

  ‘Would you be interested in speaking to young Mr Cross instead?’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘Mr Christopher Cross. If it's a criminal case, I can assure you that Mr Christopher is just as successful as his father,’ the secretary said.

  ‘Actually, I would prefer to see Mr Christian.’

  ‘Very well. He can see you tomorrow morning at eleven thirty here at his office. Bring the relevant papers.’

  Nora was aware that it might be pushing it to let the secretary think she was a potential client, but she comforted herself by saying she hadn’t said anything that wasn’t true, and if she had introduced herself as a reporter interested in Bill Hix, she would probably have been offered an appointment the next working day in a month of Sundays that happened to coincide with a blue moon. That is, never.

  She rang off and on the spur of the moment looked up the homepage of Brine Tourist Office, found the shopping section and clicked through ice cream parlours, antique dealers and potteries. It came as no surprise to her that the dilapidated shop where she had bought the suitcase didn’t feature among those recommended by the Tourist Office as to how to spend your money in Brine.

  She had forgotten the name of the shop, but remembered that it had been a few doors up from a mint-green and pink teashop with a large daisy above the door.

  Google Street View had passed by it, and she recognised its grey, peeling-paint shopfront, not far from what turned out to be the Daisy Dairy Café. She searched the address, but as far as she could see there were no telephone numbers or names associated with the mysterious bric-a-brac shop in Seaview Street. Instead, she found the number for the Daisy Dairy Café, and rang it.

  ‘Hello, this is café,’ someone said in a heavy Russian accent.

  Nora explained that she was looking for a phone number for the second-hand shop two doors further along.

  ‘No telephone. No telephone,’ said the woman on the other end.

  ‘Please could I get you to leave them a message?’ Nora asked hopefully.

  ‘Mr Smithfield, he only come here sometimes,’ the woman explained impatiently.

  Eventually the woman agreed to note down Nora's mobile number and pop it through the letterbox.

  It was worth a try. However, she couldn’t guarantee that the woman would do what she had promised.

  Afterwards Nora searched Directory Enquiries’ website for any Smithfields in Brine to see if there might be a home address with a number. No results. ‘Would you like to search for something else?’ the computer asked.

  Nora closed the laptop.

  X

  The next morning she got up a little earlier than usual, and took her time ironing one of her two remaining clean white shirts, while she listened to the news and as often before, considered hiring a cleaner.

  As she looked at the pile of laundry and the film of smog on the windows, which was unavoidable when your windows faced London's traffic, the thought was tempting. But something stopped her from responding to one of the many no
tes stuffed through the letterbox by Polish or Hungarian women hoping to earn money for a better life.

  She loathed spending her precious spare time on domestic duties, but hated even more the thought of letting a stranger into her territory and paying them for doing what she didn’t want to do herself.

  She carefully hung the shirt on a hanger, found her faithful navy blue jacket and skirt suit at the far end of her wardrobe and placed it on her bed. She had acquired it because in the UK there were many situations where your life was made a little easier if you donned a uniform.

  She smiled at the memory of the day she had bought it in the summer sales at Harvey Nichols. Louise had come to London for some retail therapy, and when Nora stepped out of the changing rooms wearing the suit, Louise had bent double from laughter.

  ‘Oh, excuse me, Miss, please would you point out the emergency exits again and demonstrate how to put on your lifejacket?’ she had spluttered.

  Nora had caught sight of her own reflection in the big mirror and conceded that Louise had a point. All she needed was pink lipstick and her hair up in a bun and she would be the perfect flight attendant. She couldn’t help smiling at herself.

  ‘Welcome to Nora Air. We hope you’ll have a pleasant journey. In a moment we’ll come through the cabin with an offer of a good thrashing.’

  Ever since then the suit had been known as the ‘Nora Air outfit’ and today its job was to convince Christian Cross that a journalist was in fact the next innocent little lamb he should save from the clutches of the brutal English legal system.

  X

  The front office smelled of furniture polish and flowers. A woman, the owner Nora presumed of the film star voice from the telephone, was sitting behind a computer with a mug whose oval wedding portrait celebrated that the royal couple, Camilla Parker-Bowles and Prince Charles, were finally able to live happily ever after.

  ‘Welcome, Miss Sand,’ she said with an obliging smile. ‘Please take a seat, Mr Cross will be ready for you in a few minutes.’

  Nora made herself comfortable on the Chesterfield. On the low table in front of her three newspapers looked as if they had just been ironed by an invisible butler.

  She was lost in an Economist editorial about the faltering economy of Congo when she heard noises behind the heavy oak door that she presumed led to Mr Cross's office.

  The door opened and a man in his mid-thirties appeared wearing a suit fitting him so perfectly, he might as well have been holding a sign saying Savile Row.

  Nora peered up from the magazine. The man's hair was blond and his eyes light grey; more than anything, he looked like a lawyer in a commercial, the type used to sell exclusive chocolate, car insurance, or Armani suits.

  He acknowledged her presence and nodded briefly, before he turned around and addressed the open office door. ‘Goodbye, father. I’ll see you for lunch in the club on Thursday.’

  ‘Mr Cross will see you now,’ the secretary said, and got up.

  Christian Cross was sitting behind a desk Nora estimated to be the size of her bathroom. The green, deep-pile carpet in the office absorbed all sound like a piece of kitchen towel soaks up a glass of spilled milk.

  The walls were covered with leather panels and paintings depicting an earlier age where foxhunting was not only legal, but also the preferred hobby of many affluent rural Brits. The painter had lingered on the pack of foxhounds and men in Pink coats with hunting horns, and on the horses that would eventually carry their riders to a fox which, after hours of being chased, would collapse from exhaustion and be torn to pieces by the dogs.

  ‘Do you hunt, Miss Sand?’

  The voice was deep and melodic, as male voices can be after years of marinating in vintage brandy and Havana cigars. The emerging pot belly, which not even the exquisitely tailored suit could hide, bore evidence that several good dinners had preceded the cigars.

  Nora shook her head. ‘My work rarely allows me time to get out into the country,’ she said in a neutral tone.

  ‘What a shame. I have a small place in Wiltshire. It makes London bearable,’ Christian Cross said amicably.

  Nora concluded that the lawyer's view and her own of what constituted a small place probably diverged.

  Pleasantries out of the way, Christian Cross picked up a fountain pen from the desk and leaned back in his chair. ‘I gather it's a matter of urgency. How can I be of service?’

  Nora took a deep breath and jumped right into it. ‘William Hickley.’

  It was as if windscreen wipers swept across Christian Cross's face. The amicable smile disappeared and was instantly replaced by a frosty expression.

  ‘I can’t deny that I was — and still am — William Hickley's solicitor. That's a matter of public record. But I have nothing further to add,’ the lawyer said, sounding slightly put out. ‘But seeing that you’re here, and have already wasted both your time and mine, I would be interested to know why you want to ask about a client who is obviously protected by attorney-client privilege?’ he added.

  ‘I represent Globalt, a Danish magazine, and I’m hoping that you can set up a meeting between your client and me,’ Nora said frankly.

  Honesty is usually the best course. At least when you already have one foot in the door.

  When Christian Cross chuckled, the laughter came right from his belly with a deep bass.

  ‘You could have saved yourself the journey,’ he said, while he shook his head at her absurd suggestion.

  ‘I can’t categorically deny your request on behalf of my client. I’ll pass it on, of course. But this much I can tell you: a few years ago the Sun offered William Hickley fifty thousand pounds to tell his story. He turned them down point-blank. He was so offended he even refused to meet with the journalist to negotiate the amount upwards. But perhaps your Danish editor has deeper pockets than the Sun,’ he said with more than a hint of irony in his voice.

  Nora thought how the Crayfish squirmed on the rare occasions he was asked to sign a receipt for more than a hundred and fifty pounds.

  ‘You can tell your client we don’t pay. But I have information about his two Danish girls.’

  ‘I beg your pardon — what Danish girls?’

  Nora shrugged. ‘I’m sorry. That's confidential information I couldn’t possibly share with anyone expect William Hickley,’ she said in exactly the same pompous tone of voice that the lawyer had just used himself.

  Obvious irritation flitted across Christian Cross's face. ‘Very well. I’ll make sure that your message is passed on to Mr Hickley,’ he said, tight-lipped. ‘But don’t forget that I was present throughout his trial. No Danish girls were involved in the case. None. They were all British,’ he pointed out and stood up abruptly from behind his desk.

  He was shorter than she had expected, Nora saw as she handed him her business card. Christian Cross glanced at it briefly.

  ‘And now, Miss Sand, we should not take up any more of each other's time,’ he said firmly, and walked towards the door.

  ‘When do you think I can expect to hear from you?’ Nora asked politely.

  ‘It so happens that we’re in the process of preparing a new hearing regarding a release on parole or at least a transfer to a different prison. If the British authorities won’t budge, it might be a breach of his human rights. And then we have a case. Would your magazine be interested in covering that story?’ he asked, before answering his own question a second later. ‘Oh, you wouldn’t? I hadn’t expected you to, either. I’m meeting Mr Hickley next week. Until then I would prefer not to have to deal with any more bizarre attempts to muddy the waters. You’ll be contacted in due course, but if I were you, I would lower my expectations quite considerably and start looking for another story. Have a good day,’ he said, and flung open the door.

  ‘Mrs Metcalfe, please would you get me Sir Howard on the phone?’ he said. Her audience was over.

  Shortly afterwards she was back in the street. She took out her mobile. It was almost lunchtime and the Cross off
ice was within walking distance of Scotland Yard. Andreas didn’t answer his mobile, but she left a message and three minutes later, he called her back.

  9

  His lunch break started in twenty minutes; Nora secured provisions from the nearest Pret A Manger — chicken sandwiches, apple juice and fruit salad — and took up position right underneath Scotland Yard's triangular sign.

  Andreas emerged from the revolving door wearing a dark grey suit, talking to a colleague. Seeing him look so mature and professional made her warm to him. Like a stranger she would like to get to know better. He glanced around and smiled broadly when he spotted her.

  They walked to St James's Park and found a grassy spot in the shade under an old oak tree. Nora cursed her skirt as she tried folding her legs to find a delicate compromise between comfort and decency. When she had finally wriggled into place, they attacked the food.

  ‘Caught any terrorists yet?’ she said in between mouthfuls.

  Andreas hesitated while his gaze lingered on a couple of teenagers across from them. They looked as if they intended to test how far two people could actually go in a public place without being arrested for indecency. Quite a long way it would appear, Nora noted to herself.

  ‘Hello? Am I disturbing anything?’

  Andreas looked at her with an expression in his eyes she couldn’t define.

  ‘I can’t discuss my work.’

  ‘You’re kidding me?’

  ‘No. If I tell you, I’m afraid I’m going to have to kill you,’ he declared with a poker face.

  She slapped his shoulder, but couldn’t help grinning. ‘You idiot. And here was I thinking I might invite you to the seaside this weekend.’

  Andreas raised his eyebrows. ‘Really?’

  ‘So, it's partly work. I need to check something in a coastal village called Brine. But I thought we might turn it into a trip. That is, if you still like swimming in the sea?’

  The invitation had poured out of her without her thinking it through.