Out of Reach Read online

  The taxi pulled up outside The Rocket, a rough nightclub that attracted a grim mix of city workers seeking adventure, clueless students, minor criminals, dealers, hustlers, and underage local girls looking to take advantage of the club’s lax door policy. As Schaefer paid the driver, four girls spilled out of the club. One of them was sick in the gutter behind the taxi, while her friends, barely able to fend for themselves, tried to comfort her. The fourth girl looked about aimlessly, clearly unable to focus on her surroundings. Short skirts, heels, skin mottled and goose bumped in the cold night air; these girls were probably even too young for Baker to consider.

  “This one’s free,” Schaefer said, indicating the taxi to the aimless girl. She focused for a moment and registered the cab. Schaefer left her with the unenviable task of trying to convince the driver to take the four of them home, and headed for Baker’s office.

  The Whitechapel Kebabish was packed with drunks eager for charred, rendered meat to soak up their worst excesses. The pavement outside was covered with detritus; mashed chips, grease stains, discarded packaging, wilted salad, and congealed meat. Leaning up against the takeaway’s cracked window, two drunks sat amid the mess and wolfed down their slimy food. Schaefer stopped at the reinforced metal door next to the kebab shop. The drunks didn’t even give him a second glance as he pretended to take a leak, but was in fact using a set of pocket tools to work the locks to Baker’s office.

  A minute later, Schaefer was inside the derelict hallway, shutting the steel door behind him. The paisley carpet was a stained hangover from the eighties and ranged from old and dirty by the door, to almost non-existent and threadbare as it ran up the uneven old stairs. Schaefer climbed the stairs and passed a large brass sign that listed the names of dozens of companies that paid Baker for the use of his address. Schaefer crossed the small waiting area that consisted of two plastic chairs, a small round table covered with a grey lace doily and some old magazines, and a tired old fish in a tiny tank. He opened the door with a sign that read, “Baker & Baker Collections Agency, Debt Recovery and Asset Foreclosure.” The office that Paul Baker shared with his younger brother probably did more to put off prospective clients than any of the Whitechapel filth and ne’er-do-wells outside their door. A large antique partners’ desk was buried beneath mountains of aging paper. A couple of bins were full of discarded fast food containers. File cabinets and shelves were overflowing with documents, and almost every spare inch of floor space was covered with piles of folders and papers. Fire hazard? Hoarders dream? There were many ways to describe this office. The home of one of London’s best investigators was not one of them. Reprehensible in his morals, disgusting in his personal habits, Paul Baker was nonetheless the person Schaefer would entrust with finding his daughter if anything happened to him. The short, chubby man was the most tenacious investigator he had ever known, and had an uncanny knack for lateral thinking that yielded results. They’d met when Schaefer had been hired to find the son of Ronald Nash, a notorious East End gangster. Nash insisted that Baker, who had done what he euphemistically termed debt-recovery work for him, was part of the investigation. Initially resistant, Schaefer had been impressed by the man’s tenacity and results, and the two had worked on a handful of cases since.

  Schaefer picked his way through the clutter and took position by one of the two large sash windows that overlooked the street. The taxi was gone, but the girls were still there. One was lying on the pavement in a natural variant of the recovery position. The one who had been vomiting was sitting hunched over the gutter. Their two extremely inebriated friends were sharing a joint with the drunks who had been sitting outside the kebab shop eating gristle. The smiles and knowing looks they shared suggested they were trying to work the opportunity and were probably both attempting a sozzled calculation of how two best went into four. Schaefer saw a figure roll out of Vallance Road and head towards him. Roll was the best way to describe how Baker moved. Five foot six, overweight, Baker accentuated the rotund look by hunching his shoulders and pushing his hands deep into the pockets of his tatty old hoodie. The hunched shoulders and downed head were his attempt to get through life without being noticed or bothered, but it did make him look like a ball on a pair of fast moving pins. Baker always walked quickly, being outside made him feel exposed. He only really felt safe when seated, either behind his desk, in his favourite chair at home, or in his car. Baker’s curly, greasy shoulder-length hair was showing touches of grey, and his ragged stubble made him look older than his forty-three years. Schaefer leant forward to watch Baker fumble furtively with his own keys; it took him longer than a minute to get the door open. Baker wouldn’t score highly for stealth; he tripped over the first step, let out a loud curse, lumbered up the remaining stairs, and engaged the fish in conversation.

  “You alright, Buzzy Boy?” Baker asked, his normally deep, gruff voice taking on a playful, high pitched tone. “Been keeping an eye on the place?”

  The door opened and Baker started as he turned on the light and caught sight of Schaefer. He put his hand to his chest.

  “Fuck, Schaefer!” Baker exclaimed. “Are you trying to kill me?”

  “You need a better guard fish,” Schaefer said dryly.

  “Let’s get this over with, I’ve got two girls on the clock,” Baker said as he calmed.

  Schaefer produced a photograph of Edward Lomas from the folder Shark Eyes had given him. He handed the photo to Baker.

  “His name is Edward Lomas,” Schaefer said.

  “And this couldn’t wait until morning?” Baker asked condescendingly.

  Schaefer threaded his way through Baker’s office and drew close to the fat little man.

  “You’re going to look for this man like your life depends on it,” Schaefer stated baldly.

  Baker clocked the threat and dropped any pretence of being Schaefer’s equal.

  “Sure. Whatever you say, Schaefer. I’ll get on it right away.”

  “I’ll be getting a new phone number tomorrow morning. I’ll call to give it to you. I’ll expect your first progress report.”

  “Okay. No problem,” Baker capitulated.

  “I knew you’d do the right thing,” Schaefer said as he put Shark Eye’s folder on Baker’s desk. “Make a copy.”

  “Will do.”

  “Good man,” Schaefer observed as he left the office. When he shut the door, he heard Baker give a quiet, “Motherfucker!”

  Schaefer stopped on the landing to listen to Baker’s ensuing phone call.

  “Billy,” Baker said to his brother. “Yeah, I know what fucking time it is. I’ll explain when you get here. Get out of bed, you lazy fuck! Yeah I’m serious. On your way over, drop by my place. There’s a couple of girls there. Pay them and kick them out.”

  Satisfied that Baker was going to do what had been asked of him, Schaefer descended the rickety old stairs and left the building. Whitechapel Road was much as it had been when he’d last seen it, except the two kebab-eaters were ushering three of the drunk girls into a black cab. The fourth girl was still passed out on the pavement. One of her friends made a barely lucid attempt to call out to her, but was quickly distracted by the opportunistic drunk men, who pushed her into the cab with her friends and made vague assertions that her friend would be fine. Schaefer considered the unconscious girl as the red glow of the taxi’s tail lights receded into the distance. Whitechapel hadn’t noticed her yet, but when it did, she had little chance of making it through the night. Schaefer walked over and checked her out. Underneath the smeared make up was a face that showed the last vestiges of childhood; she was probably no older than fifteen.

  “Do you know her?” The question came from Schaefer’s shoulder, and he looked up to see a tall, villainous man looking down at the girl.

  “She’s a friend’s kid,” Schaefer replied as he leant down to pick her up. He slipped his arms around her, hoisted her over his shoulder, and headed for Baker’s front door.

  “How do I know you’re telling the tr
uth?” the tall man asked as he dogged Schaefer’s footsteps.

  Schaefer fixed him with a stare.

  “Walk on, man. Just walk on.”

  The tall man hesitated, but had enough street sense to recognise danger when he encountered it. He backed away.

  “Have fun, mate,” he said with a seedy smile, before walking on.

  Schaefer knocked loudly on Baker’s door, and after a few moments saw Baker’s face at the window. He waved the fat man down.

  “Who the fuck is she?” Baker asked as Schaefer carried the girl up the stairs.

  “I don’t know, but nobody deserves to get left out there like this,” Schaefer replied. He placed the girl on the landing and moved her into the recovery position. “She stays here until she’s slept it off.”

  “So I’m running a doss house now, am I?” Baker asked sarcastically.

  “You’re giving a little something back,” Schaefer replied, as he stood and turned to face Baker. “And just so you know, she can’t be more than fifteen, so don’t go getting any ideas.”

  “Come on, Schaefer, I’ve got more class than that!” Baker protested, but the sceptical look on Schaefer’s face wasn’t going to be shifted by anything he could say.

  “We’ll speak tomorrow,” Schaefer said. As he walked down the stairs, Schaefer heard Baker muttering curses as he returned to his office. For the second time that night, Schaefer left the building. This time he turned east on Whitechapel Road and kept walking.

  EIGHTEEN

  Sarah’s pregnant. Schaefer’s expectant wife stands at the edge of the lake with his gorgeous little girl. Amber’s smile warms Schaefer’s heart when she turns and waves him over. But a troubling thought nags at Schaefer as he walks towards them; there’s something wrong. The feeling is palpable and Schaefer scans the park for danger, but everything looks perfectly fine. It’s a bright summer’s day and the Dulwich families are out in force. Ice creams are being eaten, balls are being kicked, and ducks are being fed.

  Don’t look.

  The words echo around Schaefer’s head, but no lips have spoken them. Schaefer is unsettled, but feels compelled not to say anything.

  “That one is cheeky,” Amber says, pointing to a fat drake with a twinkle in his eye. Amber throws a generous crust of bread at the drake, and the fat duck gobbles it greedily.

  “He looks almost as cheeky as you,” Schaefer says with a strange sense of inevitability. A train running on its tracks, unable to stop.

  Don’t look.

  The voice of a woman. Schaefer doesn’t recognise it. They haven’t met, but they will. The voice of someone he knows well, but her name isn’t for now.

  Something’s wrong, Schaefer thinks as he looks at Amber and Sarah, lost in the simple happiness of feeding ducks. The bright sunlight catches the crests of the tiny waves on the lake, sparkling and shimmering. Perfection, or as close to it as Schaefer thought he was ever likely to experience.

  Don’t look.

  The voice was more urgent. More insistent. Schaefer felt the sudden urge to look at everything. There was nothing to fear. Everything that meant anything to him was right by his side.

  “That one doesn’t look well,” Amber says.

  “Which one, sweetie?” Schaefer hears himself ask.

  “Down there,” Amber says, pointing towards the lip of the pavement that runs around the lake.

  Don’t look.

  Insistent. Matronly.

  “I can’t see anything,” Schaefer says, stepping closer to the edge.

  “Yes you can, Daddy,” Amber says. “You can see him.”

  Then Schaefer does. A man’s face, grey with death, staring up at him from under the perfectly calm water. The left side of the man’s skull broken and his hair matted with blood. Schaefer knows this should terrify him, but he looks at Amber and is reassured to see her calm. It’s a perfectly fine day. The dead man in the water is nothing to worry about.

  “He’s trying to get out,” Amber says.

  Schaefer turns back to the corpse. Edward Lomas. The name comes to him suddenly, but it doesn’t mean anything to him. The grey face ripples with movement, and Edward Lomas’ eyes open. They have no irises and are completely white.

  “Infusco revolvo,” the dead man’s voice fills Schaefer’s head. He turns to ask Amber what the words mean, but she is gone. In her place stands Ellen Ovitz.

  “Don’t look,” Ellen says.

  A sudden rush of consciousness. The profound and disorienting realisation of dreaming.

  NINETEEN

  Schaefer woke to the sound of his phone ringing. He was splayed on the old Chesterfield in the Great Room at the Royal Inn on the Park. Papers from Mather’s box folder were spread all over the place along with a selection of journals and files he had brought from the storage locker. A half-empty bottle of rum lay at the end of the sofa, an accomplice in crimes perpetrated against Schaefer’s pounding head. Schaefer answered the phone.

  “Schaefer,” he said.

  “Where are you?” It was Sarah, and the sound of her angry voice made Schaefer remember it was Sunday. He checked the time on his phone and realised he was late.

  “I’ll be there,” Schaefer replied.

  “He can’t take much more of this,” Sarah began, but Schaefer cut her off.

  “I said I’ll be there!” Schaefer exclaimed, before ending the call. He got to his feet, put on his jacket and left the room in a hurry.

  *

  The train left London Bridge ten minutes late. Schaefer wasn’t sure whether his churning stomach was the result of the previous night’s drinking or the nervous guilt he felt at being late for his visit. Whatever the cause, as the train trundled out of the station, he thought about what he’d read the previous night. The trawl through his journals gave no hint of what it was he was supposed to remember. All they did was remind him of how little progress he had made. Leads that went nowhere, suspects who knew nothing, prospects withering on the vine. Confronted with an account of the past few years written in his own hand, Schaefer could not help feeling that he was moving in ever decreasing circles. The only truly promising lead in recent memory was Edward Lomas, and he had no intention of letting the old man slip through his fingers.

  Mather’s box had yielded little last night. After scouring his journals, Schaefer had opted to read translated pages from Excommunicare, an arcane manuscript created by the Sacred Congregation of The Holy Office of the Inquisition in 1588. The text was aimed at Inquisitors and had been written with the purpose of codifying the process of identifying and outing heretics. Much of it dealt with the processes that could be used to extract confessions from wayward individuals. The text also dealt with the punishments that would appropriately chastise the heretic and show the Church’s resolve in dealing with devilry. So much torture and murder carried out in the name of an omnipotent God. Schaefer had long believed that a being with such power didn’t need self-righteous hypocrites to stand up for Him. Among sanctified violence, Schaefer had found a passage on Il Colletivo. It commanded any Inquisitor who discovered a member of Il Colletivo to refer the case to a higher authority and send the accused heretic to Rome for judgment. Schaefer wondered why this organisation was singled out for special treatment. Had it perpetrated crimes that merited an example being made? Or did the Collective’s reach extend to the Church of St. Peter? Would the Collective’s heretics be given sanctuary and allowed to slip quietly out of the Vatican unmolested? Schaefer needed to talk to Mathers; find out what the bookseller had discovered. He would also follow up with Baker and see what the fat detective had on Edward Lomas.

  Schaefer opened the carrier bag that rested on the floor between his feet, and pulled out his new mobile phone. He assembled it and switched it on. The battery would soon die, but there was enough power for him to send texts to everyone who mattered informing them of his new number. If Shark Eyes and his people had bugged his old phone, they were going to be disappointed.

  Schaefer disembarked at
Norwood Junction and walked the two miles to Sarah’s house. She must have been watching from one of the front windows, because she opened the door as he stepped through the garden gate.

  “You’re two hours late!” Sarah fumed. Resentment and hostility were usually shackled under a strained veneer of civility and were rarely vented. Schaefer thought it an unhealthy way to live, going through a life of compromise with all that anger turned inward. As healthy as Sarah’s rage might have been in the abstract, Schaefer was in no mood for confrontation; his ringing head couldn’t take it. He stumbled over the front step and caught the porch wall to steady himself.

  “Look at you,” Sarah seethed.

  “I’m here now,” Schaefer said quietly.

  “You’re not taking him like this,” Sarah said loudly.

  “Like what?” Schaefer asked. He guessed Oliver could hear every word of their exchange. “I was working late.”

  Sarah leant in to smell Schaefer’s breath.

  “You’ve been drinking,” Sarah whispered, keen to protect their son from the darkness of his father’s life. “Sort yourself out. You know where the bathroom is.”

  Sarah stood aside and allowed Schaefer to pass. He hurried straight upstairs and locked himself in the bathroom.

  *

  Sarah and Oliver sat side by side in silence. Schaefer caught sight of them as he came down the stairs of the small West Norwood terrace house that Sarah had bought after they sold their home. He wondered whether they ever had anything to say to each other, or whether the tension of the visit had dampened their normal conversation. Schaefer walked quietly down the stairs and into the shabby chic living room. Mismatched reclaimed furniture; Sarah was careful with money and earned just about enough from part-time nursing to provide for her and Oliver. Schaefer guessed the maintenance money he paid was probably put away in a tax efficient savings account for Oliver’s future. Sarah had always been the sensible one. A handful of photos of her and Oliver dotted around the room and one of them all together as a family on top of the old upright piano in the corner. None of Amber, but Schaefer knew better than to ever point that out again. He had mentioned it once before, and Sarah had exploded, accusing him of self-righteousness, when in fact he was a reckless drunk who refused to let himself believe that his daughter was dead. That had been one of their worst fights, and unlike the physical wounds he’d suffered, words never healed.