The Smiling Man Read online

  ‘Alicia,’ he said to the girl. ‘I’m thinking … two Jack and Cokes.’

  There was an ice bucket with a bottle of Dom Pérignon on the table but apparently I wasn’t worth it. Alicia stood without looking at either of us. I saw that she was wearing UV contact lenses. They made her seem vacant, dead behind the eyes. The man watched her go, glowing through the crowd, before he spoke again.

  ‘Name’s Guy Russell,’ he said. ‘And you’ve got until she gets back.’ Russell was sitting facing the dance floor, and a dull red light washed across his face. I guessed it was his regular seat, a look he cultivated.

  ‘There’s a customer of yours I want to talk to.’

  ‘Yeah?’ He leaned forward, smiled into the light. I could see the seams of several, overlapping plastic surgeries. ‘What’s her name?’

  ‘His name,’ I said. ‘Ollie or Oliver.’

  ‘Don’t tell me it’s work-related?’ I nodded. His smile was like a strobe light, flicking on and off continually, and I assumed he’d snorted his dinner. ‘Ollie or Oliver, you say?’

  ‘Mid-thirties, going to fat, light red hair losing its colour.’

  ‘Not a lot to go on …’

  But I thought he was stalling. Backing away from a name he recognized.

  ‘He’s a regular,’ I said. ‘He was high-rolling it here last week.’

  He beamed at me through his lidless, unblinking eyes. ‘As you can see, I have a lot of regulars, Mr …’

  ‘Detective,’ I said. ‘Aidan Waits.’

  ‘I have a lot of regulars, Detective Waits. Most of them “high-rolling it”. Can I ask what this is about?’

  ‘No.’

  He shifted in his seat. ‘But you’re not flinging shit at Incognito?’

  ‘Who’d notice?’ I said. His smile flicked off again. He took a breath to speak but before he could, Alicia returned with our drinks. She set them before us and sat back down again. She looked like she’d stepped in from another dimension.

  ‘Sorry, mate. Time’s up, can’t help ya.’

  I didn’t move and he clicked his fingers at me.

  I leaned in. ‘Don’t act like the real thing, Guy, I’ve seen it close up.’ We glared at each other while the girl pretended to concentrate on her phone. ‘Ollie or Oliver,’ I repeated.

  ‘What do you think the most important part of this business is?’

  I looked at him. ‘The condom machine.’

  ‘I mean to me personally.’

  ‘Same answer.’

  ‘Appearances,’ he said, starting to lose patience. ‘And not just mine. Not just Alicia’s. But an appearance of understanding, discretion. Anonymity. A lot of these lads are in relationships. Married even. Would they be coming back if they thought I was passing out their card numbers?’

  ‘The man I’m looking for’s sexually harassing a teenage girl.’ Alicia stopped scrolling through her phone. ‘She was one of your customers as well.’

  ‘Look at that bar,’ said Russell. Through the dance floor I could see dozens of men, holding up cash and cards, trying to get served. ‘Teenage girls don’t pay my bills, Detective.’

  ‘You think those men are here for the music?’

  His smile flickered and finally died out. He looked at me for a moment, then picked up my untouched drink and poured it into the ice bucket.

  ‘Alicia, it looks like our friend’s dry again.’ The girl stood, taking the hint immediately. As Russell craned his neck to watch her go, I saw the fold of skin behind his ears from a facelift. It made him look as though he wore a mask that was slipping. I turned to see Alicia at the bar, talking to the doorman. ‘Eyes back in your skull, Detective.’ Russell was leaning across the table now. ‘I took a girl back last night. She’s on her knees sucking, and I do mean sucking, my fingers. Thought she was gonna dislocate ’em. And I tell her, you don’t get the rest until you’ve agreed …’

  ‘Agreed to what?’

  ‘Incognito, baby. No names. The best deal in town, and I’ve cornered the market. Y’know what? In a place where every club’s a front for one fucking thing or another, I think you just can’t take a bit of honesty.’

  ‘What is it you’re being honest about?’

  ‘That men want to screw young girls. That, guess what, young girls want to pop men. But that doesn’t suit someone who’s looking for victims, does it? Well you won’t find any here, pal. It’s a room full of people doing what they want, with who they want, when they want. The name of a guy in last week?’ He laughed. ‘Get real, and get the fuck out of my club.’

  It was my turn to smile now, and I stood up, happy at least to have seen his real face. ‘You’ve been very helpful, Mr Russell. Thanks.’ Alicia returned with a fresh Jack and Coke in hand.

  ‘Take it,’ said Russell. ‘It’s on me.’

  I accepted the drink and dumped it on his head. ‘Look at that, you’re right about everything.’ I handed the empty glass back to the stunned girl just as the doorman closed his forearm across my neck, dragging me across the dance floor by the head.

  Sutty was laughing like a drain. ‘Tried to tell ya,’ he said. ‘A dog doesn’t know what shit is unless you rub his nose in it.’ We were crossing the road back to the car.

  ‘Hey,’ someone shouted. I turned around, saw the girl, Alicia, coming towards us. ‘Who the fuck do you think you are?’

  ‘Do you collect these girls or what?’ said Sutty yawning. ‘I’ll be in my office.’

  I turned, walked into the middle of the road, met her halfway. ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘You heard. What, you go round fucking people up?’

  ‘The only thing I fucked up were his hair plugs. Have you got something to say to me?’

  She looked at me through those unreadable UV lenses. ‘A few things, actually, yeah.’

  ‘Come on,’ I said, leading her back to the pavement. ‘How old are you?’

  She thought I was asking if she was legal to drink. ‘Eighteen,’ she said, defiantly.

  ‘Well I just spoke to a girl the same age who met a scumbag here last week. All I need is the guy’s name to go and set him straight. Your friend in there thinks that’s too much to ask. Do you?’

  ‘Depends on the scumbag.’

  ‘Ollie or Oliver something.’ She didn’t move. ‘Look, if you know who I’m talking about, do me a favour. His surname, anything.’ I stepped closer to allow a group of people past us, into the club.

  She folded her arms. ‘Cartwright,’ she said quietly.

  ‘Oliver Cartwright?’ She nodded almost imperceptibly. ‘You wouldn’t happen to know where he lives?’

  ‘Do you know Imperial Point?’

  ‘The Quays?’

  She nodded. ‘Flat 1003.’

  ‘Tell me about him.’ But she’d already turned and started for the club, her arms wrapped around herself. ‘You knew,’ I said to her back. She stopped walking. ‘As soon as I said sexual harassment to Russell, you knew who I was talking about.’

  She half turned. ‘Me and Ollie were a bad match, y’know? We both liked being in control.’

  ‘Let us drop you somewhere,’ I said.

  ‘Like where?’

  ‘Like home.’

  She smiled. It was just a flicker at first, then the real thing. She ran the back of her hand over her mouth, like she was trying to wipe it off her face. I saw the hot-pink lipstick, smeared across her wrist.

  ‘This is as close as I get to it.’ When I didn’t say anything she laughed again. ‘Guy Russell’s my dad.’

  6

  The Quays were only a twenty-minute drive from Piccadilly, skirting around the city centre, and the roads were clear at this time of night.

  ‘What’s all this about?’ said Sutty.

  ‘It wouldn’t interest you.’

  ‘Suit yourself,’ he said, turning to look out the passenger-side window. ‘Just don’t drag me into it.’

  ‘Drag you into what? Doing your job?’

  ‘Whatever it is,’ he sa
id. ‘You and those fucking girls again. Last year not enough for ya?’

  ‘If anyone can turn a blind eye, it’s you, Sutts. You’ve got two of them.’ He shot me a look but didn’t say anything else, and we drove the rest of the way in silence.

  It was around 12.30 a.m. when we arrived at the Quays. Formerly the site of the city docks, a port on a busy stretch of the Manchester shipping canal, they’d fallen into ruin when the industry went abroad. In the eighties the boomers had swept in and redeveloped everything into half a billion pounds’ worth of shiny, ultra-modern high- and low-rises, glittering out on to the water. The buildings were uniformly steel and reflective, jutting out from the ground at crazy angles like enormous shards of anti-climbing glass. The architecture, and the economic reality of the people living in it, made for an uncomfortable fit with a lot of the city’s down-at-heel housing.

  I got out of the car and went for the building’s entrance. When I looked back at Sutty he was already running a wet wipe along the steering wheel.

  Imperial Point had been the first high-rise here, and still stood tallest. The tower had a slanting, asymmetric shape. It looked like the visual expression of a slumping stock market. Unlike Owens Park the streets and the buildings were quiet, and I felt no pull from my personal history. I’d only ever visited the area to break up domestic disturbances. There were either some especially thin walls here, or some especially unhappy people.

  I found the entrance, rang the bell and explained myself to the bleary-eyed doorman. He’d been wedged in behind a desk and I got the feeling that I’d woken him.

  ‘I can take you up …’ He was tucking his shirt in.

  ‘I’ll manage,’ I said, already going for the lift.

  I stepped out on to the tenth floor, felt the quality of the valeted carpet underfoot. Air conditioners hummed overhead and the walls, when I touched them, were like blocks of ice. Automatic lights came on as I passed beneath, dimming again once I was out of their range. The corridors were quiet, still and identical. I got turned around once or twice but eventually found 1003. There was a peephole set into the door and I had the sensation of being watched. Before I could knock, it opened a couple of inches on the chain, and I saw a man squinting out at me.

  ‘Ollie Cartwright?’

  He considered me for a moment. ‘And you are?’

  ‘Detective Constable Aidan Waits.’

  ‘It’s the middle of the night, Detective Constable. What’s this about?’

  ‘Perhaps we’d be quieter inside?’

  He looked at me.

  I looked back at him.

  He closed the door and I heard him taking the chain off. When he opened it again he spoke to me through literally gritted teeth.

  ‘Right this way.’

  I went in, past some hung-up jackets, noting a well-worn denim one that stood out against his shoulder-padded blazers. I went into the beige-grey living room. The furniture was brand new and there was a TV on the far wall that was bigger than the front door. There was an upright hard-shell flight case beside it. I sat down, felt the chill of the air conditioning. In the corners of the mirrored coffee table, I thought I could see powder residue.

  Oh, happy day.

  Cartwright stood in the doorway watching me. Trying to look like he meant business in his monogrammed dressing gown. He was a big man, older than I was, somewhere in his mid-to-late thirties, as Sophie had said. His hair was thinning and his cheeks were two fleshy pouches hanging off a red, booze-tanned face. I felt a twist of jealousy that the girl I’d spoken to earlier had actually spent a night with this man, and I decided to take it out on him.

  ‘Take a seat,’ I said. As he crossed the room I saw he was wearing flip-flops, that he dragged them across the floor when he walked. I closed my eyes for a moment then opened them again.

  Cartwright collapsed into the chair opposite. ‘What’s this about?’

  ‘I want you to tell me that.’

  He glared at me, radiating annoyance.

  ‘I’ll wait, then.’ As I said it, I felt my phone vibrate in my pocket. I ignored it. ‘Tell me about yourself.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Full name, job description …’

  ‘Not a big TV watcher?’

  ‘Are you more annoyed that I woke you up or that I don’t know who you are?’

  ‘Badge first,’ he said with a sniff. I passed it over. Watched him memorize my name before handing it back. He gave me a meaningless, bland smile. It did look familiar.

  ‘Name’s Oliver Cartwright. I’m a commentator for Lolitics.’ His inflection went up at the end of the sentence like it was a question. It was a name I associated with vengeful, right-wing web journalism. The odd talking-head appearance on TV that always meant it was time to change the channel.

  ‘I’ll look out for it. What’s the luggage about?’

  ‘Dubai on Tuesday.’

  ‘Business?’

  ‘Stag week …’

  ‘You’re single?’

  ‘Yeah, look this is harassment—’

  ‘Harassment. I’m glad you brought that up.’ He started to respond but thought better of it. ‘What’s your social life like, Ollie? Where do you drink?’

  ‘Wherever they serve it. Something wrong with that?’

  ‘Ever get along to Incognito?’ He sat back, uncomfortable. ‘You might lie for a living, but remember you’re breaking the law when you do it to a police officer.’

  He smiled at me. He looked like a man checking for food in his teeth. ‘I haven’t lied, Detective.’

  ‘You know why I’m here. There’s a girl’s jacket hanging up in the hallway. Somehow I don’t think you’ve got the shoulders for it …’

  ‘Oh, classic,’ he said, watching me through half-open eyes. ‘She has a one-night stand and it turns into rape a week later.’

  ‘What makes you think that?’

  ‘These girls fall off the fucking assembly line unable to live with themselves. Any instinct they follow’s just something new to regret the next day. And she was well up for it, if that’s what you’re asking.’

  ‘Difficult thing to prove,’ I said. ‘And we have to take these things seriously …’

  He smiled again, almost as though it were him interviewing me. ‘I can prove it, actually.’

  Somehow I was surprised when he shrugged, took his phone from his dressing-gown pocket and started scrolling. I hadn’t thought he was stupid enough to volunteer the video himself. He smiled when he found the file he was after and handed it to me. The still image was of Sophie. I pressed play and breathy sounds filled the room. The video showed the girl, flat on the bed as Ollie laboured on top of her. The expression on his face was priceless. He couldn’t believe his luck, either.

  ‘Looks like a pretty satisfied customer, wouldn’t you say?’ There was a leer creeping out from the corners of his lips. I felt like slapping it off his face. I stopped the video, erased it, then went to his deleted items and cleared that, too. He snatched for the phone but I moved it in time.

  ‘Is that the only copy?’

  ‘Yeah, you—’

  ‘Sit down, Ollie.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Sit down.’ Hesitantly, he did. ‘OK, tonight’s main story.’ He rolled his eyes. ‘I don’t believe that this is the only copy.’

  ‘I don’t give a shit what you believe,’ he said, re-folding his arms. I looked at him for a moment then ran my middle finger along the corners of the coffee table, holding the powder residue up to him.

  ‘Think you can make me believe this is dandruff?’ He blushed. ‘I don’t believe it’s the only copy,’ I repeated. I felt my phone vibrating in my pocket again. ‘So we’ll have a look at your computer. Once we’ve deleted it from there, I’m going to go and you won’t hear from me again.’ I looked at him. ‘Sophie won’t hear from you again, either. Will she?’

  ‘No,’ he said, holding eye contact. He took me through to his study and showed me the files saved on his co
mputer. We trawled through various video images but none saved in the last week. My phone was vibrating again and I looked at the screen. Sutty.

  ‘Excuse me,’ I said, stepping into the next room to answer it.

  ‘You moving into one of these fucking flats or what?’

  ‘I’ll be five—’

  ‘We’ve got a job. You’ll be at the main entrance in sixty seconds or you’ll be walking.’

  He hung up and I went back into the study.

  Cartwright looked at me. ‘I’m telling you that was the only copy.’

  I didn’t believe him but the fear seemed real enough.

  ‘Fine,’ I said, walking back through the living room towards the front door. ‘But if you’re lying to me you’ll be making your next sex-tape in prison.’ In the hall I stopped for Sophie’s jacket and unhooked it. ‘And I’m taking this with me,’ I said, holding it up.

  ‘Good riddance.’

  ‘You’re getting off light, Ollie. Have a nice life.’

  I could feel my heart beating when I got back to the car. Sutty was standing beside it, leaning on the roof. He was squinting into his phone, trying to type a text message with the knuckle of his index finger.

  He looked up when he saw me coming. ‘Oh, finally …’

  ‘Everything OK?’

  ‘Reported break-in, Palace Hotel.’

  I climbed into the car and started up. Felt Sutty’s slick disinfectant on the steering wheel again. ‘Why can’t uniform catch it?’

  ‘It’s money,’ he said. He looked at the girl’s jacket I’d thrown on to the back seat. ‘Don’t even tell me what that’s about.’

  7

  The Palace is an enormous Victorian redbrick on the corner of Oxford Road and Whitworth. It sits opposite the Grand Central and the Thirsty Scholar, with the Black Dog Ball Room around the corner. I could see the clock tower, two hundred feet above us, commanding the skyline. There had been nights when I’d gotten so drunk and so lost that I’d used that tower like a lighthouse. In the bad old days I’d even stayed at the hotel once or twice, sometimes with girls I’d just met, sometimes when it was too late to even try and get home. I’d thought it was a shame when it was shut down. Renovation implied change, and the Palace was heritage, one of those rare things in life that should stay the same. It had been a while since the doors closed, and I’d read nothing in the press about them reopening. As we got closer I saw that even the clock tower, something I’d always relied on, was telling the wrong time.