away, according to a neighbour, who said he’d been gone for about six weeks. The neighbour had no idea where he was but said he knew Matthews had worked in the US, the Caribbean and South Africa in the past couple of years.
Nick felt the hairs on the back of his neck rising. Child abduction generally had three motivations. A parent who felt unjustly deprived of their child; ransom; and something deeply twisted. Pete Matthews definitely had a deeply twisted possible motive – he wanted to hurt Stephanie and he wanted to show her who was boss. He’d already stalked her, demonstrating that his take on what was reasonable behaviour was deeply skewed. And Nick didn’t know where he was tonight.
He thought back to his previous run-in with Pete Matthews. He’d had trouble tracking him down then as well, mostly because the man kept irregular hours and didn’t have a set place of work. He’d ended up making a list of recording studios and patiently working his way through the list till he found the one where Matthews had been currently working. If he checked back through his pocket books, that might give him a place to start.
Nick headed for his locker, where he kept his completed pocket books, the records of his daily tasks and accomplishments that would be his aide memoire when cases came to court. He tracked back to the relevant one and sat down then and there to flip through the pages, not caring about the dank smells of stale bodies and questionable drains that permeated the room. The Matthews notes were towards the end of the book, but they were perfectly clear. At the time Nick had confronted him about stalking Stephanie, he’d been mixing a trip-hop album at a place called Phat Phi D up in Archway. Wherever Pete was tonight, it wasn’t there. But they might know where he was.
He replaced his notebook and headed back to his car feeling unreasonably cheerful. He knew from his own occasional session work that record studios did not keep nine to five hours. The chances of finding someone still working close to midnight at Phat Phi D were better than evens, Nick reckoned.
It was nice to be proved right. A percussionist and a keyboard player were working on a backing track for some female singer songwriter, and the producer and the engineer were happy enough to let Nick in to ask a few questions to break the tedium. The studio was small and sweaty, but the equipment looked the business. ‘These kids need that many takes, I’m about dying in here,’ the producer moaned. ‘You said you’re looking for Pete Matthews?’
‘Yeah,’ Nick said, lounging against the back wall as the musicians went again.
‘You seen Pete lately?’ the producer asked the engineer.
‘Not for months. Last I heard, he was going to Detroit to work with the Style Boys.’
Nick’s heart leapt in his chest. His American geography wasn’t brilliant. But he was pretty sure that, in the scale of things on that giant continent, Detroit wasn’t too far from Chicago. In the dimness of the booth, he struggled not to let his excitement show.
‘The Style Boys? The ones that didn’t win
‘That’s them. Sound like they’re channelling sixties Motown. Temptations, Isley Brothers, that kind of sound.’
‘They’ve got the money to go to Detroit and record?’ The producer sounded incredulous.
‘It’s crazy, I know. But some shit-for-brains twat who thinks he’s going to be the next Simon Cowell loved their sound and decided to bankroll them. More money than sense, if you ask me.’
‘And he chose Pete? To engineer a sixties soundalike album?’
The engineer laughed. ‘Which proves the shit-for-brains bit.’ He turned to Nick. ‘Don’t get me wrong, Pete’s a good engineer. But this is way out of his zone.’
The producer hit the talkback button. ‘One more time, guys. Travis, I need you to be spot-on with the beat, you’re still drifting in the middle bars.’ He rolled his eyes at Nick.
‘How can I find out where Pete’s working in Detroit?’
The producer shrugged. ‘Fucked if I know.’
The engineer pulled out his phone. ‘If you want to know, ask an engineer.’ His thumbs danced over the screen. ‘Paul Owen at the Bowes Festival will know, he’s got the Style Boys headlining for them.’
They leaned back in their seats and listened to another rendition that Nick could tell wasn’t quite on the money. ‘I’m going to fucking kill myself,’ the producer said. ‘Do you get days like that in your job?’
‘All the time.’
‘What are you after Pete for? I wouldn’t have had him down as the criminal type,’ the engineer said. ‘Pretty straight guy, Pete. Well, what passes for straight in this game.’
‘I need to ask him a few questions. Something that happened in his neighbourhood he might have witnessed. But if he’s been gone for the last couple of months, chances are he’s out of the frame altogether.’
The engineer’s phone shimmied across the sound desk, signalling an incoming text. He picked it up and glanced at it, before holding it out to Nick. ‘There you go, mate.’
‘Style Boys @ South Detroit Sounds till end of week. Early mix sounds better than expected,’ he read. Nick smiled. ‘Thanks, lads. Hope your drummer finds his beat.’
All the resources of the FBI were chasing Jimmy Higgins. But the way things were looking, it was all going to come down to a single London copper with a feel for the music scene. Nick smiled. If he could bring Jimmy Higgins home, he’d be a happy man.
And more importantly, Stephanie would be a very happy woman.
38
When Scarlett came back from the chemo session, she was wrecked. The drugs had ripped the energy out of her, leaving her a pale husk. But it wasn’t the chemo or the bereavement itself that had broken her. According to Simon, who had brought her back, she’d had a text from Joshu’s sister Ambar on the way home. Ambar had stated categorically that neither Scarlett nor Jimmy would be welcome at her brother’s funeral. ‘If you have any respect for my family, please stay away. You have no place at a Hindu funeral.’
‘Fucking bitch,’ Scarlett said weakly once we’d got her to bed. ‘Fucking, fucking bitch.’ She gripped my hand so tight I could almost feel the bruises forming. She spoke in broken fragments of sentences. ‘I’m going to show her. Tomorrow, Steph. We’ll get started. We’re going. To organise a memorial service. For all the people. That knew the real Joshu. Not this fake. Perfect son his family are trying to create.’
‘That’s a great idea,’ I said. ‘We’ll give him a proper send-off. You’re right, his friends should have the chance to say goodbye. But in the meantime you need to rest.’
She let go of my hand. I could see the fight draining out of her. ‘Sleep now,’ she said. ‘Everything hurts, Steph. My body and my heart. Everything.’
I stayed with her till she fell asleep, which took less than five minutes. She looked so frail, so pale, the dark circles under her eyes a new addition since the start of the chemo. She looked closer to death than Joshu ever had.
When I left Scarlett, Leanne was carrying Jimmy downstairs. He was grizzling softly, repeating, ‘I want my mummy,’ in a low monotone.
‘We’re going for a little swim before bedtime,’ she said, looking worn out. ‘Do you want to come too?’ She sounded almost desperate.
Obviously we weren’t going to tell Jimmy anything that night. But he clearly sensed there was something bad going on. I didn’t feel much like swimming, but I reckoned opportunities for relaxation would be in short supply over the coming days. And the kid needed a bit of love and attention. In spite of my gloom, I enjoyed frolicking in the water with Jimmy, who perked up as soon as we all started playing. When Leanne finally took him off to bed, too tired to miss his mother, I stayed in the water, swimming lazy laps and thinking about Nick Nicolaides, wondering whether I’d ever see him again.
The next few days were chaotic. Breaking the news to Jimmy was more harrowing for Scarlett than for her son, who was too young to understand the import of what she was telling him. He cried because she was crying, but we all knew he hadn’t grasped the reality that his dad wouldn’t be coming back. ‘He’s going to keep asking
