Candela had shown more than enough people like this around properties to know that being overly inquisitive was not a good idea. Many of her clients described themselves as 'businessmen', and if that's what the Englishman chose to call himself, she was far too smart to ask any other questions.
Far smarter than most people took her for.
He looked rather more thuggish than his friend, she thought. The type who would not think twice about screwing someone in any way possible to get what he wanted. Probably had a vicious temper on him, too. She wondered if the tall Spaniard was his minder. He didn't smile or say a great deal, but she knew that sort were rarely employed for their personality or intelligence.
Not that she was under any illusions herself. She knew exactly why David kept her around.
In truth, Candela didn't care too much what either of them did. Any of them. Commission was commission, and although she was well taken care of, she enjoyed making her own money. This one would keep her in D amp;G for a long time.
'Here is the master bedroom suite,' she said. She waited for the two men to follow her through the door. 'Very nice, as you can see. The view is very beautiful, like in the other rooms.' She smiled and corrected herself. ' From the other rooms.'
The Spaniard nodded.
'Lovely,' the Englishman said.
The block was a new build, and the penthouse apartment was the most spectacular and expensive property of the lot. Three beds, three baths and a huge living space, with private security and use of the gymnasium and pool complex.
'The whole place is lovely.'
Candela smiled, pleased with the way things seemed to be going. 'If you wish, you can keep the furniture that is already here, but of course that will cost a little extra.'
'Of course.'
'Or you can take it empty and choose things for yourself. Perhaps your wife might prefer to do that…'
'I'll ask her.'
'Women like to choose their own things.' She fingered a button on her ivory blouse. 'I know that I would prefer it.'
The Englishman flicked once more through the brochure she had given him, then walked across to the huge window. 'We'll need to talk about the price, though.'
'We can talk,' Candela said, laughing. 'But not too much. There is a waiting list already and offers have been turned down three times.' She walked across to join him and stood close. 'You can almost see Africa if the day is nice and this does not come cheaply. This block is ideal for getting anywhere on the coast, too, near to the motorway and the airport. What is it you say in England? The location, the location, the location?'
'Something like that.'
'There is a TV show also, yes? I saw it when I came to London.'
'You've been to London?'
'Of course. I went last year with a boyfriend.'
'This would be Dave Mackenzie, would it?'
Candela felt the colour leave her face and stepped quickly away from the window. 'No.' She shook her head. 'Not… Why are you asking me about this?'
'I thought we were friends,' the Englishman said.
The Spaniard stepped towards her then, reaching into his pocket, and she felt the flutter of panic expand and take hold. She had heard several horror stories during the two years she had been doing the job. Most of the agencies employed a few girls like her; girls who could show off a property well enough and give just a hint of something extra at the same time… as long as an offer was made quickly. It made them valued employees, but also easy targets for the odd lunatic.
She tried to control herself, managed to smile. Then began to panic even more when she saw what the Spaniard had been reaching for.
Russell Brigstocke stuck his head around the door of the small office that Holland and Kitson were sharing while Thorne was away.
'He called again,' Brigstocke said. 'First thing this morning.'
Holland looked over at Kitson and raised his hands in despair. 'Jesus, it's not like we're sitting on our backsides.'
'I know that.'
'We're doing everything we can,' Kitson said.
Holland sighed. 'We've done everything we can.'
'Just letting you know,' Brigstocke said, before he left.
The two of them had been working flat out since Thorne had left, checking and rechecking the same missing persons reports from ten years earlier that they had examined back in February. They had worked long hours, poring over the mispers files, cross-referencing them with the PM report on the body in the Jag; eliminating many but following up any that looked even remotely likely, including some that had been discounted during the previous search.
The day before there had been a result of sorts, though not one that would interest Thorne.
They had not been looking for bodies, of course, but the discovery of a simple clerical error had given them all they needed to match a missing junkie – reported as such one week after the Epping Forest Barbecue – with a previously unidentified corpse that had been found in a park in Kingston. The 'Celtic ring' listed under the body's personal effects had actually been a tattoo, described in the Distinguishing Marks section of the original mispers report. So they had been able to give the Kingston corpse a name, and were now in a position to inform the next of kin, but Holland had not yet called the dead man's mother.
'Come on, Dave, it's not like she doesn't already know he's dead,' Kitson had said.
'Right, but it's not like there's a grave she can visit, is it?' Thus far, despite several reports to the appropriate mortuary and coroner's office, Holland had been unable to establish what had happened to the body. 'It's not exactly good news.'
'It's closure.'
'Is it hell.'
That said, Holland was starting to believe that the dead junkie's mother would end up with a damn sight more 'closure' than Robert and Sylvia Carpenter. That Thorne would be coming back from Spain with nothing more than a bottle or two from Duty Free.
A few minutes after Brigstocke had left, Kitson said, 'It's not like you've let him down.'
Holland looked up.
'Thorne.'
'I wasn't thinking I had.'
Holland had spoken more sharply than he had meant to, but Kitson did not seem offended. 'Yes, you were…'
Holland could see there was no point in denying it any further. Kitson knew him well enough. He had worked plenty of cases where no amount of solid police work could produce the result that everyone wanted. It was part of the Job and the frustration was necessarily fleeting. When it was one of Thorne's, though, there was always more pressure. And when things did not go the way they should, Holland invariably felt like a schoolboy who had missed a last-minute penalty in a vital football match.
'Don't worry, he does it to everyone some time or other,' Kitson said.
'That's something, I suppose.'
'Harder for you, though.'
'Why?'
She smiled. 'Well, you've clearly got a father-figure thing going on.'
'That's rubbish,' Holland said, turning back to his computer screen.
Stepping up again. Getting ready to balloon the ball over the crossbar…
They were all vital to Thorne, of course, and everyone understood how much the Adam Chambers verdict had hurt him. Perhaps that was why this case had become so important to him. But, whatever the reason, Holland knew how much Thorne needed something solid to pin on Alan Langford. How little anything else had come to matter.
Since Anna Carpenter's death, it had become personal.
'You really need to make that call, Dave.'
Holland looked up to see Kitson waving the report on the junkie who was no longer missing. He nodded, well aware that he had put it off too long already. Perhaps she's right, he thought. After all, having a loved one go missing, not knowing whether to hope or mourn, was probably as bad as it could get. The truth had to be some kind of good news.
Holland picked up the phone.
He only wished he had some to give Thorne.