Cold Revenge (Willis/Carter #6)(61)

‘Actually, no, I’d better ring.’ He got back out of the car to make his call. It only took a few minutes and when he got back in, he was smiling.

‘All is okay in the world, Eb. My woman still loves me and my son has finally turned a corner and has stopped being a little shit in school.’

‘Great, let’s go.’ She buckled her seatbelt. ‘I miss seeing them since you moved further out.’

‘I know, it’s really hard. Archie keeps asking when you’re coming over.’

‘So he can practise his rugby tackle on me again?’

‘That was funny. I’ve never seen anyone fall in slow motion and try so hard to stop themselves.’

‘He had me around both ankles, plus I didn’t want to fall on him. He just wouldn’t let go, it was like having handcuffs on your ankles.’

‘Yeah, God, it was funny. I wish I’d had the video running.’

‘Can I come out and stay overnight when things get easier?’

‘That will be great.’

Carter and Willis parked up in the visitors’ car parking space beneath the Arena Vista Tower, one of the high-end, newly built accommodation and leisure blocks in Canary Wharf. The reception desk of white marble and dark bronze was on the left of the foyer. A palatial sweep of steps led up to a glass marble area with lifts and water features.

Carter showed his badge. ‘Do you have a Cathy Dwyer living here?’

The concierge shook his head with a smile, as if he hadn’t quite understood what Carter had said.

‘Okay, let’s try an apartment rented by a company called GET?’

‘Ah yes, the new complex?’

‘Perhaps.’ Carter smiled. ‘Is there a woman named Cathy Dwyer involved in that?’ Willis pulled out a photo of Dwyer, taken from her online company profile.

‘This is the woman? This is Ms Cathy Bloom. We don’t know her as Dwyer.’

‘Okay, does she have a flat here?’

‘Yes, it’s on the sixth floor, studio 647, but she isn’t in, she went out with her colleagues about an hour ago.’

‘Where did she go?’

‘I think they were intending to go to the Singing Canary cocktail bar; that’s just five minutes’ walk around here on the left.’

‘Thank you, you mentioned the complex here? Is that happening in this building?’

‘Yes, it is. On the top floor.’

‘What is it going to be?’

‘We don’t know anything about it yet; the architects are still working on the plans. It’s not opening till next summer.’

‘Sounds good, and do you see much of Cathy Bloom?’

‘Not really. She doesn’t stop and chat. She’s always in a hurry.’

‘Thank you,’ Carter looked at his name badge, ‘George, you’ve been really helpful.’

They walked around towards the bar, as the icy wind blasted off the Thames. There was no mistaking winter had arrived. The vertical village was lit up bright against the black stormy sky. The Singing Canary was a two-storeyed bar in an old tea warehouse, with interesting photographs in black-and-white from the early days of the docks. Old East End memorabilia hung down from the ceiling alongside birdcages housing animated yellow canaries. The walls were bare stone; there was a mix of antique and modern in the furnishings. The place was packed with City types entertaining other City types.

They were greeted by a striking-looking Spanish woman in black. ‘Have you booked?’

Carter shook his head and showed his ID.

She smiled nervously and immediately drew closer for privacy. ‘My name is Maria, how can I help?’

‘We’re looking for this woman, she’s apparently drinking here. She’s called Cathy Bloom? She’s with some colleagues?’

Maria looked at it and was obviously wondering what would be the best course of action to please both police and customer and keep her job.

‘She’s here, but she is with work colleagues having a meeting at the moment. Can I take a message?’

‘That’s kind, but no, we need a word with her. We won’t disturb her long but it is urgent. Take us to her, please.’

The waitress paused, seemed to assimilate the knowledge and then nodded. ‘Please follow me.’

She led them up the stairs to the bar area where there was a mix of seating – booths and tables and low-level sofas overlooking the Thames. It was dimly lit with discreet alcoves, and the wall lights were made from birdcages. They followed Maria along to the far end and stopped mid-aisle ten feet from a table of four people, three men and one woman. The woman had her back to them; when she turned to see who was disturbing them, she was instantly recognisable as Cathy Dwyer. On the table was an assortment of tapas and two bottles of wine.

‘Please wait here.’ Maria went forward to speak to the woman who excused herself amongst a few jokes about the Old Bill coming to arrest her.

‘Cathy Dwyer?’ asked Carter, as she walked over to him.

‘Bloom,’ she answered, irritated. ‘What is it? I am in the middle of a meeting with colleagues. What is this about?’

‘We will try not to keep you long.’ Carter smiled. ‘Shall we sit here?’

They sat at a free table nearby. Cathy Dwyer sat opposite them, her back to her colleagues on the other table who were taking a keen interest in what was going on. Maria, from the front desk, had been called over to talk with them.