Dead Of Winter (Willis/Carter #1)(31)

‘What’s his sexuality?’ asked Jeanie.

‘Digger likes slim nubile boys.’ He placed another photo on the desk. It was one of Sonny and Digger together walking towards Sonny’s car on Brewer Street.

‘Digger keeps Sonny in business. Digger says he doesn’t take trafficked girls any more but he’s lying. He doesn’t put them on show any more, but he has escort agencies and brothels that spring up all over the place. Sources say that Sonny just gets the girls then unloads them and gets another lot. Digger does the rest. He puts them to work.’

‘And,’ said Carter, ‘Sonny’s also been responsible for breaking the girls when they get here: it’s a good explanation why Silvia was carrying his child. Do you have an address for him, Robbo?’

‘Yes . . . Lives with his mum in Southwark. At least, he gives that address.’

‘Is Martingale here in the UK?’ Carter pressed for a print out of the photo of Martingale. ’

‘Yes, he is at the moment. He’s working out of his hospital, the Mansfield, in Hammersmith.’

‘Well, while we wait for the surveillance on Sonny to be organized, we’ll pay Martingale a visit – see if he can tell us any more about his daughter.’

‘Will we need to get permission from Davidson, Sarge?’ asked Ebony.

‘If you ask . . . you won’t get,’ said Robbo.

‘Better not to ask then,’ Carter grinned. ‘Let’s go. Rock ‘n’ Roll, Ebb.’





Chapter 18


It was five p.m. when Carter and Ebony drove into a broad well-maintained car park. The snow had been cleared and piled into the corners. Perfectly even-sized pine trees bordered the car park. They looked as if they’d been ordered from a catalogue and arrived fully grown. There were a few cars in the staff and consultants’ section, half a dozen more in the patients’ ample parking area.

‘Not like your NHS car parks. What did Robbo say this place specializes in, Ebb?’

‘It’s a general private hospital, Sarge. You can come here if you need a facelift or bypass surgery, but the Mansfield Group is best known for private cosmetic work.’

They walked across to the entrance, up the steps and through two sets of glass doors. The lady on the reception desk had Ivy Morell on her name badge.

‘Ivy. Beautiful name.’ Carter smiled at her and showed his warrant card. She blushed like a schoolgirl. ‘You mind telling Mr Martingale we’re here to see him please, Ivy?’

She showed them through to a waiting area where Nikki, Martingale’s PA, greeted them. She was perfectly groomed, her hair swept back into a sleek chignon. Carter was captivated. She was not interested. Ebony watched amused as she realized that Carter had a thing for ice maidens.

‘Mr Martingale will see you now.’

Ebony watched her as she hovered in the doorway. She didn’t take her eyes from her boss. There was only one man she cared about. Carter would be disappointed.

‘Thank you for seeing us, sir.’

Martingale’s office was dark walnut and heavy leather. His desk was in front of a wall of windows with integral louvred blinds, adjusted to allow the right amount of sunlight into the room. A single orchid was just beginning to flower pale pink. He sat back in his Italian leather chair and swivelled it slightly back and forth as he watched them enter. He had a handsome, lightly tanned face which was creased with deep laughter lines, and thick salt and pepper hair. His cuffs were rolled up and he wore a platinum sports Rolex on his wrist, its blue face bright against the silver hairs on his arm. He had the look of a man between rounds of golf.

‘I am happy to help. Please sit down. I must apologize, though . . .’ Martingale smiled. ‘I have a full list today in theatre and a patient being prepped at the moment so I can give you ten minutes. What is it about?’

‘I appreciate that . . . we won’t keep you long . . . we just thought we should update you on recent events that have relevance to your daughter’s case.’

Martingale pressed a button: ‘Hold all my calls and stall theatre for me please.’ He turned back to Carter. ‘Please do go on. I’ve waited a long time for news about my daughter’s case. Did you find fresh evidence?’

‘We have a connection to it. The body of a woman and an infant have been found murdered at a house north of London.’

‘Is the woman connected to Chrissie in some way?’

‘We don’t know yet: we haven’t been able to identify her. We are not sure whether she’s from the UK. She could possibly be a trafficked victim brought over here to work in the clubs.’

‘So what is it that connects her to my daughter’s murder?’

‘We found a fingerprint that matches one from Rose Cottage. It’s early days but it means that whoever killed your daughter is here in London.’

‘And still killing.’

‘Yes.’

Martingale sat deep in thought.

‘I appreciate it’s a shock, sir; a reminder of what happened; but it’s also a chance for us to catch them this time.’

‘I hope so. What do you want me to do?’

‘We just need to ask you some questions. We want to take a fresh look at events thirteen years ago. Reading the notes isn’t the same as getting it from the horse’s mouth . . . as it were . . .’