Deadly secrets, p.12
Deadly Secrets, page 12
He ended the call and exhaled loudly before heading back into the house to get his keys and crash helmet.
33
Despite the whiskey running through his veins, Marty felt confident he could handle the Ducati Scrambler at night. Zipping up his protective jacket and slipping on his gloves, he made his way out to the big machine, his right arm looped through his crash helmet.
Fully aware there were still some die-hard paps and journalists at the front of the house, he rolled the bike silently across the grass towards the back lane and the farmland beyond. The private security team hired by Rob had fortified the lane the day of their arrival, and a couple of men, permanently positioned at either end, ensured his path into the fields behind his house was unobstructed. Having ridden trail bikes as a kid, he was confident he could handle the terrain, although riding through fields in darkness was certainly new.
He unlocked the large metal gate at the bottom of the garden and slipped quietly through, walking the Scrambler down the lane towards the heavy wooden gate that secured the entrance to the farmer’s field. The last thing he wanted was the GPS built into his phone pinpointing his location to those looking to locate him, so he switched off data, the wifi connection and Bluetooth. A moment later, the bike roared to life and his journey into the city was underway.
Marty chose to ride without lights across the first couple of fields as he attempted to make his way undetected to the A34, which would lead him back towards the city. After a couple of near misses with tree stumps and rabbits, he reached the main road within ten minutes. Checking both ways to make sure there were no cars coming, he joined the carriageway and turned on the headlights before accelerating away towards Manchester’s CBD, the deep growl of the engine filling the night air.
The Purple Door looked like any other Victorian townhouse in Manchester. Tucked down a residential road just off the main drag of Princess Parkway, one would think the residents were out of town. With few lights visible, there were absolutely no clues alluding to the activity taking place behind the ornate shutters covering the windows at the front of the house.
Marty approached the front door with caution.
Many times during his career, he had attempted to expose this very brothel but had drawn a blank at every turn; it was widely rumoured that some of those within the higher echelons of the force were regular patrons. Marty had often attempted to draw the public into the debate around prostitution, but The Purple Door had somehow escaped any real criticism or condemnation from the people of Manchester. Under the radar for twenty years, Mancunians had accepted it.
Standing outside the dark, foreboding building, with his best chance of staying out of jail waiting for him inside, he was glad those attempts had failed.
Arriving at exactly midnight, and hiding his face from the CCTV cameras above his head, he pressed the intercom at the front door and waited for a response. A few moments passed before the silver box attached to the red-brick wall before him sparked to life and a deep male voice barked, ‘State your business?’
‘I’m here to see Rochelle. I have an appointment at midnight,’ he said nervously.
‘Name?’
Marty hesitated. ‘Er…Jack Steel,’ he said, giving the false name he’d given earlier.
‘Remove the hat, please,’ the gruff voice ordered.
Marty’s heart rate elevated and his breathing shortened as a shot of cold adrenaline rushed through his chest and neck. He decided to bluff it out and said nothing.
A moment passed before the voice barked again, ‘Take off the bloody hat!’
This time Marty did as told and removed the hat slowly, attempting to keep his face away from the camera.
The voice growled again, ‘Face the camera.’
Again, Marty did nothing.
The voice returned, angry and impatient. ‘Look, I really don’t care who you are, but I need to see your face before I can let you in. It’s policy, so look into the camera above the door or your appointment is cancelled, OK?’
Marty stood motionless, trying to figure out his next move.
The intercom barked again, ‘And I haven’t got all night!’
He finally faced the camera, looking straight at the little black lens, which appeared to stare back at him. His heart pounded like a maniacal drummer. A million thoughts flooded his brain: who was on the other end of that lens? Had they recognised him? Was he in danger? Were they calling the police?
Finally, the small speaker crackled back to life. ‘Ok…push the door.’
A loud buzz signalled the door had unlocked.
Marty steadied himself on the wall and allowed his breathing to slow. His heart rate soon followed. He felt sick, his legs suddenly heavy, and any kind of movement was awkward. Wiping sweat from his face and replacing his cap, he stepped inside to be greeted by a long, narrow corridor with purple velvet wallpaper running down both walls above a thick white shag pile carpet.
He moved forwards carefully towards soft music and soon found himself in a reception area. It reminded him of a small boutique hotel he and Rebecca had stayed in during a trip to Barcelona. At the centre, in front of an arch leading to an unknown and obscured room, stood a tall, old-school curved reception desk. Behind it sat a professional-looking receptionist. Only her torso was visible, but Marty noted her black silk blouse open at the neck, with a small but attractive line of cleavage exposed. She had a pretty, but relatively ordinary, face and dark black hair cut into a severe bob with a razor-straight fringe that sat millimetres from her eyes. To her left stood a man-mountain and, for a split second, Marty mistook him for Bovalino; his size, shape, skin colouring and hair were almost identical. After an involuntary double-take, Marty realised – to his considerable relief – it was not.
The big man straightened, his eyes fixed on Marty.
The receptionist smiled as she spoke, and her tone was warm. ‘Can I help you?’
‘I’m here to see Rochelle,’ Marty replied quietly.
‘Mr Steel?’
‘That’s correct’
‘Have you been to The Purple Door before?’
Marty shot a glance back at the big man, who maintained his gaze.
‘Er, no…first time.’
She passed over two white towels and a matching robe with a large locker key balanced on top of the pile. ‘Please change into this robe and wait in the lounge. Rochelle won’t be long,’ she said warmly, pointing to a door just beyond the man-mountain. ‘Drake here will show you through.’
Marty nervously took them, the process feeling eerily reminiscent of his first day in Hawk Green – without the key, of course! As Drake turned and opened the door behind him, Marty followed. They moved through a dimly lit corridor of red walls. A moment later, they stopped at a door marked ‘Lockers’. The big man held it open in silence as he signalled for Marty to enter.
Suddenly he had a very bad feeling about the plan and turned to walk away, but Drake’s vice-like grip locked on his left shoulder, propelling him into the room.
‘Get changed here and then follow the signs for the lounge,’ Drake said flatly.
‘What?’
Drake pointed his right arm to the other end of the dark room. ‘I said, get changed here and then follow the signs for the lounge. And make sure you either take anything valuable with you or put them in your locker; shit gets nicked here all the time.’
Marty nodded to the big man, who closed the door without a word.
Still holding his towel and robes, Marty surveyed the space and realised he was in a changing room about the size of a large family bathroom; the walls were filled with lockers, some locked, others wide open, with small wooden benches in front.
He quickly undressed, placing his clothes in the locker provided as he prepared to move to the critical stage of his plan; in a few moments, he would finally come face to face with Rochelle.
34
Sitting in a crisp white robe over black boxer shorts, Marty tapped the arms of the cream leather chair as he waited for Rochelle to appear.
The room was about the size of a double bedroom, which Marty imagined it had probably once been. The ceilings were high with ornate period detail around the central light fitting still intact and surprisingly well maintained. Large wooden shutters covered the three tall windows to his right, keeping out the world beyond. It was obvious that somebody cared about this place, and the details mattered. The walls were warmly lit and painted red, the carpet beneath his feet similar to the entrance hall: cream, deep and luxurious. Fixed rigidly between two identical unmarked doors on the wall opposite him, a flat-screen TV played music videos silently. To his left, a small glass-fronted fridge containing bottles of water and soda hummed a gentle rhythm.
There was still no sign of Rochelle. What was taking so long?
Marty scanned the room, looking for anything untoward, not that he knew what ‘untoward’ would like in a brothel. His mind began to race ahead of him. Was this delay a ruse? Had they recognised him outside and let him in on purpose; was an ambush about to happen?
The alcohol had almost completely worn off now and his nerves were getting the better of him.
He drummed his fingers loudly on the arms of the chair as he tried to distract himself, but could not avoid the stark reality of his situation. For all intents and purposes, he was a sitting duck. He had voluntarily walked deep into the heart of a notorious brothel, one frequented by high-ranking police officers as well as known and hardened criminals with potential connections to McCloud and Keats. His mobile phone, and only connection to the outside world, was in his locker. The absurdity of it all hit him like a hammer to the head. He jumped to his feet, almost rolling his ankle in the ill-fitting slippers as he did so. He had made a huge mistake; he had to get out right now. He moved back towards the door he had entered through and grabbed the handle roughly. A small black swipe-card entry system sat neatly next to the door; a tiny red light illuminated, indicating it was locked. Crossing the room, he tried the two doors on either side of the TV, but the same security system was in place. Shit! He tried the heavy window shutters next with no luck. His eyes darted around the room, searching every nook and space for a way out, but he was trapped.
How could he have been so stupid?
As he circled the room, the walls appeared to move in towards him. Initially it had felt spacious and open, offering him a potential way out of his nightmare. Now, locked in, it felt small, oppressive, and appeared to be shrinking. His mind suddenly replayed the horror of the attacks in Hawk Green and a childlike helplessness clawed at his throat, his heart pumping wildly. He wanted to cry out, run away and hide. His breathing began to shorten as adrenaline surged through his body once again. He wanted to vomit and began to feel faint; he had to sit down quickly before he collapsed. Slumping into the chair, he stared mindlessly at the TV screen before placing his head in his hands, his long hair falling through his fingers and covering his face.
At that moment, the door clicked open and Marty looked up, his face hidden under his hair. A tall, elegant Asian woman stood before him, smiling. She had soft features and long, dark glossy hair. Her impressive legs ran into black stilettos and her torso was wrapped in a black corset with white trim. She was a strikingly beautiful creature and, for a moment, Marty lost all fear as she stepped forwards, the door clicking shut behind her. She spoke softly, but with a heavy accent; Malaysian, Marty assumed.
‘Mr Steel, I am Rochelle. Welcome to The Purple Door; whatever you want shall be my pleasure.’ Despite the accent, her tone was silky smooth, deeper than that of most women, but undeniably sexy.
‘May I sit?’ she asked, pointing to the chair opposite Marty.
She had not recognised him. He nodded his agreement whilst keeping his head tilted upwards, his hair still covering his face.
Rochelle sat in one elegant movement, crossing her legs seductively as she made herself comfortable, before leaning closer and speaking again through her wide, perfect smile. ‘So, what would you like me to do, Mr Steel, or can I call you Jack?’
Marty peeled his hair back with both hands to reveal his face. ‘How about you call me Marty – and you can start by telling me how Paula White ended up dead in my hotel room!’
The shock was evident on Rochelle’s face, her body recoiling instinctively as she tried to evade Marty’s hand, which shot out and locked on her right wrist in a flurry of movement.
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ she pleaded, struggling to maintain the softness of her female form. She tried to stand, but Marty’s grip tightened as he leaned in close to her face.
‘You’d better start telling me what you know, and quickly, Ashraf Tan!’
Her mouth fell open for a moment, before quickly regaining her composure.
‘That’s right, I know all about you, Ashraf. So will immigration, if you don’t tell me what I want to know. It will be bye-bye UK and back to Malaysia. So, stop fucking me about and start talking!’
Rochelle dropped her head towards the floor. She held it there for a moment before lifting it again and facing Marty. Tears had formed in her eyes. ‘OK, OK. Please let go of my arm. I’ll answer your questions. I cannot go back to Malaysia.’
Marty released his grip slowly. ‘No funny business – OK?’
Rochelle nodded and sat back in the chair, brushing her hair away from her face and trying her best to look composed. She took a deep breath, dabbed at a tear with a manicured finger and smiled awkwardly. ‘What do you want to know?’ she asked calmly.
‘What was Paula White doing in the Sky Lounge on Saturday night. Was she paid to pick me up?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘You were flatmates and worked here together. You must have had some idea of what she was doing on Saturday.’
‘Please don’t ask me that, not here.’ Rochelle’s eyes darted towards the double doors.
‘Look, Ashraf…’
‘I am Rochelle! I will not answer to Ashraf; Ashraf is dead.’
‘OK. Just tell me what you know. It could help us catch her killer – because I know for sure it wasn’t me. There were so many drugs in my system I couldn’t have walked to the bathroom unaided, never mind strangle a fit and healthy young woman.’
Rochelle flinched as Marty described White’s violent death. He sensed from her reaction that they had obviously been close. Again, Rochelle looked towards the double doors.
‘What’s on the other side of the doors, Rochelle? Are we being watched?’
Rochelle leaned in closer to Marty. ‘I don’t know,’ she whispered. ‘There are cameras, and people watch sometimes, yes, but the sound is not so good. They could be listening, I don’t know.’
‘Who’s they?’
‘Security.’
‘Do they know I’m here?’
Rochelle shook her head. ‘Drake, the man who let you in, he’s not a smart man. He pays no attention.’
‘What about the receptionist?’
‘Debra? She’s different. The owner’s daughter, very smart; she knows everything that happens in here.’
‘I doubt we have much time, in that case. Please, tell me – was White paid to pick me up?’
‘I don’t know the details. But she had done it before.’
‘Done what?’
‘Picked up important people, policemen, businessmen, politicians. She told me she had sex with them in front of hidden cameras. A man paid her for the videos. She suspected they were being used for blackmail.’
‘What the fuck? There were cameras in my room?’
Rochelle glanced at the door again and shook her head, ‘No, I don’t think so. She didn’t mention cameras this time.’
‘So why was she there for me?’
‘She didn’t say. Just that she had a job with the guy from the radio and it would be easy money for a change.’
‘Do you know the name of the guy who hired her?’ Marty asked.
‘No. Paula didn’t know his name, but he always paid well. For her discretion, he said.’
‘And do you know the names of the other people he hired her to have sex with?’
Rochelle nodded. ‘Not all of them, but a few. We used to watch them on the news. Paula would laugh and tell me their favourite positions each time they came on.’
‘Who were they?’
‘I can’t say, not here.’
‘Where? Where can we talk?’
‘It’s not safe for me. Paula was involved in some bad things. I have to get away.’
‘Tell me what you know and I’ll help you.’
‘No. I’m leaving tomorrow. I have to get away from Manchester. My neighbour sent me a message today saying two different men have been to my flat this week looking for me. I’ve been staying with a friend since Paula died. It’s not safe for me there.’
Marty recalled Nic’s debrief. He was sure her contact had sent just one man. Was White’s killer after Rochelle too?
‘What were they looking for, Rochelle? What is it they want?’
‘If I tell you, will you forget about immigration and leave me alone?’
Marty nodded. ‘Yes. Please just tell me what you know.’
Rochelle moved across and sat on Marty’s knee like a kid perching on Santa’s lap. She put her arms around his neck and leaned in to his left ear. ‘In case they are watching or listening.’
Marty nodded and played along.
‘Paula kept copies of the videos and other information on a drive. She was very smart with computers and told me she hacked into the man’s system. Whatever was on the drive was very important to her. She kept it in a pendant around her neck. She was going to sell it for fifty thousand pounds.’
‘Who to?’
‘I don’t know. She wouldn’t tell me. She said it was safer that way. We loved each other very much. We were going to use the money to get away and start a new life away from all this. We were going overseas so I could finish my surgery and finally become a woman.’
