Chapter 17
“Oh…that,” he said, giving a quick shrug. “It came in when you were at the departmental meeting. Thought I’d take a look for you. Alice Chambers has been missing for 31 days. Her family and friends have been searching for her. Her parents are frantic. It’s hit the news headlines and is trending on social media…hashtag FindAlice.”
Maggie nodded for him to continue.
“They have no body, no witnesses, no lines of inquiry. She could be alive, in need of help, or she could be dead in a ditch somewhere.”
“We’re overrun with misspers. Why are we…or more to the point…why are you interested in this one?” she asked with a wily smile.
“Well, she’s cute,” beamed Pyke.
Maggie raised an amused eyebrow. He shrugged and continued.
“Honestly, it’s a strange one. Everyone likes her. She has no enemies we know of. She works with children’s charities, loves saving lives, and has just returned home after a six-month stint in Africa. She has no previous criminal history, no charges, no reports, no intelligence anywhere on her. She lives with her mother. The day she went missing, as normal, she’d taken the bus into town to do a bit of shopping but didn’t return. Her local Police force is overstretched with funding cuts and no men on the ground. After four weeks with no leads, their focus is moving on to other more pressing cases. She’s drifted to the back of the pile.”
He took a sip of tea before continuing.
“No CCTV, no witnesses, no forensics, no financial activity, no emails, or social media action. There is nothing to go on. She’s grabbed the nation’s heart and now mine. I want to find out where she is. It’s only right to give a little special help to the good-uns down there, don’t you think?”
“Who asked us to get involved?”
“Her mother has been praying night and day for a month. We are definitely invited.”
“Has Alice asked us for our help?”
“No, but she could be drugged or something… not conscious.”
Maggie eyed the beautiful young woman’s picture and took another sip of tea.
“I’m not sure I like the pink hair or the nose piercing, but each to their own. At least she’s memorable, from a witness’s point of view. Where’s she from?”
“Wales, on the coast, a tiny village.”
“Where’s the charity based?”
“Durban.”
“Link up with African Units. They may have some Intel. Check out the Charity. Some are not what they seem.” Maggie took another sip of tea. “I guess you’ve gone through her phone history, checked her love life, ex-boyfriends, family, and Doctor’s files. There may be something there. Small villages can’t keep secrets.”
Pyke nodded. “Yep, her phone went missing with her, but I’m dissecting her phone records. She made a call to Brighton in West Sussex just before she went off the grid. I’m digging around down there.”
“It’s lucky I’m authorising it then, isn’t it?” Maggie nudged him.
“I love you, Maggie,” he beamed. “Thank you.”
“But you know the rules. No solo jobs. Keep me updated. I can’t protect you if you go off grid, and I can’t abide lies, understand?”
“Understood. Would I ever?” he teased.
He rose from the comfortable sofa and skipped over to the screen. He liked the sound of Alice. She was a decent human being, who liked helping people. It didn’t hurt that her image screamed with cuteness. If he’d been brave enough, and they’d met before his death, she would have been right up his strassa—perfect girlfriend material.
“I’m gonna find you, Miss Chambers,” he sighed, staring up at her photograph. “You’ve got yourself an Angel.”
Maggie shook her head with a concerned smile.
“Be careful, young man,” she chided, knowing full well how dangerous it was to let the heart loose at work.
Greek Street,
Soho, London, UK
Jack and Amy strode through the bustling traffic of Greek Street, a narrow road in the hub of London’s colourful Soho where award-winning creatives and downtrodden sex peddlers managed to live comfortably side by side.
Opulent offices featuring film, fashion, music and advertising houses stood exquisitely lit with the glamorous and well-heeled Erthfolk running in and out of their chic entranceways.
Interspersed with dark alleyways and grubby doorways, the area housed all manner of services for the sins of the flesh, a Caligula melting pot. The creatives crafted beauty while the sex peddlers grubbed it up.
It was lunch time. Runners, secretaries, couriers, suited workers, and cool Fashionistas scurried about their business. Tourists, street walkers, and tramps politely danced around each other on narrow, uneven, chewing-gum-ridden pavements.
Jack watched a black Range Rover creep slowly past them, pull in a few yards ahead, and double park alongside a large white butcher’s delivery truck; selfishly leaving only a narrow lane for two-way traffic to pass. Angry drivers waved fists and tooted horns as they skulked through the gap.
The delivery truck driver pried the heavy doors open, displaying bloodied slabs of meat hanging and swaying inside.
Three men, dressed in sunglasses, jumped out of the Range Rover wearing black hoodies, black jeans, and black trainers. A fourth man stayed in the driver’s seat, playing with his phone, checking his reflection in the mirror.
The three men swaggered onto the pavement, pushed innocent pedestrians aside, and slid into a black, graffiti-covered doorway. The last one checked over his shoulder and closed the door behind him. A picture of a stripper with the numbers 727 had been scratched into the door’s fading paintwork.
Jack strode up the middle of the street with Amy trotting along behind him.
The delivery van’s driver slowly unloaded a tall, meat-laden trolley off the back of his truck, graduating it onto the road, carefully manoeuvring its four swivel castors to roll in the same direction. Jack stepped over to the van.
“Where is this place?” Amy asked, trying to keep up.
“Next corner on the right,” Jack mumbled as he kicked one of the trolley’s four brakes with his foot, slamming it shut against the wheel. With one castor locked, the trolley twisted sluggishly out of control. The delivery man stumbled, unable to take its weight.
Jack jaunted up to the driver’s side of the Range Rover to find the driver busy adjusting his sunglasses in the mirror, preparing to take a selfie with his mobile. Jack reached through the window, pulled the car keys out of the ignition, and dropped them between the seat and car door.
He stepped away from the car, nonchalantly placed his hands in his pockets, and walked on with Amy trotting behind.
“What was all that about?” she asked, looking back over her shoulder.
“Just helping out Mr Plod.”
“But…”
“But what? I tripped over that castor, it was an accident, it can happen to anyone… and the keys, they just fell out of the lock, so what? No big deal,” he shrugged, striding on down the street, with Amy trying to keep up with him.
The meat trolley spun slow-motion in a semi-circle, rolled in front of the Range Rover, and toppled into oncoming traffic. Slabs of bloodied meat spewed across the tarmac, blocking the road and forcing drivers to screech their brakes. Angry Erthfolk laid on their horns, shouting and throwing their fists.
The black doorway burst open. Three men charged out with six bulging holdalls. They jumped into the Range Rover and barked at the driver to move.
“Move…move!”
The driver reached down to turn on the ignition – no key. Frantically, he scrambled to search around his seat. “Fuck, fuck, fuck!”
The owner of the strip joint and his two bouncers staggered out of the same black doorway with blood dripping from head wounds. They lunged towards the car, yelling obscenities.
On a nearby corner, two Policemen turned to see what the noise was about.
With traffic blocked, impatient car owners kept pressing their horns. The three powerless thugs stared out of the car window, their faces turning red and tense, watching the bouncers and police coming for them.
Amy laughed, shaking her head.
“How did you see that coming?”
“Oh, puhlease! If you’re gonna be a thief, don’t dress like one, drive a flash car, and walk about like the big-I-am. Jeez,” he said. “Criminals of today… way too much ego… ego gets you caught.”
Suddenly, a tone buzzed in Amy’s head, she tapped her ear to answer the call. Pyke’s voice resonated.
“If you’re on Greek Street, there could be something kicking off at a strip club.”
“Number 727? Three wannabe thugs robbing the place of something that fits into six holdall bags?”
“Yep. Drugs…how’d you know?”
“Jack’s just sorted it. We came across it as an incident in progress. He’s on it like a bonnet.” She smiled, looking back at two running Policemen, shouting breathlessly into their radios. “Men in blue are at the scene, calling it in as we speak.”
“Nice one, how…?”
“Don’t ask. Slabs of meat were involved. Have a peek.” A small green light clicked on to the right of her periphery. Pyke had tuned into the scene through her eyes to see what she saw. She stared at the chaos Jack left behind and heard Pyke chuckle.
“Next time, make him call it in for authorisation before he gets involved. I can’t be watching over you guys all the time. But, hey, good job. Will chalk it up…the bosses are loving our stats.”
“Yes, boss,” she said, pleased. Pyke had a sensible, practical view of life; he didn’t get too hung up on rules. “We’re on route to Soho Sid. Will keep you updated. Do you know what the boss wants to talk to me about? I’ve got a review.”
“She hasn’t said anything. Maybe it’s good news.”
“Yeah. That’s what Jack said, but I don’t know.” Ahead, Jack marched through the crowded street, and she didn’t want to lose sight of him. “Gotta go. Trying to keep up with action man here. Speak later.”
Pyke cut the call, severing the green light. Amy had to make a dash to catch up with quick-footed Jack.