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28th March 2014
Gambier Terrace sits overlooking Liverpool’s Anglican Cathedral. Numbers 1 to 10, at the northernmost end of the terrace, are Grade II Listed Buildings, designated to be of special architectural interest. The plans for the entire row to be built in the same Regency style were halted in the slump of 1837. Number 10 became the last of the original build; the remainder constructed later to a different, cheaper design and specification. Its best-known occupants were probably John Lennon and his friend the artist Stuart Sutcliffe, who’d lived in a flat at number 3 during 1960.
The house Nicks entered hadn’t been turned into flats. It’d been modernised but retained many of its original regency features, giving it an air of quirky modernity and style. The front door was answered by a woman in her early forties. Pretty in an unconventional way, she wore a light grey, below the knee, pencil skirt with a crisp white blouse. Her short hair was almost white and, when he introduced himself, she flashed him a dazzlingly pleasant smile.
“I’ve been expecting you, Mister Lees,” she said, closing the door behind him.
The fairly wide hallway was narrowed considerably by the inclusion of a wildly overused set of coat hooks and a pile of assorted wellington boots and children’s shoes against which Nicks attempted to balance himself. Opposite him stood a large, ancient radiator. Smiling again, she squeezed herself between him and the radiator saying: “Follow me, please,” and walked off along the corridor and up the nearby stairs.
On the first floor, she crossed the landing and knocked on a door. Without waiting for an invite, she entered and announced to the two occupants: “Mister Lees.” Nicks thanked her and she dazzled him again.
Two figures stood at the far end of the large wood-floored room, highlighted by an angle poise lamp on a grand piano. The rest of the room was unfurnished. Floor to ceiling windows let in the last of the day’s cold light. The Anglican Cathedral stood majestically beyond.
“Ahh, Phillip, I’m glad you could make it,” Don strode out from behind the piano, smiling, and shook his hand.
“Let me introduce you to Mister Kovács.” He turned to the other man in the room and said: “István, this is our Mister Lees.” Stepping forward Kovács shook Nicks’s hand.
In his late sixties, a profusion of dark grey hair almost touched his shoulders. Nicks thought he should’ve been carrying a violin.
“So glad to meet you, Mister Lees. You have come highly recommended,” he said warmly. “I’m hoping you can resolve an issue for us. Let’s not waste any time. Come.” He indicated towards the piano upon which Nicks could now see a thin folder. “I will explain everything.” He spoke English easily, with just a hint of an accent.
Don, still smiling said: “I’ll go and arrange some coffee. I won’t be long.”
Outside, the light had quickly slithered away and through the windows, Nicks could see the city being slowly devoured by a thick mist. Three-quarters of an hour later, after a comprehensive briefing, Kovács said:
“And now I must apologise, but it is necessary for me to show you something so you know the man you will be dealing with.”
He opened the folder on the piano and removed seven A4 sized photographs. Nicks re-adjusted the angle poise lamp so he could see them clearly. They were pictures of the naked body of a young woman.
The first four were taken from various angles and showed the girl’s torso which had been subjected to a sustained, violent attack. Her left breast had been cut away and there were multiple stab wounds: chest, arms, thighs, neck and sides. Her intestines spilled out of her stomach. The fifth showed the location in which she had been discarded, her body in the distance; a derelict courtyard, piles of rubbish everywhere. She was just another. The sixth; the left side of her face, black and blue from a vicious beating.
The last was what she’d looked like on a happier day, a dead likeness to a picture of Anca at 17; the shape of her face and lips, her eyes, the colour of her hair, the same joy and exuberance.
Kovács noticed a change in his manner. “Are you alright, Mister Lees?” he asked, clearly concerned. Nicks gave him a weak smile. “Yeah... yeah, I’m ok.”