NKATA MANAGED TO DEPART VICTORIA STREET WITHOUT a run-in with Hillier. He’d had a message on his mobile from the AC’s secretary advising him of “Sir David’s wish to confer prior to the next press briefing,” but he decided to ignore it. Hillier no more wanted to confer with him than he wanted to be exposed to the Ebola virus, and that was a fact, one which Nkata had been reading between the lines of his every meeting with the man. He was tired of being Hillier’s token nod-of-head to equal opportunities for minorities at the Met. He knew if he continued to play along with the propaganda, he was going to end up despising his profession, his associates, and himself. That wasn’t fair on anyone. So he escaped from New Scotland Yard directly upon the conclusion of the meeting in the incident room. He used oil of ambergris as his excuse.
He made his way across the river to Gabriel’s Wharf, an expensive square of riverfront tarmac which stood just beyond the midway point between two of the bridges that spanned the Thames: Waterloo and Blackfriars. It was a summertime kind of place, completely open to the air. Despite the cheery lights strung above it in crisscross fashion-and lit, even though it was still daylight-in winter the wharf was experiencing little custom. No one at all was doing business in the shop hiring out bicycles and inline skates, and while there were a few browsers in the small, ramshackle galleries that defined the wharf’s boundaries, the other enterprises were virtually deserted. These comprised restaurants and food stalls, which in summer would be hard pressed to keep up with the demand for the crepes, pizzas, sandwiches, jacket potatoes, and ices that were largely going ignored at present.
Nkata found Crystal Moon lodged between two take-aways: crepes on the left and sandwiches on the right. It was part of the eastern portion of the wharf, where shantylike shops and galleries backed right up to a line of tenements. The upper floors of these had long ago been painted with trompe l’oeil windows, each of a style so different from the last that the overall feeling was one of speeding round Europe on foot. Georgian London windows gave way within four paces to rococo Paris, which in turn faded fast to the doge’s Venice. It was nothing if not fanciful, in keeping with the wharf itself.
Crystal Moon maintained the whimsical atmosphere, inviting one to enter through a beaded curtain fashioned to look like a galaxy dominated by a slice of lunar green cheese. Nkata ducked through this and opened the door beyond it, expecting to be greeted inside by a pyramid- wearing hippie hopeful who called herself something like Aphrodite but whose real name was Kylie from Essex. Instead, he found a grandmotherly type seated on a tall stool next to the till. She was wearing a soft pink twin set and purple beads and she was leafing through a glossy magazine. A stick of incense burning next to her spread the scent of jasmine into the air.
Nkata nodded but did not immediately approach her. Rather, he took stock of what was on offer. Crystals abounded, as one might expect: hanging from cords, decorating small lamp shades, worked into candleholders, loose in small baskets. But so did incense, tarot cards, dream catchers, fragrant oils, flutes, recorders, and-for some reason not immediately apparent-decorated chopsticks. He went to the oils.
Black man in the shop. White woman alone. At another time, Nkata might have set her mind at rest by introducing himself and proffering his identification. Today, however, with Hillier and everything Hillier stood for on his mind, he just wasn’t in the mood for adding to the peace of any white person, old lady or not.
He did a little browsing. Anise. Benzoin. Klinden. Chamomile. Almond. He picked up one, read the label, and noted the multitude of uses. He replaced it and picked up another. Behind him the pages of the magazine continued to turn with no alteration in pace. Finally, after stirring on her stool, the proprietor of the shop spoke.
Only, it turned out she wasn’t the proprietor at all, which she revealed to Nkata with an embarrassed little laugh as she offered to assist him. “I don’t know how much help I can be,” she told him, “but I’m willing to try. I just come in once a week for the afternoon, you see, while Gigi-that’s my granddaughter-has her singing lessons. This is her little place, what she’s doing till she’s broken into the business…Isn’t that how they say it? May I be any help, by the way? Looking for anything special?”
“What’s all this for, then?” Nkata indicated the display of small bottles that contained the oils.
“Oh, many things, dear,” the old lady said. She eased herself off the stool and came over to the display to stand beside him. He towered over her, but she didn’t seem to be disconcerted to discover this. She crossed her arms beneath her breasts, said, “My goodness, you’ve taken your vitamins, haven’t you?,” and went on amiably. “Some of them have medicinal uses, dear. Some are for magic. Some are for alchemy. This is according to Gigi, naturally. I don’t actually know if they’re good for anything. Why d’you ask? D’you need something special?”
Nkata reached for the bottle of ambergris oil. “What about this one?”
She took it from him and said, “Ambergris…Let’s see, shall we?” She carried the bottle back to the counter and from beneath it she brought forth a volume.
If she herself hadn’t been what Nkata expected to find inside a shop called Crystal Moon, the enormous book she heaved to the counter was. It looked like something from the prop room at Elstree Studios: large, leather bound, with dog-eared pages. Nkata expected moths to fly out when she opened it.
She seemed to read his mind because she laughed in an embarrassed fashion and said, “Yes. A bit silly, I know. But people expect this sort of thing, don’t they?” She flipped through some pages and began to read. Nkata joined her at the counter. She started tut-tutting, shaking her head and fingering her beads.
“What?” he asked.
“It’s a bit unpleasant, actually. Its associations, I mean.” Pointing to the page, she went on to tell him that not only did some poor sweet whale have to die in order for people to get their hands on the oil, but the substance itself was used in doing works of wrath or vengeance. She frowned and looked up at him earnestly. “Now, I must ask. Forgive me, please. Gigi would be appalled, but there are some things…Why would you be wanting the ambergris? Lovely man like you. Is it something to do with the scar, dear? It’s unfortunate you have it, but if I might say…Well, it does give your face a certain distinction. So if I might guide you in another direction…?”
She told him that a man like himself should think instead about calamint oil, which would help keep women away because surely he was mobbed by them on a daily basis. On the other hand, bryony could be used in love potions if there was a special woman out there who had struck his fancy. Or agrimony, which would banish negativity. Or eucalyptus for healing. Or sage for immortality. There were so many choices with far more positive uses than the ambergris, dear, and if she could possibly do anything at all to guide him in a direction that would assist him in an outcome having positive repercussions in his life…
Nkata realised it was time. He brought out his identification. He told her that ambergris oil had been associated with a murder.
“Murder?” Her eyes-their blue faded with age-widened as one hand went to her chest. “My dear, you don’t think…Has someone been poisoned? Because I don’t believe…it can’t be possible…the bottle would be marked in some way…I know that…it would have to be…”
Nkata hastened to reassure her. No one had been poisoned, and even if someone had, the shop would only be responsible if the shop had administered the substance. That wasn’t the case, was it?
“Of course not. Of course not,” she said. “But, my dear, when Gigi hears about this, she’ll be devastated. To be even remotely connected to a murder…She is the most peaceable young woman. Truly. If you could see her in here with her customers. If you could hear the music she plays. I’ve the CDs right here and you’re welcome to look through them. See? The God Within, Spiritual Journeys. And there are others. All about meditations and the like.”
It was her mention of the word customers that Nkata brought her back to. He asked if the shop had sold any of the ambergris oil recently. She told him that she didn’t quite know. They probably had done. Gigi did a respectable business, even at this time of year. But they had no records of individual purchases. There were the credit card receipts, of course, so the police might go at things from that end. Otherwise there was only the notebook that customers signed if they wanted a copy of Crystal Moon’s newsletter. Would that help at all?
Nkata doubted it, but he accepted the offer and took it from the woman. He gave her his card and told her that if she remembered anything at all…Or if Gigi could add to what her grandmother knew…
Yes, yes. Of course. Anything at all. And as a matter of fact…
“Heaven knows what help it might be, dear, but there is a list Gigi’s been keeping,” her grandmother said. “It’s only postal codes. She’s been keen to open Crystal Moon Two on the other side of the river-Notting Hill?-and she’s been keeping the postal codes of her customers to buoy her case for a loan from the bank. Would that help at all?”
Nkata didn’t see how, but he was willing to take the list anyway. He thanked Gigi’s gran and started to leave but found himself pausing, in spite of himself, in front of the display of oils once again.
“Is there anything else, then?” Gigi’s gran asked.
He had to admit to himself that there was. He said, “Which one ’d you say banishes negativity?”
“That was the agrimony, dear.”
He scooped up a bottle and carried it to the counter. “This’ll do, then,” he said.
ELEPHANT AND CASTLE existed as a place apparently oblivious of the other Londons that had, over the years, developed and died around it. The Swinging London of miniskirts, vinyl boots, the King’s Road, and Carnaby Street had decades ago passed it by. The catwalks of Fashion Week London had never been laid anywhere near its environs. And while the London Eye, the Millennium Footbridge, and the Tate Modern all stood as examples of the dawn of a brand new century in town, Elephant and Castle remained locked in the past. True, the area was struggling to be redeveloped, as were many places south of the river. But its struggle was one against the odds, and the odds comprised drug users and suppliers doing business on the streets, as well as poverty, ignorance, and despair. It was into this milieu that its founders had set Colossus, taking what had been a derelict structure designed for the manufacture of mattresses and modestly renovating the place to serve the community in an entirely different way.
Barbara Havers directed Lynley to the spot on New Kent Road, where a small carpark behind the jaundiced brick structure offered a place for participants in Colossus to have a smoke. A crowd of them stood round doing just that as Lynley guided his car into one of the parking bays. As he put on the brake and shut down the engine, Havers pointed out that a Bentley was, perhaps, not the best choice of transport to be bringing into the neighbourhood.
Lynley couldn’t disagree. He hadn’t quite thought things through when, in the underground carpark on Victoria Street, Havers had said, “Why don’t we take my motor, sir?” At that moment he’d just wanted to assert some control over things, and one part of getting that control was putting distance between himself and any edifice that happened to shelter the assistant commissioner of police. Another part had been making the decision about how that distance was going to be effected. But now he saw that Havers had been right. It wasn’t so much that they put themselves at risk, driving a posh car into this kind of place. It was more that they made a statement about themselves, which didn’t need making.
On the other hand, he told himself, at least they weren’t announcing the fact that they were coppers to all and sundry. But he was disabused of that notion the moment he stepped out of the Bentley and locked it behind him.
“The filth,” someone muttered, and this caution passed quickly throughout the smokers until all conversation had died among them. So much for the value of vehicular incognito, Lynley thought.
As if he’d spoken, Havers replied in a low voice, “It’s me, sir, not you. They’ve got rozzer radar, this lot. They knew who I was straightaway when they saw me earlier.” She glanced his way. “But you c’n act like my driver if you want. We still might be able to pull the wool. Let’s start with a fag. You c’n light it for me.” Lynley shot her a look. She grinned. “Just a thought.”
They made their way through the silent group to a flight of iron stairs that climbed the back of the building. On the first floor, a broad green door bore “Colossus” inscribed on a small plaque of polished brass. A window set high above this showed a bank of lights along a corridor within. Lynley and Havers entered and found themselves in a combination gallery and modest gift shop.
The gallery constituted a pictorial history of the organisation: its founding, its development of the site that housed it, and its impact on the inhabitants of the area. The gift shop-which was essentially a single display case of reasonably priced items-offered T-shirts, sweatshirts, caps, coffee mugs, shot glasses, and stationery, all with identical logos. These consisted of the organisation’s mythological namesake surmounted by dozens of tiny figures who used his massive arms and shoulders as a means to cross from destitution to achievement. Beneath the giant was the word together, forming a half circle that was completed by Colossus, which created the other half above him. Within this case also was a signed photograph of the Duke and Duchess of Kent, lending their royal patronage to some event connected with Colossus. This, apparently, was not for sale.
On the far side of the display case, a door led into the reception room. There, Lynley and Havers found themselves being immediately eyed by three individuals who fell into silence the moment they approached. Two of the three-a slender, youngish man in a EuroDisney baseball cap and a mixed-race boy perhaps fourteen years old-were playing cards at a low table between two sofas. The third-a large young man with neat ginger hair and a wispy beard, nicely trimmed but still barely covering pockmarked cheeks-sat behind the reception desk, a turquoise cross dangling from one earlobe. He wore one of the Colossus sweatshirts, and at the otherwise spotless desk, he’d apparently been making notations in blue pencil upon a calendar while soft jazz came from speakers positioned above him. He did not look friendly once his glance took in Havers. Next to him, Lynley heard the DC sigh.
“I need a bloody makeover,” she muttered.
“You might want to lose the shoes,” he suggested.
“Help you?” the young man asked. From beneath the desk he brought forth a bright yellow bag with “Mr. Sandwich” printed on it. From this he took a sausage roll and crisps, and he set about eating without further ado. Cops, his actions telegraphed to them, would not get in the way of his daily routine.
Although it appeared to be entirely unnecessary, Lynley produced his ID for the ginger-haired young man, ignoring the two others for the moment. A plastic nameplate at the desk’s edge indicated he was introducing himself and Havers to one Jack Veness, who seemed to be deeply unimpressed that the two rozzers standing before him were representing New Scotland Yard.
Giving a glance to the cardplayers, as if for approval, Veness simply waited for more to be said. He chewed his sausage roll, dipped into his crisps, and glanced at the wall clock above the door. Or perhaps it was to the door itself that he looked, Lynley thought, through which Mr. Veness might be waiting for rescue. He seemed all right superficially, but there was an air of unease about him.
They were there to speak to the director of Colossus, Lynley told Jack Veness, or, for that matter, to anyone else who could talk to them about one of their clients…if that was the proper term, he added: Kimmo Thorne.
The name had just about the same effect as a stranger walking into a barroom in an old-time American Western. In other circumstances, Lynley might have been amused: The two cardplayers ceased their game altogether, setting their cards on the table and making no secret of the fact that they intended to listen to everything that was said from that moment on, while Jack Veness ceased chewing his sausage roll. He set it on its Mr. Sandwich bag and pushed his chair away from his desk. Lynley thought he intended to fetch someone for them, but instead he went to a water cooler. There, he filled a Colossus mug from the hot spigot provided, after which he grabbed a tea bag and gave it a few douses inside.
Next to Lynley, Havers rolled her eyes. She said, “’Scuse us, mate. Your hearing aid just blow a fuse or something?”
Veness returned and put his mug on the desk. “I c’n hear you lot fine. I’m just trying to decide if it’s worth giving you an answer.”
Across the room, EuroDisney gave a low whistle. His companion ducked his head. Veness looked pleased that he’d managed to obtain their approval. Lynley decided this was enough.
“You can make that decision in an interview room if you like,” he said to Veness.
To which Havers added, “We’re happy to oblige. Here to serve and all that, you know.”
Veness sat. He wadded a hunk of sausage roll into his mouth and said past it, “Everyone knows everyone else at Colossus. Thorne included. That’s how it works. That’s why it works.”
“That goes for you as well, I take it?” Lynley said. “Regarding Kimmo Thorne?”
“You take it right,” Veness agreed.
“What about you two?” Havers asked the cardplayers. “Did you know Kimmo Thorne as well?” She took out her notebook as she asked the questions. “What’re your names, by the way?”
EuroDisney looked startled to be suddenly questioned at all, but he said cooperatively that he was called Robbie Kilfoyle. He added that he didn’t actually work at Colossus like Jack but merely volunteered several days each week, this being one of those days. For his part, the boy identified himself as Mark Connor. He said he was in day four of assessment.
“That makes him new round here,” Veness explained.
“So he won’t have known Kimmo,” Kilfoyle added.
“But you did know him?” Havers asked Kilfoyle. “Even though you don’t work here?”
“Hey, you know, he didn’t say that,” Veness said.
“You his brief?” Havers retorted. “No? Then I expect he can answer for himself.” And again to Kilfoyle: “Did you know Kimmo Thorne? Where do you work?”
Unaccountably, Veness persisted. “Drop it. He brings in the bloody sandwiches, all right?”
Kilfoyle scowled, perhaps offended by the dismissive tone. He said, “Like I said already. I volunteer. On the phones. In the kichen. I work in the kit room when things pile up. So I saw Kimmo round. I knew him.”
“Didn’t everyone,” Veness said. “And speaking of which…There’s a group going out on the river this afternoon. D’you have time to handle that, Rob?” He gave Kilfoyle a long look, as if some sort of double message were being sent.
“I c’n help you, Rob,” Mark Connor offered.
“Sure,” Kilfoyle said. And to Jack Veness, “You want me to set things up now or what?”
“Now would be brilliant.”
“Well, then.” Kilfoyle gathered up the cards and, accompanied by Mark, he headed for an interior door. Unlike the others, he wore a windbreaker rather than a sweatshirt, and instead of “Colossus” written on it, it bore a logo of a stuffed baguette with arms and legs and the words “Mr. Sandwich” below it.
The departure of these two effected a complete change in Jack Veness for some reason. As if an unseen switch had been suddenly turned off-or on-in him, the young man altered on the head of a pin. He said to Lynley and Havers, “Right then. Sorry. I can be a real streak of piss when I want. Y’know, I wanted to be a cop, but I couldn’t make it. It’s easier to blame you than to look at myself and work out why I didn’t cut it.” He snapped his fingers, offered a smile. “How’s that for instant psychoanalysis? Five years of therapy and the man is cured.”
The change in Veness was disconcerting, like discovering two personalities inside one body. It was impossible not to wonder if the presence of Kilfoyle and Connor had had something to do with who he’d portrayed himself to be earlier. But Lynley went with the change in the man and brought up Kimmo Thorne again. Next to him, Havers flipped open her notebook. The newly minted Jack Veness didn’t quiver an eyelash.
He told them frankly that he knew Kimmo and had known him from the time of Kimmo’s assignment to Colossus. He, after all, was the organisation’s receptionist. Everyone who came, who went, and who remained was someone he quickly got to know. He made it his business to know, he emphasised. It was, he told them, part of his job to know.
Why was this? Lynley asked.
Because, Veness said, you never knew, did you?
Knew what, exactly? Havers put in.
What you were dealing with.
“That lot.” With this, Veness indicated the young people smoking outside in the carpark. “They come from everything, don’t they? The streets, care, Youth Offenders, drug rehab, gangs, turning tricks, running weapons, selling drugs. Doesn’t make sense to trust them till they give me a reason to trust them. So I keep an eye out.”
“Did this apply to Kimmo as well?” Lynley asked.
“Applies to everyone,” Veness said. “Winners and losers alike.”
Havers took up the ball at that remark. She said, “How’s that apply to Kimmo? He get on your bad side some way?”
“Not mine,” he said.
“Someone else’s then?”
Veness contemplatively fingered his sausage roll.
“If there’s something we should know,” Lynley began.
“He was a tosser,” Veness said. “A loser. Look, it happens, sometimes. Kid’s got something here. All’s that’s needed is climbing aboard. But sometimes they just stop coming-even Kimmo, who’s supposed to show up or he’ll be back in borstal in a wink-and I can’t get my brain round that, see. You’d think he’d grab on to anything that’d help him out of that one. But he didn’t, did he? He just stopped showing up.”
“When did he stop?”
Jack Veness thought for a moment. He took a spiral book from the middle drawer of his desk and examined the signatures that crawled down a dozen or more pages. It was, Lynley saw, a signing-in register, and when Veness replied to Lynley’s question, the date he gave for Kimmo’s final appearance at Colossus matched up with his murder, within forty-eight hours.
“Dumb fuck,” Veness said, shoving the signing-in book to one side. “Didn’t know when he was well off. Trouble is, kids can’t wait for the payoff, can they? Some kids, mind you, not all of them. They want the result but not the process that leads to the result. I expect he’s quit. Like I said, that happens.”
“He was murdered, actually,” Lynley said. “That’s why he stopped coming.”
“But you’d worked that out, hadn’t you?” Havers added. “Else why would you be talking about him in the past tense from the start? And why else would the rozzers be dropping in on you? And twice in one day because one of that lot”-as Veness himself had done, she indicated the group who were gathered outside-“must’ve told someone in here that I stopped by earlier, before you opened up.”
Veness shook his head vehemently. “I didn’t…No. No. I didn’t know.” He shot his gaze over to a doorway and a corridor off which brightly lit rooms opened. He appeared to think something over for a moment before he said, “That kid over in St. Pancras? In the gardens?”
“Bingo,” Havers said. “You’re definitely no dummy when you’re breathing, Jack.”
“That was Kimmo Thorne,” Lynley added. “His is one of five deaths we’re investigating.”
“Five? Hey now. Wait. You can’t be thinking Colossus-”
“We’re not drawing any conclusions,” Lynley said.
“Hell. Sorry, then. About what I said. Tosser and loser. Hell.” Veness picked up his sausage roll, then put it back down. He wrapped it up and returned it to its take-away bag. He said, “Some kids just drop out, see. They have a chance, but they still walk away. They go for what looks like the easy route. It’s frustrating as hell to watch.” He blew out a breath. “But damn. I’m sorry. Was it in the papers? I don’t read ’em much and-”
“Not his name at first,” Lynley said. “Just the fact of his body being found in St. George’s Gardens.” He didn’t add that chances were good to excellent that the papers were going to become full of the serial killings now: names, places, and dates as well. A young white victim had piqued the tabloids’ interest; this morning’s young black victim gave them the opportunity they needed to cover their own backsides. Mixed race, cheap news of little interest, they’d decided about the earlier killings. All that had changed with Kimmo Thorne. And now with the black boy…The tabloids were going to grab on to the opportunity to make up for lost time and overlooked responsibility.
“The death of a boy associated with Colossus brings up a number of questions,” Lynley pointed out to Jack Veness, “as you can no doubt imagine. And we’ve identified another boy who might be associated with Colossus as well. Jared Salvatore. Sound familiar?”
“Salvatore. Salvatore.” Veness mumbled the name. “No. I don’t think so. I’d remember.”
“Then we’ll need to speak to your director-”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah.” Veness surged to his feet. “You’ll want to talk to Ulrike. She runs the whole operation. Hang on, then. I’ll see…” That said, he shot off through the doorway that led to the interior of the building. He turned a corner and quickly disappeared.
Lynley looked at Havers. “Now that was interesting.”
She agreed. “We don’t even have to look for still waters in that bloke.”
“I got that impression as well.”
“So I s’pose the question is how deep’re things really running with him?” Havers asked.
Lynley reached across the desk and snagged the signing-in book that Jack had been using. He handed it to Havers.
“Salvatore?” she said.
“It’s a thought,” he replied.