‘I’ll be there, thank you.’

  Jack quickly stuffed the phone in his pocket. He put the old laptop in his briefcase, finished his sandwich, drained the coffee and then stood up with a loud yelp. Everyone looked over as he rubbed at his cheek.

  ‘I’ve just broken a crown . . . shit, that hurts.’

  He gave a good performance, saying he was going to the emergency dental practice and asking Sara to give the details if anyone wanted to know where he was. Then he was out and running into the car park, carrying his briefcase.

  Sara went over to Leon who was still trying to track down Amanda Dunn.

  ‘Funny . . . he was only eating a cheese and ham sandwich. Any update on Amanda?’

  ‘Not yet, that hostel lets the phone ring for bloody ages. And then when it does connect you get a shed-load of messages about their opening and closing times, and it still has all the checks you have to do for Covid. I’m trying to get Mrs Delaney on the line, but she never picks up.’

  Sara rolled her eyes. Sometimes you could ask Leon a simple question and you got a lengthy diatribe, so she returned to her desk to continue the search for missing girls that might be connected to the Middleton case. Jack clearly thought Rodney could have committed arson, and then murder, which had unsettled her. She was intelligent enough to realise that Jack was holding something important back, and decided that when he returned from the dentist, she would ask him to explain.

  Jack was held up in traffic, and Waze seemed to be taking him on a very circuitous route to NW3, but he eventually found himself on Platts Lane. 87B was a ground floor flat in a semi-detached, four-storey building. A sign with an arrow pointed to Flat B down a path beside the main front entrance. There was a slight slope, and there was a handrail along the entire length of the path.

  Outside the brown-painted front door was an electric mobility scooter with a weatherproof cover partly draped over it, and a thick plastic covered chain and padlock. Jack noticed the CCTV cameras positioned around and above the entrance with a floodlight above the door. There was a spy hole at his level and one lower down, indicating not only a concern with security, but that the occupant could be physically challenged. Jack pressed a discreet doorbell and waited. He heard numerous locks being drawn back before the door opened.

  He heard a voice say, ‘Come in, first door on your right.’

  The door closed automatically behind him. He walked down a dark, rather narrow hallway to the first door on the right. It was partly open.

  ‘Hello, it’s Jack Warr,’ he said.

  The room was dimly lit, the blinds on the window drawn. Sitting in a wing-backed chair with a footrest up, was a figure wearing a padded red velvet dressing gown with satin cuffs and collar. Beneath a bouffant blonde wig he was made up like a drag queen.

  ‘I’m Sammy. Excuse the costume but I do a podcast a couple of days a week . . . a bit unsure about the wig, though. As you can see, I have quite a collection.’

  She gestured with long red false nails to an array of wigs on stands, next to a rack of sequinned gowns and feather boas. There was also a mirror with light bulbs surrounding the frame above a small table with pots of makeup. Jack couldn’t help being taken aback, wondering if this was really the contact Ridley thought could help him in his present predicament.

  ‘So, Jack is it, darling? You said it was urgent . . . so talk to me.’

  ‘I’m not sure where to begin . . .’ Jack faltered.

  ‘Listen, dear, if you were sent to me by the only person in this world I would lie down and die for, just talk to me, and don’t leave anything out.’

  With difficulty, Sammy drew the footrest closer to the chair by a button, then slowly got to his feet. He shuffled to the chair in front of the mirror, grimacing in pain when he sat down. He placed paper tissues around his satin collar before opening a large pot of cleansing cream.

  Jack did his best to explain everything as Sammy removed his false eyelashes and then spread the cream over his face before wiping off the thick makeup.

  By the time he had dabbed his face with cologne, it was clear he had a slight six o’clock shadow. The last thing he removed was the wig, holding it up in one hand to inspect the weave before placing it onto the wood-based dummy head.

  Jack kept going, as Sammy revealed his almost completely shaved head. The velvet dressing gown was removed and beneath it was a collarless man’s shirt and grey tracksuit trousers.

  ‘. . . and I can’t use the station’s computers because, as I said, the Essex team’s investigation will pick up on anyone trying to get information and trace it,’ Jack was saying.

  ‘Yes, dear, I picked that up. I think we need a bit more information about dating agency, RP . . . so I’d like you to make me a nice cup of tea, with a Blue Riband biscuit, whilst I have a little troll around for you.’

  Sammy picked up a walking frame, and instructed Jack to follow, pointing out the kitchen at the far end of the hall. The door next to the kitchen had a coded entry and Sammy pressed various buttons before it opened inwards.

  Jack stood in the small but well-equipped kitchen as he filled an electric kettle. He couldn’t quite believe he was searching for teabags in this person’s kitchen; having recounted the entire Ridley situation, it felt as if he had walked into some sort of weird dream. He doubted anyone would believe him; even Maggie would find it hard to accept that he was making tea in a transvestite’s flat, not knowing a thing about who they were.

  Having found a tray, Jack arranged two mugs of tea, a sugar bowl and a chocolate biscuit that he found in the fridge when he got the milk. He carried the tray out into the hall, and gently tapped on the door with the toe of his shoe. When it opened, he almost dropped the tray.

  The room was like some kind of high-tech security bubble. There were banks of screens scrolling out data at a blinding rate. Printing machines lined one wall, and the desk – which had to have been specially made – ran the entire length of the room.

  There were three keyboards, with the keys lit up in red, green and orange.

  Sammy was sitting in a large office chair which had big, rubber-rimmed wheels. There was a wide strip of plastic over the fitted carpet to make it easy to scoot along the length of desk.

  Jack placed the tray down, taking a deep breath.

  ‘Two sugars for me, dear, then go and sit in my dressing room and wait.’

  ‘But . . .’

  ‘No buts, dear . . . the less you see and know, the better. I have to work fast to avoid any detection or connection . . . in out, in out, shake it all about.’

  Jack left one mug of tea and the biscuit with Sammy, taking the tray and his own mug back into the kitchen. He finished his tea and washed his mug, placing it on the draining board, shaken from what he had just seen – because in the few seconds he’d been looking at one of the screens, he knew Sammy was using the Holmes database. Feeling the ground unsteady beneath his feet, he walked back to the dressing room, where Sammy had first greeted him.

  Not knowing what else to do, he had a look through all the glamorous evening gowns, the numerous pairs of gold and silver strappy high heels and the dazzling array of different-styled wigs. He physically jumped when a cat slithered into the room. It was some kind of Persian, with huge blue-grey eyes, long silky fur and a bushy tail. The cat kept its distance as it weaved in and out of the sequinned gowns before jumping onto the big armchair. It had a tiny gold bell hanging from a black ribbon round its neck.

  Jack hesitated before he tentatively approached the cat, sitting comfortably in the centre of the chair. He reached out to stroke it, pulling his hand away as it snarled and clawed at him. He stepped back quickly and knocked over one of the wig stands.

  As he put the wig back on the stand, and the cat glowered at him, he muttered to himself, ‘What the hell am I doing here?’

  *

  Leon Elba was once more calling Mrs Thornton at the hostel. He had been put on hold yet again and looked over to Sara with a pained expression.

  ‘I get through and I’m told that someone will try and find her. How hard can it be? I’ve been on hold for five minutes.’

  ‘Probably teatime?’ Sara said, pulling out her chair and opening her laptop. ‘I’m not having much luck tracing any relatives of Karen Middleton, either. I’m hoping to get something from a rehab clinic.’

  ‘Who’s she?’

  ‘Rodney Middleton’s stepmother, deceased, but Jack wants to find anyone who knew the family.’

  ‘It’s Jack now, is it?’ he said with a grin.

  ‘Oh shut up!’

  ‘Well, I didn’t have any luck tracing Sandra Raynor . . .’

  Sara frowned. ‘Who’s she? I’ve not heard her name before’

  ‘I have no idea, just that she’s connected to the enquiry. But it’s as though she doesn’t exist.’ Just then the phone was answered. ‘Mrs Thornton? This is DC Leon Elba. I called earlier to enquire about Amanda Dunn. You mentioned that she’d left the hostel . . . yes . . . yes . . .’

  Sara turned back to her desk and dialled the rehab centre.

  While Mrs Thornton went to find the contact details for Amanda’s parents, Sara was put through to two different departments. She remained calm and polite, saying she understood Karen Middleton’s stay at the clinic had been some years ago . . . and was transferred yet again.

  ‘I hope Jack is alright,’ she said to herself. ‘He’s been gone a long time. God, I hate dentists.’

  *

  Jack was just about to call it quits when Sammy walked in, using a walking frame.

  ‘Right, my dear, got a few things for you. I see we’ve been favoured with Edie’s presence. Very good pedigree but a very nasty temperament.’

  ‘I gathered that,’ Jack said.

  Sammy swiped at the armchair with the walking frame and Edie leapt off and ran out. As he sat down in the big chair, Jack took the walking frame, placing it to one side.

  ‘Right, here we go, dear. Your dating agency. They’ve been operating for five years. It’s jointly owned by Selina Da Costa and Eva Shay. Mrs Da Costa is fifty-five years old, previously married to a wealthy estate agent who agreed to a substantial divorce settlement. She has one son, aged thirty-two, living in California. Eva Shay is sixty and is quite a different kind of woman . . . married and divorced three times but reverted to her maiden name when she started the dating agency.’

  Sammy gave Jack a coy look, as he continued.

  ‘I have naughty access to the Police National Computer and found one criminal report, dating back twelve years. She was sentenced to four years in Holloway for fraud, under her first married name of Eva Barras. She was released after two years. Her husband was an Italian importer and as far as I can tell he returned to live in Brazil. Ms Shay qualified as an accountant after being released from Holloway, although I haven’t been able to trace any of the companies she said she’s worked for. I only went through all the legitimate avenues, you see.’

  ‘What exactly do you mean by the legitimate avenues?’ Jack asked.

  ‘Well, most things are easily accessible from the Holmes database, and RP have quite a presence on the internet. However, to gain more details about their company I would need to . . .’

  Jack was already shocked that Sammy had been able to use the database never mind access the PNC, the Police National Computer. ‘Need to what?’

  ‘Well, go a slightly more irregular route.’

  ‘By irregular, do you mean illegal?’

  Sammy smiled. ‘Yes, it would mean hacking their computers and gaining access to their clients’ details.’

  ‘Can you do that without it being traced back here to you?’

  ‘Oh, yes. You know, dear, lots of students go into one of those internet cafes and pay for a period of time, then disconnect. I used to do it at my local library – not for anything illegal, mind you – but now I’m all set up here. It’ll take a bit of time which I don’t have right now.’

  Jack rubbed his temples nervously. ‘You do understand how crucial it is that this remains just between us? Anything you find, contact me directly or I can come back.’

  Sammy frowned. ‘Who do you think I would impart any of this to, dear? You’re making me a tad pissed off. I don’t allow anyone into my inner sanctum. You’re very privileged. I’m not doing this for you, anyway. Sometimes one gets to repay a favour one owes big time.’

  ‘I’m sorry, but I don’t know anything about you, or how much risk you’re taking, if anything is traced back to you.’

  ‘Trust me, dear, it can’t. Like I said, I’m doing this to repay a favour, and the situation is not as simple as perhaps you have been led to believe. The outcome will eventually provide the answers. Now run along, I’m tired.’

  Jack made an apologetic exit, still confused and still with no further insight into Sammy Taylor. Heading up the path to the gate, he looked back down to where the electric mobility scooter was parked. He glanced upwards and could see an array of satellite dishes, and the further he walked the more he counted, high up on the roof of the house.

  ‘Ridley, what have you got me into?’ he said, shaking his head.

  *

  It was coming up to six by the time Jack arrived back at the station. Sara greeted him with a sympathetic expression.

  ‘How are you? Was it agony?’

  ‘Erm, no . . . not as bad as I thought.’

  ‘Break a crown, did you?’

  ‘Yep, one at the back. All fixed now, though.’

  She shook her head. ‘You look really awful. I broke a tooth once. It was excruciating.’

  Leon walked up.

  ‘Did you have to have it replaced?’

  Jack winced. ‘No, but they kept me waiting . . . it’s hard to get an appointment these days.’

  ‘But it was an emergency!’ Sara said.

  ‘For Christ’s sake, it’s all fixed!’ he burst out. He took a breath and spoke in a quieter tone. ‘What’s the update here?’

  Leon went first. ‘Sarge, Mrs Thornton from the hostel gave me Amanda’s parents’ phone number. I spoke to her mother. She told me Amanda wasn’t there and they weren’t expecting her home. I then called Mrs Delaney and she was certain that no one had returned to the basement flat.’

  ‘OK, thanks. Let’s try again on Monday . . . it’s very important we find her. What about you, Sara?’

  ‘Karen Middleton had one regular visitor when she was at the rehab centre, her husband’s sister, Joyce Miller. Like I say, she was a regular visitor, but they said she was wheelchair-bound and eventually became too ill to –’

  ‘Where does she live?’ Jack asked impatiently.

  ‘Surbiton. I have her phone number but couldn’t get through. I reported it and was told there was a fault on the line and had been for some time.’

  Jack sighed. ‘Let’s go and interview her now, then. And I’d like you to come along.’

  Sara went to collect her briefcase and mobile phone and hurried to catch Jack, who had already left the incident room.

  He was sitting in his car with the engine running. Sara climbed in beside him and gave him the address to enter into the satnav.

  ‘Are you sure you’re OK to drive?’

  Jack was fiddling with the directions, ignoring her.

  ‘I mean, did they give you Procaine?’

  ‘Sara, I’m fine,’ he said firmly, hoping to put an end to the conversation.

  Sara pursed her lips and remained silent as they drove to the large housing estate in Surbiton. When the satnav said they had arrived at their destination, she curtly pointed out that the flat numbers were on the side of the building, and they were on the wrong side for flat 324.

  Jack did a U-turn and followed the narrow lane round the huge estate to the other side. He was able to park almost in front of the relevant block. Glass double doors led into a reception area and number 324 was conveniently located just inside.

  ‘Now we’ve got here, she’s probably not at home,’ Jack said moodily.

  Sara rang the bell, waited a minute, then rang it again. They stood side by side, listening.

  ‘The lights are on,’ Sara said quietly.

  Jack leant forwards and pressed the bell again, keeping his finger on it until the main front door to the building opened. A small, wizened man with a black beret walked in carrying a large box of groceries.

  ‘She can’t get to the door, you know. Are you from Social Services?’

  Jack showed his ID and introduced himself and Sara. The small man balanced the box on his knee and took out a set of keys to open the flat door.

  ‘I’m her husband. My name’s Harold. What are you here for?’

  Jack explained that he wanted to talk to Joyce about her nephew. Harold shrugged and Jack quickly took the groceries from his knee as he looked as if he was about to drop them. The door opened and Harold ushered them inside.

  ‘I’ll go and see if she can talk to you, but she’s not been up for much recently. At weekends the carers only come in twice, to get her dressed and put her to bed, so, I’m at her beck and call.’

  They stood in the hallway, which had a hideously garish orange floral carpet. There was no furniture, and Harold took off his coat and beret and hung them on a single hook on the back of the front door.

  ‘Do you need us to wear masks?’ Sara asked.

  ‘No, don’t bother. We both had all the vacs,’ Harold said.

  ‘Go straight ahead into the kitchen while I go and check on her.’

  They made their way into a large, tiled kitchen, with a bright lino floor and numerous new-looking appliances. Jack put the box of groceries down on a small table with a plastic tablecloth and two matching chairs. They could hear muffled voices. Sara began to unload the groceries from the box. There was lettuce, tomatoes, bags of different vegetables, a sliced seeded loaf, and a sealed bag containing fresh salmon.

  ‘They certainly eat very healthily.’ She placed everything out on the table, not knowing where to store everything.

  Jack moved closer to the door and could hear Harold saying that she ‘should sit up’. There was a soft moaning sound before Harold came out of the bedroom. He was sweating.