Chapter Four

‘Anything?’ Matthew asked, praying that the scrapings from the underside of Brianna’s fingernails might have produced something: blood not belonging to the victim, a particle of skin. Anything.

Glancing apologetically over her mask, Nicky shook her head.

Matthew blew out a frustrated sigh, anger mounting inside him. How? Surely there had to be something?

‘Nothing on the clothes?’ he asked, hoping there might be something there, a hair, a fibre of clothing, body fluids.

‘Nothing substantial.’ The pathologist sighed in turn, probably as frustrated as he felt.

‘Was she sexually assaulted?’ Matthew asked, a taut band of tension tightening between his temples.

‘There’s not much in the way of defensive wounding, but—’

‘Because she was probably too shit-scared to defend herself,’ Matthew cut in furiously.

Nicky’s eyes flicked worriedly to his. ‘She did have sexual intercourse,’ she went on as Matthew tugged agitatedly at his shirt collar. ‘There’s also evidence of bruising so, at this stage, I would say there’s a high probability of rape, yes.’

Matthew nodded slowly. Counting silently in an attempt to quell his temper, he fixed his gaze on a skeletal guide on the opposite wall. ‘Is the cause of death confirmed?’ he asked, his jaw clenching.

‘Definitely asphyxiation.’ Nicky indicated the dark brown ligature marks around the girl’s neck. ‘With a tie, probably.’

‘No DNA there then either?’ Matthew sighed. He wondered why he’d bothered harbouring the hope that there might have been a sample of skin left behind.

‘Sorry.’ Nicky shrugged, as if that too were a foregone conclusion.

Unbelievable. Matthew shook his head incredulously. He was beginning to wonder if Sullivan hadn’t worn the same protective clothing the SOCOs wore. If it was Sullivan, which Matthew’s every instinct was screaming at him it was, even though they had nothing to go on. Matthew struggled to comprehend it. Not even a footprint? The SOCOs were still on it, meticulously combing the crime scene for signs of trace evidence, but short of coming up with a conveniently discarded spliff end with Sullivan’s prints and saliva on it, they had absolutely nothing.

‘Time of death?’ Despondently he asked for confirmation there, too. As if it would make any difference. Sullivan would have a cast-iron alibi whatever time it was.

‘Well, I can’t be precise but judging by rigor and post-mortem hypostasis,’ Nicky glanced at her notes, ‘I’d say around two a.m. or thereabouts.’

Sighing again, heavily, Matthew nodded his thanks and left Nicky to finish her job, while he went off to establish Sullivan’s whereabouts at two a.m. No doubt he’ll have been tucked up in bed with his wife, which, of course, his wife would confirm, claiming she went to the bathroom at precisely one minute past two, noticing the time on the digital alarm clock as she did. God, he could use a drink. Checking his watch, Matthew decided that, however soothing to the nerves it might be, a double brandy at four o’clock in the afternoon wasn’t such a good idea. How, he considered, as he made his way to his car, did people like Sullivan ever sleep with their conscience?

Patrick Sullivan pressed his hand to the back of the girl’s neck, holding her down. Finishing the business he’d come to attend to, he released her, sorted himself out, and zipped up.

‘See how easy it is, Natalie?’ he enquired, almost pleasantly.

Choking back a sob, Natalie got shakily to her feet, wiped her hand under her nose and tugged her skirt down, attempting to make herself decent.

She’d be hard pushed to do that. Patrick noted the ladder up the back of the hold-up stockings she was wearing and her scuffed heels, which did nothing for him. Did the girl not realise that shoes were supposed to be an adornment to her legs, a turn-on? How were they going to do that when they looked as if they belonged in the bloody charity shop? Sighing despairingly, he headed to the bathroom.

‘You have rent to pay, sweetheart,’ he called back, checking his nose for stray hairs as he washed his hands. ‘Now get your act together and get your arse out there.’

‘But Patrick …’ the girl implored tearfully.

Patrick’s sigh was agitated now. Shaking his hands dry, he came back into the lounge area of the apartment.

‘But what?’ he asked impatiently.

Natalie blinked at him beseechingly. ‘I still don’t feel well, Pat. I …’ Noting his uncompromising expression, she trailed off, biting worriedly down on her bottom lip.

‘Mr Sullivan,’ Patrick corrected her stonily.

Shrinking back, Natalie nodded hurriedly and glanced down.

‘You’ve had an abortion,’ Patrick informed her impassively. ‘Not given birth to bleeding triplets. And that was weeks ago. Now sort yourself out.’

The girl nodded again, not too keen, Patrick noted.

He was getting seriously annoyed now, wasting valuable time when he had more pressing things to attend to at the club; Tony Hayes, for one, whose drugs consignment had gone astray and who was now putting the pressure on him to return the money he’d fronted for his share of the goods. As if he could pluck fifty odd grand out of fresh air. Tosser, coming around to his club, humiliating him in front of his employees, threatening him. Recalling what those threats were Patrick felt his stomach drop to the level of the body parts he would definitely be parted with if he didn’t pay his debt. Now, on top of that, this silly slag thinks she can take liberties? No, not happening, sweetheart. He needed her out on the streets.

‘Are you hearing me, Natalie?’ He walked across to her and clutched her face in his hand, his fingers digging hard into her cheeks.

Patrick noted Natalie’s puckered-up mouth, as she attempted a more fervent nod, and curled a lip. Like a bloody sow’s arse, he thought wearily. How old was she now? Nineteen? Twenty, he made the calculation, and already well on the way to being past it.

‘Tonight, Natalie,’ he said. Then, loosening his hold, he turned away to retrieve his cashmere overcoat, which he’d folded carefully over the back of the sofa.

‘And smarten yourself up. That’s my reputation on the line out there. Don’t ever forget it.’

Looking her derisorily up and down, he fed his arm leisurely into his coat, pulled it on, and sauntered across to the mirror to check his reflection. Not bad, Patrick, my old son, he assured himself, admiring his dark good looks as he straightened his tie and smoothed down his hair, which was still all his own. Thank God, he thought, checking his shirt cuffs were aligned correctly with his coat sleeves. He’d been dreading starting to lose it at thirty like his old man had. Patrick worked hard at maintaining his image, but he drew the line at wearing a bleeding falsie. The old man looked like a twat. One of these days, Patrick would take great pleasure in telling him that.

‘Comprendre?’ he asked, turning back to Natalie to fix her with an icy glare.

Natalie nodded again, more readily this time.

‘Good.’ Patrick dragged his gaze away and headed for the door, reasonably satisfied.

He’d already given her three weeks’ grace and still she wasn’t back on the job. She’d been pushing her luck, thinking she was special because he’d moved her into one of his more upmarket pads. Well, she wasn’t. None of them were.

‘Don’t treat me like an idiot, Natalie.’ Reminded again of the degradation he’d suffered at the hands of Tony Hayes, the excruciatingly painful degradation he would suffer if he didn’t come up with the dosh, he glanced meaningfully at her over his shoulder.

‘I won’t.’ She smiled tremulously. ‘Pat …’ she said as he reached for the door. ‘Mr Sullivan,’ she corrected herself quickly, ‘do you think you could, you know, let me have something?’

Patrick stopped in his tracks and turned to stare at her, now truly dumbfounded. She really was taking the proverbial, wasn’t she?

Natalie chewed doggedly on a nail. ‘Just to keep me going.’

Shaking his head disdainfully, Patrick looked down to pluck a microscopic piece of fluff from his lapel.

‘I’ll make it up, Pat, I swear.’

Patrick looked back up, his eyes narrowed as he studied her, wondering how she actually had the gall to ask him for drugs. For free? When she’d been sitting on her arse watching telly instead of working? He was astounded. He really was.

Natalie gulped back hard; she’d clearly noted the look.

‘I’ve been sick, Pat, honest, I have, but I’ll be back on my game tonight, honest I will. You’ll get your money, I swear.’

Patrick massaged his neck, the mother of all migraines threatening. I should shove her out now, he thought, attempting to keep a lid on the fury bubbling inside him. Move her to one of the shithole bedsits reserved for drug-addled tarts on their way down. That’d teach her a lesson.

‘Are you having a laugh, Natalie?’ he asked quietly, then lifted his right hand and circled the palm of it slowly with the thumb of his left.

‘No!’ she refuted, panic fleeting across her features as her eyes shot from his face to his hands and back. ‘I wouldn’t, Mr Sullivan. You know I wouldn’t. You’ve been good to me.’ She hesitated, swallowing again, as Patrick studied her mutely. ‘I lost my confidence, that’s all. I’m good now. I’ll make it up, Pat. You know I will.’

She stopped and waited, her expression telling him she knew this could go either way.

Nah, he’d leave her be, for now, Patrick decided, in a rare moment of extreme generosity. She was good when she was on her game, brought in a tidy wad normally. One more chance he’d give her. Just one, no one could call him heartless, after all. Slowly, he reached into his inside pocket.

Natalie closed her eyes, wilting with relief when Patrick drew out the contents.

‘Here,’ he said, holding out a twist of crack cocaine. ‘That’s top stuff, Natalie,’ he said as the girl took a tentative step towards him.

‘Thanks, Pat.’ She smiled and reached greedily for her fix.

‘My pleasure.’ Patrick caught hold of her wrist, as she made a grab for the package, and yanked her towards him. ‘Make sure you deliver, Natalie, do you hear me,’ he pushed his face up close to hers, ‘unless you want Mummy and Daddy to know how you pay your rent.’

‘I will!’ Natalie locked panic-struck eyes on his. ‘I promise. Ouch! Pat …’ She squirmed in his grasp. ‘… you’re hurting.’

‘You’d better, Natalie,’ he snarled, twisting her wrist cruelly. ‘Or you won’t be sitting pretty. Trust me, you take liberties one more time and you won’t even be breathing.’

With which Patrick shoved her away hard. ‘I’ll be back tomorrow. You’d better have something for me, Natalie. I’m warning you.’

Tossing his offering at her, Patrick eyeballed her menacingly, and then turned to stroll to the door, leaving the girl sprawled on the floor.

Is it worth the bloody effort, he asked himself, reaching back into his pocket for his nail file as he waited for the lift, and then working to free a speck of dirt from under his index nail. Tarts: ungrateful, the lot of them. Rolling his shoulders, Patrick attempted to loosen his knotted muscles. He worked his backside off for them. Made sure they had decent digs. He watched their backs, beat the crap out of anyone who slapped them around. And did they appreciate it? No. Nothing but grief, thinking they could pull a fast one. Taking the odd day’s sicky, he’d tolerate, occasionally, depending on reasons why. Taking the proverbial he wouldn’t, end of.

And then they had the cheek to threaten him, Patrick Sullivan, with telling tales to the police? Detective Inspector bloody Adams, of all people. The man responsible for the death of his brother. And he was. Some rookie little runt on the drugs squad might have got trigger happy, but Adams had busted the club, yet again. Thanks to his contacts, Patrick had got wind of it, got word out to Joe to make sure the place was as clean as a whistle. They hadn’t found so much as an aspirin. And still Joe had got shot. ‘Unfortunate casualty,’ Adams had said. Unsympathetic bastard. He’d bet he’d just loved it, hurting him where it hurt most.

Adams was responsible for the shedload of heroin that had now gone missing too, Patrick’s reputation being rubbished, his livelihood threatened – one word from Hayes and Patrick’s contacts would fade away. His life being threatened. The stress Patrick was under, the headaches, it was all down to Detective Inspector determined-to-get-him-banged-up-again Adams. The spineless little shit was obsessed, nursing a grudge that went way back.

Patrick pressed his forefingers to his temple, his migraine now well on the way to being a full blown one as his mind shot back fifteen years, his old man knocking the living daylights out of him because he’d kicked Adams around a few times. Not because he gave a damn about Adams; as far as the great Michael Sullivan, big shot bullying bastard and drugs kingpin was concerned, the copper’s son could have been found floating face down in the canal. No, what irked his old man was that Patrick had been dumb-fuck enough to cause the filth to come sniffing around.

He’d called him dumb-fuck a lot when he was a kid, hammered it home with each blow. Patrick was a complete eejit, a disappointment since the day he’d been born, he’d reminded him, often. Unlike Adams, of course, the straight A grade goody-two shoes copper’s son. Attempting to quell the humiliation, which washed over him afresh every time Adams popped up to remind him of his past, Patrick re-straightened his tie, and tugged down his shirt cuffs.

No one dared call him stupid nowadays. Not even the old man, since it had occurred to him that Patrick was big enough to take him on. No one treated Patrick with disrespect. Not any more. Pocketing his file, he rolled his shoulders again, and stepped into the lift. His head was going to explode soon and spill his brains, he would swear. He could do without having to see Hayes this afternoon. He’d no choice, though. If he was going to keep his tackle intact, Patrick needed to buy some more time while he found out who’d diverted the drugs supply to line their own thieving pockets when Adams had alerted Customs to the transaction about to take place. Whoever it was would be desperate to cough up the cash now owed to Hayes by the time Patrick had finished with him. Once he’d met with Hayes, he needed to get home. Wash the grime off. Do a few lengths of his heated pool and relax. Never mix business with pleasure was Patrick’s motto. His home was sacrosanct, away from all this.

Dripping wet, which didn’t help his mood much, Patrick shrugged out of his overcoat as he came into the foyer of Seventh Heaven. ‘Is he here?’ he asked warily, handing the coat to one of his bouncers.

‘Watching the show.’

The bouncer knew who he meant – Tony Hayes commanding respect wherever he went – and nodded towards the main lounge area. The man was built, his dinner jacket straining across his bodybuilder chest, but his expression was one of trepidation nevertheless.

Swallowing throatily, Patrick tried not to break out in a too obvious sweat.

‘Right.’ He nodded, feeling an unpleasant queasiness gut-level. Knowing there was no avoiding the meet, though, and preferring it to be on his own turf, Patrick realigned his cuffs, braced himself, and went on through towards Hayes and his two henchmen, who were perched on stools at a table one of the pole-dancers was performing on.

Patrick looked across approvingly as the girl writhed and gyrated, as if making love to her pole, finally squatting to give Hayes an abundant eyeful. Thank God some of them knew what the punters wanted. Considerably relieved that the man had been adequately entertained while he waited, Patrick walked across to him, attempting to keep his stride purposeful, despite his distinctly shaky legs.

‘Tony.’ He fixed his smile in place and extended a hand. ‘How’s business?’

Ignoring the hand Patrick offered him, Hayes, a short, stocky, heavy-jowled man, gave him a cursory glance, and then turned his attention back to the girl.

‘Nice,’ he observed, looking her appreciatively over.

Patrick did likewise, more than happy to distract Hayes from business with pleasure. She wasn’t bad, he had to admit: lithe and tanned, blonde hair down to her bum. The ankle bracelets were a nice touch. He took in the sequined ankle bands she was wearing along with her black sequined thong. It was the stilettos that did it for Patrick though: six-inch heels on long shapely legs. You could keep the rest as far as Patrick was concerned.

Rewarding the girl with two crisp twenty pound notes, folded and appropriately placed, Hayes reached for his whisky and took a leisurely sip.

‘I like what you’ve done with the place.’ He glanced around, taking in the vintage plum coloured walls, rich mahogany woodwork and gilt-edged mirrors – French, nineteenth century, Louis XVI style, which had set Patrick back a bob or two. But then, needs must if you wanted to attract the right clientele. The place had looked like a sleaze-pit in his old man’s day. Even Patrick couldn’t blame the town council for trying to shut them down.

‘Another drink, Tony?’ he offered. Desperate to keep him sweet, he nodded at a passing waitress, indicating the man’s glass needed topping up. Hayes was here for information, but Patrick was guessing it wasn’t the name of his interior decorator he came for.

Hayes, though, didn’t want another drink, it seemed. Placing his hand over his glass as the waitress attempted to pour, he pushed himself away from the table and got to his feet, the two heavies at his side immediately shadowing him. ‘I have a prior engagement,’ he said, turning to face Patrick.

Standing a good few inches taller than Patrick’s five-eight, both of his henchmen looked like pro wrestlers who would enjoy taking him apart, limb from limb. Patrick gulped back a knot in his throat, and hoped the perspiration popping out on his forehead wasn’t too obvious.

‘You have something for me, I hope?’ Hayes’ tone was impassive, his expression bland, belying the ruthless bastard he was underneath.

Patrick felt perspiration now wetting his armpits.

‘I’m working on it, Tony,’ he assured him shakily. ‘I have an idea who was involved and I—’

‘Ideas don’t pay the bills, Patrick, do they?’ Hayes interrupted flatly. ‘I’ll give you another week,’ he said, and smiled, the look in his arctic-blue eyes deceptively amiable.

His throat suddenly too parched to speak, Patrick gulped again, hard.

‘After that, we start seizing goods to recoup our losses,’ Hayes casually examined his well-manicured nails, before looking pointedly back at him. ‘Starting with your balls.’

Sickening apprehension immediately squeezing his pelvis in that particular area, Patrick searched for a way to stall but came up with nothing.

‘I, er, think I might need a little more time than a week, Tony,’ he tried, wishing he’d taken the conversation through to the office, where his humiliation wouldn’t be overheard, particularly by his father, who’d stumbled across from the bar to take a ringside seat. Patrick kneaded the back of his neck, fury and shame vying inside him as he glanced across to see the uncaring old bastard eyeing him with the same supercilious contempt he usually did. ‘I’ve got people on it as we speak.’ He kept his focus on Hayes, for fear of giving in to the urge to wipe the smirk off his old man’s face once and for all. ‘But—’

‘Seven days, Sullivan.’ Hayes stepped past him, his two heavies moving simultaneously with him, both of whom would think nothing of taking Patrick outside and biting his ears off by way of subtle indication of what might come next.

‘I don’t care how you do it,’ Hayes imparted, over his shoulder. ‘Burn your poxy club to the ground if you have to and claim on the insurance. I don’t give a toss. I just want my money. If you want to keep hold of any part of your tackle, sort it.’

With which Hayes headed towards the exit, cueing his henchmen to follow.

Neanderthals, Patrick thought bitterly, swiping a trail of sweat from his cheek with the back of his hand. Then he drew his shoulders up, lest anyone notice he was rattled, and headed for the bar. He needed a drink. He needed several.

‘Gin,’ he snapped, indicating the barman to get his arse over to him pronto. ‘Make it a large one.’

‘Ice and a slice, Mr Sullivan?’ the barman enquired pleasantly.

‘No, I do not want ice and a fucking slice! Do I look gay, or what?’ Patrick glared at the kid, a university grad. God help the state of the country. Patrick eyed the two-fingers of gin he was offered despairingly. The idiot wasn’t even capable of serving up a decent drink.

‘I said large,’ he seethed, slamming the glass back down and turning to walk around the bar. ‘Christ Al-bloody-mighty, do I have to do everything my—’

Patrick stopped as he heard a distinct sneer from the table his father was sitting at. Clearly, having enjoyed seeing him being intimidated in front of everyone, his father was about to revel in his humiliation.

‘Patrick.’ His father raised his glass, as Patrick looked up at him, loathing for the man who’d taken pleasure in putting him down since he was knee high burning deep in his veins. ‘Well done, me boy. Couldn’t have done better meself. Hayes will be quaking in his designer loafers, so he will.’ Taking a drink, his father wiped a hand over his mouth and looked back to Patrick, that quiet look of triumph now in his eyes Patrick had come to detest most of all.

‘You’d better make that your last,’ Patrick warned him, his temper simmering steadily inside him.

‘My last, my ever-lovin’ shon, will be when I’ve finished drinking.’ His father slurred, one eye closed and the other unfocussed, as he pointed his now empty glass in Patrick’s direction. ‘It might pay you, meanwhile, to concentrate on keeping your balls – and my club! Losing a drugs stash? Funded by Tony Hayes? Your reputation will be shite, sonny boy. Hayes will put the word out you’re in the filth’s pay and take your clientele before you can blink. Dumb-fuck useless eejit, disappointment since the day you were born.’

Looking him derisorily over, his father dragged his gaze away. ‘Lucy!’ he shouted, clicking his fingers and waving his empty bottle, indicating that one of the dancers should bring him another. Seething, Patrick watched on, as the alcohol-soaked old man openly leered at the girl, who sashayed across willingly enough, bottle in hand and a smile glued to her face. The look in her eyes as she glanced at Patrick, though, told her she didn’t want Michael Sullivan’s sweaty wet paws all over her and his whisky-laden breath in her face.

‘Come here, my little temptress.’ His old man slapped his knee, and then reached a hand around the girl, squeezing her backside demonstratively. ‘Dance for me, darlin’,’ he growled. ‘Shove those tempting ripe breasts in me face and let me die a happy man.’

‘Patrick?’ Lucy checked with him.

‘Ah, don’t be takin’ your orders from him, me darlin’,’ his father intervened before Patrick had a chance to acknowledge her one way or the other. ‘Yer better off taking your orders from a real man, so yer are.’

Feeling emasculated, more embarrassed than he’d ever been in his life and utterly repulsed, as the old man yanked the girl close and buried his face in her cleavage, his hairpiece skewing on his bald head as he did, Patrick turned away. Picking up his glass, he clutched it tight, attempting to maintain his composure, and then slammed it furiously back down, smashing it and slicing through his thumb in the process.

Bastard! Fuming steadily now, Patrick was about to signal the idiot barman when a crash behind him signalled his old man was on his way out back, stumbling over stools, and cursing liberally as he went.

Patrick turned to watch his progress. He really ought to go with him, he contemplated, sucking a salty globule of blood from his thumb. Have a quiet word and point out to the dumb-fuck eejit who was really running things around here.

Adjusting her bra-top and looking somewhere between grim and flustered, Lucy eyed him worriedly, as Patrick pushed himself away from the bar. ‘He wants me to take him another bottle. Should I?’ she asked.

Obviously, the mighty Michael Sullivan intended to make use of the office with Lucy after he’d made use of the urinal, as if he was capable of successfully doing either.

‘No,’ Patrick assured her, gesturing her to put her abundant assets to better use elsewhere. ‘I’ll do it.’

Going back around the bar, he debated and then selected a bottle of Jameson original Irish whiskey. His father normally only ever drank Gold Reserve, but Patrick doubted he’d be savouring the taste of it tonight.