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  “Oh dear, Gina,” he said to himself. “One more blot on your copybook.”

  He walked slowly back towards Corrine.

  “Sad to report,” he said, “but my mate’s been taken sick. We can’t have that table tonight after all.”

  “See,” she said, shrugging. “I told you it weren’t safe to eat in there.”

  Despite himself, Rivett found himself laughing. Heard himself asking her: “Well, what would you like to do instead?”

  Corrine cocked her head to one side. “Hmmm,” she considered. “Well, I did used to like going up the Leisure Beach,” her eyes drifted in the direction of the brightly lit turrets and towers, the spinning wheels going round. “But,” she screwed her nose up, looked back at him, “I’ve gone off it. I think, what I’d most like to do now is … Get a big bag of donuts and then go play on the ’musies.”

  Her face lit up expectantly. For the life of him, and for all the experience he had of those that were quite capable of doing such things, Rivett could not imagine her hurting Edna’s dog. “All right, Corrine,” he said, taking his car keys out of his pocket, “you show me your favourite ones.”

  * * *

  He took her down to The Mint, bought her five ring donuts for a pound and a can of Coke, watched her guzzle down the lot like she’d never been fed before. Then he changed a couple of quid at the entrance of the amusement arcade, dropped the coins in her hand and followed her to her favourite machine.

  Corrine couldn’t believe her luck as she pushed the pennies into the slot. She was on a high – from the sugar, from the fact that Uncle Len was so nice and now, because she had finally got all the way to Level Three of Pac-Man – something that, despite all her practice, she’d never achieved in her life before.

  “Uncle Len!” she whooped delightedly. “Look at this, Uncle Len!”

  She turned around to show him. The smile fell from her face, to be replaced by a frown, as she searched around the machines for a man in a sheepskin coat and a trilby. The machines whooped and trilled, oblivious. Uncle Len had gone.

  * * *

  “Yeah?” Gina lent against the doorframe, looking tired, looking bored. She’d been letting herself go, Rivett noted. Her perfect skin was blotchy, her face bloated from drinking too much and sleeping not enough. Her once shiny raven’s mane looked dull and unwashed. “Something else you want?”

  “She weren’t no good,” said Rivett.

  “What?” Gina frowned. The bourbon was strong on her breath. Rivett pushed past her into the hallway and shut the front door on the street outside.

  “Your little Corrine,” said Rivett, “in’t no use to me. My partner din’t want to use her.”

  Gina shrugged, a slothful mirror of her daughter’s favourite gesture.

  “So?” she said. Her black eyes were out of focus.

  “So you wasted my time,” said Rivett. “Wasted my partner’s time and all. Which all mean, it’s not looking good for you again, Gina. And so soon …”

  Gina exhaled a stream of smoke in his face. “D’you know what?” she said. “I really couldn’t give a fuck.” She opened her arms theatrically, stumbling as she did so, having to catch herself against the wall. “You want to fuck me? Fuck me. You want to beat me up? Beat me up. Whatever you like. It’s nothing I in’t took before. Just get it over with.”

  Rivett looked at her in disgust. “Where’s the rest of your wares?” he said.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” said Gina.

  Rivett shook his head, left her in the hallway and went upstairs. Noticing lights glimmering in the front bedroom, he stepped inside.

  “What the …?” His eyes travelled around Corrine’s pink plastic altar, the candles almost burnt out now, wax congealing over the side of the bowls and dripping onto the velvet scarf. He moved in closer, trying to puzzle out what he was seeing. Picked up the black book in the centre of the dressing table. The Goetia, he read, The Lesser Key of Solomon the King, Clavicula Salomonis Regis.

  He looked around at the rest of the room. The single bed and the ill-fitting curtains, the cheap nylon carpet. The pictures of over-made-up pop stars taped onto the lurid ’70s wallpaper. This was Corrine’s room.

  “I wouldn’t touch that, if I was you.” Gina stood in the doorway. “That’s Corrine’s black magic altar. Woooo!” She gave a scornful, drunken chuckle, then seemed to reconsider her words. “Still,” she said, her eyebrows raising, “it seem to have worked for her all right tonight, don’t it?”

  Rivett put the book back down where he’d found it.

  The candlelight flickered and then guttered out.

  “So why din’t your partner like Corrine then?” Gina taunted. “Thought you said he liked ’em young. Too ugly for him, was she?” She shook her head. “Don’t surprise me, really.”

  “You’re feeling brave now, Gina,” said Rivett. “But that’ll wear off when the skag do and you find you in’t got nothing left to play with.”

  “Yeah,” said Gina, “you’re probably right. But while I still am feeling brave, and before you beat the shit out of me or whatever you intend to do next, I think you should know one thing.”

  “I in’t really interested,” said Rivett, walking towards her.

  “You should be,” said Gina, “it’s about Corrine. The reason she don’t look like much, in’t got too much up there neither,” she tapped her index finger against the side of her head. “It’s sad really. It’s ’cos she take after her father.”

  Rivett caught hold of her wrist.

  “The amount of scumbags you’ve entertained in your time, why should that surprise me?” he said.

  A mad light came back on in Gina’s eyes as his grip tightened.

  “Because she belong to the biggest scumbag of the lot of ’em,” she said. “You.”

  33

  My Kingdom

  March 2003

  Noj pushed open the front door of Swing’s and walked into a wall of noise. Metallic guitars screeched against a barrage of drums, vocals a guttural roar over the top of it. Pushing her way past a couple of students, she leant across the bar, shouted at the landlord’s back. “Marc!”

  Laughing with a customer, he didn’t seem to hear her. “Marc!” In frustration, her voice reached several decibels higher than the emo blare. Farman span around, his attention finally caught. “Marc,” Noj leaned across the bar, “that policeman hasn’t been in tonight, has he?”

  “What?” said Marc. “Sean Ward? No, he ain’t, I’m afraid. Why, what you after him for?”

  “Something very important,” said Noj, “I haven’t time to explain. But if he does come in, get him to call me straight away – on my mobile, yeah? And don’t let him leave.”

  * * *

  “Hello again, Mr Pearson,” said Sean. “Francesca did leave me a message. She’s doing an interview, said she’d be finished about half an hour to an hour’s time,” he looked back down at the dashboard clock.

  “Oh, right,” Mr Pearson sounded doubtful. “So she should be home by eight, then.”

  “Sounds like it,” said Sean, with a confidence he didn’t feel.

  “Yeah, well, I think I’d better go and let the dogs out before they tear the house down.”

  “All right, Mr Pearson. I’ll let you know if I hear anything more from her,” said Sean, hanging up. Immediately, his phone went off again.

  “There you are at last!” Noj’s voice shrilled in his ear.

  “Noj,” said Sean. “I only just got your message. I was going to come and meet you, but something’s just come up, something important …”

  “Nothing’s more important than what I’ve got to tell you,” said Noj.

  “It is at the moment, I’m afraid.” Sean’s thumb hovered over the cut-off button.

  “Rivett,” said Noj, “is with your journalist friend right now. What do you think of that?”

  “What?” Sean flicked his thumb back. “Where are they?”

  “Where are
you?” countered Noj.

  “Outside the station,” said Sean. “Don’t fuck me about Noj, where are they?”

  “Pick me up outside Swing’s,” she said. “I’ll take you straight to them.”

  “I’ll be right there,” Sean cut the call and started the engine. As he drove out of the car park, he saw the officer who had been remonstrating with Smollet standing at the station door, looking down the road, an agitated expression on his face.

  * * *

  Francesca’s eyes rested on the window. It was at ground level, a sash opening. Providing it wasn’t locked, it should be easy enough to step straight out of it. She reached up to the fastening, began to unscrew it. It worked easily enough. But when she tried to lift the window, the frame would hardly budge. “Shit!” she swore under her breath, the pane raised off the sill only a couple of inches. Her eyes travelled down the sides of the wooden frame; it looked like it had been painted shut.

  This is useless, realised Francesca. Think again.

  Using all her might, she pulled the window back down again, screwed the fastener back in place and swished the curtains shut. Sat back down at the table, her mind racing. OK, what about the toilets? They’d have windows, wouldn’t they? At least he wouldn’t follow her in there – well, not at first anyway. Or even better, just say she needed to go and then walk straight out of the front door while he was waiting for her. Yes, that was a good idea. Only, to make it look good, she’d need to leave her coat here. Shit, that was a good coat. But what did that matter? She could get another one.

  She pulled it off, put it back around her chair, sat down and took another fretful gulp of water. She realised she could have taken the opportunity to call Sean, at least let him know where she was and who she was with. Realised that this was what she should have done all along. But there still might be time …

  As she delved into her bag, the door opened again.

  “Change of plan,” said Rivett.

  * * *

  Sean pulled up opposite Swing’s, where Noj stood in her leopardskin coat, a bag slung over her shoulders. She opened the car door, slid into the seat, looking up at Sean with flashing eyes. “They’re at the Masonic Lodge. I’ve just checked, they’re still in there. Do you know how to get there, or shall I show you?” she said.

  “You navigate,” said Sean. “If you can get me round the one-way system then I really will start to believe in magic.”

  “OK,” said Noj, “take the next left.”

  Sean accelerated away, navigated the first corner, following Noj’s instructions. “So maybe you can tell me what you know about Miss Ryman and how you know she’s with Rivett right now.”

  “I’ve had someone keep an eye on him,” said Noj, “since our last conversation. I knew things would start to move fast, so I wanted to know exactly where he was at all times. That’s how I know she’s with him. About her, I know very little …”

  “Right,” said Sean. “You said she was my journalist friend, though, so you do know something.”

  “I know what she does, I read the paper like anyone else and I’ve seen her face in it. She’s pretty different from the last Mercury editor. She’s pretty different all round, isn’t she?” Noj studied Sean’s profile for a second, then turned her attention back to the road.

  “Have you been following me too?” asked Sean.

  “No,” said Noj. “I’m just putting two and two together. You needed all the help you could get here, it makes sense you’d ask someone at the local paper.”

  “OK,” said Sean. “I’ll buy it.”

  “Turn left again at the next junction,” said Noj. “We’re nearly there.”

  * * *

  Francesca got to her feet. “Yeah, for me as well,” she said. “I’ve just got a call, I …”

  “DCI Smollet wants to meet you elsewhere,” said Rivett. “Said I was to escort you, make sure you arrive safely.”

  He was smiling again, moving over to the table to lift his glass and drain it.

  Francesca laughed, her nerves jangling out a harsh sound, while her brain tried to stay calm. “Why?” she said. “What’s wrong with here?”

  “That’s to do with the story you want to write,” said Rivett, putting the empty glass down, leaning forwards over the table so that he loomed above her. “He want you to have a bit more background information. Reckon you’ll be able to write a more accurate profile that way.”

  “I see,” said Francesca, swallowing one more mouthful of water to try and combat the dryness in her throat. “So, what, are we going to join him in action, then? Is he out on a case at the moment?”

  “No,” said Rivett, cocking his head to one side. “I s’pose you could say that’s more to do with his personal life. His idea is show you some of his roots, where it is he’s coming from. You know, so you can form a more rounded picture of him,” Rivett indicated his head towards the door, “see where all that natural philanthropy stem from.” His smile deepened, along with the lines down the side of his face.

  Francesca got to her feet slowly.

  “That’s right, miss,” Rivett encouraged her. “The sooner I get you to him, the sooner you can get rid of me. And that don’t take a seasoned detective to realise that’s what you really want, do it?”

  * * *

  “There it is,” said Noj, “you can turn right here, straight into the car park.”

  Sean clocked Rivett’s Rover as they drew in, felt a rush of relief.

  “You’re right,” he said. “They’re here. Let’s go and get them.”

  Noj gave an embarrassed chuckle. “I don’t think it’s wise that I should go in with you,” she said. “They don’t take kindly to my sort here. They might not let you in.”

  “All right then, stay here,” said Sean. “Keep an eye on his car for me, just in case he comes out some other way. I take it you already know which one’s his?”

  Noj nodded. “Good luck, Sean Ward,” she said softly.

  Sean got out of the car, was halfway to the front steps when he felt his mobile vibrate in his jacket pocket. He plucked it out, glanced down at the caller. Janice Mathers.

  He stopped. “Ma’am,” he said, “can this be quick?”

  “OK,” her voice was cool. “Can anyone hear you?”

  Sean took a step backwards, keeping his eye on the door. “No,” he said.

  “I got the results back from those two samples Rivett got for you. One of them, name of Adrian Hall, is a direct match for the phantom DNA.”

  Sean took a sharp intake of breath. “Really?” he said. “He’s one of the bikers that hung around with Corrine’s mother, the ones he keeps trying to lead me to. Do you actually think it could be that simple?”

  * * *

  “It does seem a mite convenient, doesn’t it?” Mathers said. “Still more interesting,” she went on, “is what we got from the cigar butt you sent. An extremely close match to Corrine Woodrow’s DNA.”

  “What?” Sean’s mind rewound as he turned his head to look back at the car, to the exchange he’d had with Noj the night before.

  Him saying: “But I’ve seen the crime-scene photos. There was a pentagram drawn on the floor, in the victim’s blood. You’re not trying to tell me that Len Rivett made all that up?”

  Her saying: “You have no idea what that man is capable of …”

  “Where are you now?” said Mathers in his ear.

  “About to meet with Rivett,” said Sean, “in what he calls his office. The Ernemouth Lodge.”

  “Be careful with him,” said Mathers. “Don’t reveal anything you now know. He’s on his home turf and he could get dangerous. Just be friendly, act naïve – use your skills to buy some more time, Mr Ward, while I work out how best to proceed. I don’t want you coming to any grief.”

  “You don’t have to tell me that,” Sean said, feeling a twinge in his knees, thinking how close Francesca had come.

  “OK,” said Mathers. “Call me back when you’re free.”


  Sean cut the call, walked through the front door. A dapper little man on the front desk smiled brightly at him as he approached.

  “I’m here to see Len Rivett,” said Sean.

  “I’m sorry,” the receptionist said. “Mr Rivett left here, oh, about five minutes ago.”

  Sean shook his head. “You must be mistaken,” he said. “His car’s still parked out the front there.”

  “That’s right,” the man’s smile never wavered as he reached down into his desk. “He left the keys with me for safekeeping.” He held them out in front of Sean’s face. “He often does,” the receptionist went on, “when …” His expression turned into a frown as he looked past Sean. “Oh. What on earth is that?”

  Noj was standing on the doorstep, waving a mobile phone around in her hand, a wild expression on her face.

  “Nothing,” said Sean. “I’ll take care of it.”

  He turned and hurried outside.

  “They’re not here!” cried Noj.

  “So I gather,” said Sean. “What about your mate who was following them?”

  “He just called. They left in her car, two or three minutes ago.” Her eyes flashed with agitation. “They’re headed down the seafront now, going that way,” she pointed left, in the direction of the Britannic Pier. “Come on!”

  * * *

  “How do you manage,” said Rivett, as Francesca steered the Micra down the seafront, “in a poxy car like this? You in’t got no leg room in here.” He felt the twinge in his knees again, the arthritis kicking in when he least needed it.

  Francesca stared at the road ahead. “I could have followed your car,” she said. “I wouldn’t have run off.”

  Rivett chuckled. “Is that right?” he said. “That in’t quite the impression I got. And I can’t afford to take no chances where the guvnor’s concerned, can I? Anyway, that in’t that much further, thank God.”

  “Would you mind giving me some idea of where it is that we’re going?” Annoyance was beginning to get the better of Francesca’s nerves.