I walked up to the front door, lodged awkwardly between a butchers and a grocery store. It was old, covered in peeling black paint, and almost hidden by the outdoor display stands. It suited my purposes exactly. I got out my credit card, and got busy. Matt had taught me various break-in techniques, but this door didn’t look like it’d need anything but the most fundamental. I was right. It didn’t take more than a minute or two of coaxing for the lock to give and the door to creak open. I chanced a quick look around me to see if anyone had noticed, before going in.
Once inside, I shut the door quietly behind me, taking care not to trip over the newspapers piled up on the tiled floor. There was a bit of post, too. I gathered it up, placed it carefully under my arm, and looked around me. I was standing in a foyer, and there was a door in front of me, to the side of a staircase. It had to be the flat of the tenant I’d met before, which meant Charlotte’s was on the first floor. Good. Only two flats meant less chance of being caught.
I peered up into the stairwell. It was dark, with a ragged carpet running up the middle of the stairs. The whole place smelt of raw meat, from the butchers presumably, and dust. I listened, but the only sound I could hear was the traffic from outside, interspersed with the odd snatch of conversation, as people came and went from the shops.
I went upstairs, treading carefully, just in case. The landing when I reached it was small and dimly lit, from a window high up, and there was just the one door off it. I took my credit card in my fingers again and started to tease at the lock.
It didn’t budge. I sighed with impatience. Now, in the situation, all Matt’s other tricks deserted me. I couldn’t remember one. Well, I could…one. But I didn’t have a clothes hanger with me, and there was no damned letter box, anyway.
I fiddled around with the card for a few minutes more, before giving up and resorting to the tried-and-tested, fool-proof method I’d hoped to avoid. I hoped the tenant downstairs was out. I couldn’t be sure, though, so it meant my time inside the flat was going to be cut short. I couldn’t hang around.
The door was solid. The first time I drove my shoulder into it, I definitely came off worst. It hardly gave at all. It took a good dozen whacks before it finally surrendered, and even then it swung open reluctantly, snagging on another thin, bedraggled carpet.
I pushed my way into the room, keeping my back to the wall. I almost smiled to myself. It was like being in a film. I was the cop, searching for the murderer. Except, of course, Charlotte wasn’t a killer. Just a colossal pain in the ass.
Normally, I would have got Matt or Rick to do this kind of thing for me, but this was too serious…too personal…and anyway, I couldn’t trust anyone, least of all Rick, right now.
The room was empty. There was nothing in it, except a dead cat, splayed out on the floor, its guts hacked open, and spilling out onto the carpet. It was no surprise to find, as I pushed at it with my shoe, that it was black and white. Looked like I’d found the missing one, anyway, but I wasn’t going to be getting a reward. It was rancid. I felt like gagging. Who’d leave a room like that? Who’d do that to a cat? What the fuck did this address have to do with anything, anyway?
I went through into the kitchenette. It reeked just as bad as the living room, being separated by only a thin party wall, but at least I no longer had to look at the cat. I put the post on the worktop, and began to sort through it. There wasn’t much that looked interesting. Most of it was for the flat downstairs, and it was all in different names. There were only three envelopes for this flat, which seemed weird. Surely, a flat that had been empty for months should have a backlog of junk mail a metre deep.
I’d stood there for a few moments, pondering the significance of it, when I heard a noise from outside the flat. Footsteps, light and cautious. Someone was coming up the stairs. I quickly stuffed the three envelopes inside my jacket, bundled the rest in my hand and strode out onto the landing.
Whoever it was had turned the light on. I looked down to see the tenant from the downstairs flat staring up at me. She looked frankly disgusted. ‘You again,’ she said. It was less a statement and more an accusation.
She’d stopped halfway, and I was able to take her in more clearly than I had the day before. She was fairly pretty, with long bleached hair that was growing out. The roots were black, like the thick make up daubed around her eyes. She was also barely half-dressed, in a flimsy red house-coat that barely covered her thighs. It was all frills and didn’t seem to do up. Right now, it was gaping open, exposing more crimson and more frills, in the way of a long-line basque. It would probably have looked cheaply erotic, had it been on a better figure. As it was, she bulged out of it all over and the whole package just looked cheap.
In a heartbeat, the whole situation dropped into focus. There were no prizes for guessing what this girl did for a living, or why she’d seemed so pleased to see me the last time. Working girls weren’t normally picky about where their clients came from, or when they turned up. She’d probably been waiting on one when I’d arrived.
‘Is that my post?’ she demanded. Her whole attitude was hostile, but guarded. ‘Give it here.’
She came up the stairs and stood at the top, blocking my way out. I held out the post, feeling tired and impatient. She snatched it and immediately started rifling through it. ‘There’s nothing for that flat,’ she said. ‘Have you taken it?’
I shrugged. ‘There wasn’t any,’ I said, casually. ‘I think that’s pretty strange, to be honest.’
‘Well, no one lives there,’ she said.
She was trying to sound disinterested, but I could tell she was on edge. Her hands were shaking. Not much – the tremor was almost imperceptible – but it was enough for me. I’d got her rattled. She might, after all, prove helpful. If I could just keep the pressure on…
‘I’d have thought there’d be some,’ I said. I leaned back against the wall, and folded my arms, making sure to keep the envelopes inside my jacket secure. ‘Makes me think you might be collecting it for someone.’
I stared at her, watching her face for any further signs of discomfort. There…the eyes darting to the side, not meeting my gaze…the tremble of the lower lip.
‘If you’re after Charlotte,’ she said, looking up at me finally. ‘You’re too late. She’s gone.’
‘She was never here, Jane,’ I said. Looking through the post had given me her name at least. ‘As you know very well.’
She didn’t like me using her name at all. Her eyes widened and she looked almost fearful. ‘Look,’ she said. ‘I don’t know what she’s done, but I’m not getting involved. I collect her post for her, that’s all. She’s been good to me. I wouldn’t have this flat without her. Don’t ask me to grass.’
‘I wouldn’t dream of it,’ I said, putting out a hand towards the stairs. She looked down at herself, as if suddenly realising she was exposed, and pulled the house coat around her, defensively. I gestured again at the stairs, and she stood back, allowing me to pass.
I started down the stairs, the facts beginning to gel in my mind. Jane was a pro. Charlotte had got her this flat. Charlotte…was never a journalist. They might do most things, but even the most hardened hack didn’t screw around just for a story. When she’d said she was selling her story, she’d meant just that. Selling it, not writing it. She was a prostitute looking for a quick buck. And I was an idiot.