‘Damn it. I was so certain. Wait, WAIT… just give me a bit of space.’
Anna peered into the kitchen.
‘Yes, yes!’ She brought out a small carved wooden figure of a woman, perfect down to the hand-stitched dress and glued-on hair, though some of the paint on her face was peeling and she had lost one arm. Thin pins attached the arm and legs to the body, the head was secured with a small Phillips screw.
Anna, afraid it would shatter, carried the figure as carefully as if it was made of crystal and laid it down on a sheet of paper on her desk, and then opened her briefcase. Her hands were shaking as she removed an evidence bag containing two small Perspex boxes in which Pete had placed the doll’s head and leg, to protect them from further damage. Side by side, the similarity between the figure from the doll’s house and the pieces from the lab was obvious.
‘It’s a match. These aren’t shop bought, are they?’ Anna asked, looking for assurance.
Paul shook his head and said that he was no expert, but to him they looked as if the same person had carved them.
‘You know what this means? Henry Oates could have got them from Rebekka Jordan’s home, maybe she even had one with her when she went missing, but it is the first bit of tangible evidence we have that links him to her.’
This was a major step forwards for Anna. She told Barolli to photograph the woman figure then find an evidence box and get it over to Pete Jenkins so he could take some paint scrapings to compare with samples from Oates’s squat. Anna realized she would need Stephen Jordan to confirm that he’d carved the tiny head and leg. It was certainly going to be hard for Oates to explain how he came by them. At last the jigsaw was starting to take shape, but there was still a long way to go before it could be proved Oates was involved in Rebekka Jordan’s disappearance.
Buoyed by her discovery, Anna was feeling very confident, but didn’t have time to share the development with Mike Lewis. She had to meet Ira Zacks, so Barolli was left to feed the details to the team. The hunt was on, the entire murder team was beginning to feel positive. They had made a lot of headway on the Fidelis Flynn case and now they had a breakthrough with Rebekka Jordan.
Ira Zacks lived in a surprisingly smart apartment building overlooking the river a short distance from Hammersmith Bridge. It was also not that far from the Jordans’ house. A caretaker buzzed Anna into the spacious reception, and instructed her to go to the second floor. The lift was immaculate and thickly carpeted, with one wall consisting completely of mirror. She checked her reflection before the lift opened onto the same dark red carpet in a wide corridor hung with paintings and a gilt-framed mirror.
After a moment a door was swung wide open and Ira Zacks’ massive frame virtually filled the entire doorway. He was mixed race and at least six feet four, with wide sloping shoulders and his hair in dreadlocks down to below his shoulders, tied back with a black band. He was wearing a T-shirt that showed off his muscular arms, track-suit bottoms, and had bare feet.
Anna introduced herself and showed her ID, but he hardly glanced at it, ushering her inside into his hallway, which was filled with posters from his boxing past. He towered above her as he gestured for her to continue to the drawing room. Yet again she was surprised by how luxurious the flat was, with stylish ultra-modern furniture and a view from a wraparound window overlooking the river. Outside, she could see a balcony with tables and chairs and a furled parasol tastefully accompanied by plants and trailing ivy.
‘You have a beautiful home,’ Anna said as he waited to take her coat. He gave a wide smile, showing two gold teeth, as he neatly folded her coat and placed it over the back of a lounge chair.
‘Unexpected, huh?’
She smiled and nodded, at the same time wondering how he could afford such an elegant and clearly expensive place on a doorman’s salary. She sat beside a glass-topped table and placed her briefcase on top of it while he crossed to an ornate bar and opened a fridge, taking out a small bottle of chilled water for her. He took a paper napkin and put it on the table beneath the bottle.
Ira then picked up a hard-backed chair, turning it around with one hand to sit astride it, and leaned his elbows on the gilt frame.
‘Just in case you think I got all this from ill-gotten gains, I ain’t no drug pusher, this is down to hard graft. I used to work the doors on nightclubs in the East End as security, then decided to start my own business. I now provide over two hundred registered door supervisors to pubs and clubs across London. Recruited a lot of the old boxers and pals and then got into working as an extra on movies and TV, so nowadays they do all the hard graft and I make a nice living, thank you.’
‘Congratulations.’
Anna took out the photograph of Henry Oates and passed it to him. He did no more than have a glance before handing it back to her.
‘Henry Oates.’
Anna explained her reason for wanting to talk to him and he listened, occasionally twisting his head to loosen his hair.
‘Basically I need to know when you last saw him,’ she concluded.
‘Few years back, three, four, maybe longer.’
‘Did he work for you?’
He shook his head and gave a wide-handed gesture.
‘Nah, we tried him, but he couldn’t be trusted to turn up and to be honest, though he could handle himself, he was on the short side and he could lose it just like that. Working the doors you got to have a big presence; you also got to know who’s who if it’s one of the smart nightclubs, know what I mean? Movie stars can turn up looking like scruffs and dealers can look like dummies outta Burton’s. I train my guys up. They’re smart, savvy, and Oates was a bum. I got contracts for West End clubs, couple in Stockwell, one over in Kilburn and another about to open in Kensington.’
‘So this last time you saw him, did he come here?’
‘Nah, wouldn’t let him through the door if he did. He was a mess, but I felt sorry for him. Years ago, when he was on the amateur circuit, he got himself mixed up with a right whore, everyone at the old club knew what she was, but he was always one sandwich short of a picnic, know what I mean?’
‘So where was it you met up with him?’
He closed his eyes and then drummed his fingers on the back of the chair.
‘I’d closed a deal at a local pub when he sees me and comes over looking for a handout. I took him for a burger at the McDonald’s off Shepherd’s Bush Green.’
‘So you met him around here in Hammersmith and then took him to Shepherd’s Bush?’
‘Yeah. I was goin’ to the BBC at White City. I said where I was off to and he asked if he could cadge a ride there. Said he had a chance of getting some work, an’ he stunk out my car, but like I said I felt sorry for him. He ate three cheeseburgers, I remember that, said he was no longer with his wife and that she’d taken his kids to Scotland.’
‘Did you know his wife?’
‘Not really. I didn’t say anything but I wasn’t surprised they’d split. Everyone knew she put it about. They said the daughter looked nothing like him, more like me. Don’t get me wrong, I never slept with his missus, she was a minger.’
‘Did Oates say anything else to you?’
I asked where he was living and he said he’d found a squat somewhere. To be honest I couldn’t wait to get rid of him. I gave him fifty quid and that was the last I saw of him.’
‘He never tried to see you again?’
Ira shook his head, then showed his wide toothy smile.
‘Well he said he’d pay me back as soon as he got a job so that’d be a reason to stay away.’
Anna made a note in her notebook.
‘I remember watching one of his fights. Took a terrible pasting, his face was like a squashed tomato; ref had to stop the fight because he was bleedin’ so badly. He only had a go at the ref, wouldn’t go down, but that was his last bout.’
‘Do you think he’s punch-drunk?’