Death Of A Devil

by Derek Farrell

  Eventually, we stopped outside the door of a small industrial unit, the window to the left covered in a mesh screen for security, the door itself held fast by a padlock the size of my head. No nameplate or logo announced it as belonging to any commercial venture and the peeling paint, along with the fistfuls of pizza and kebab takeaway menus mashed into the overfilled letterbox on the door, spoke of the ages that had passed since anyone had let themselves in.

  “Doesn’t look like he’s been here,” I muttered, then realised the stupidity of my statement. “Mind you, he’d hardly be likely to tidy up the junk mail.” I slipped the key from my pocket and slid it into the padlock.

  Or tried to, because, as soon as I slid the tiny key into the lock, I realised that it didn’t fit.

  This padlock would have had a key the size of my hand, not the size of this smaller one I was actually holding.

  “Fuck it,” I whispered, “she’s given us the wrong key.”

  “Are you sure?” Caz, keeping her voice low, peered over my shoulder. “Here, let me have a go.”

  I stepped to one side, surrendering the key and Caz, leaning over the padlock, fiddled with the security arrangements for a few moments before she, too, admitted failure and straightened up.

  “Well this doesn’t make sense,” she said, stepping back to the edge of the pavement and staring upwards as a deep bank of clouds blocked out what little moonlight we had.

  “If you’re looking for inspiration,” I muttered, “I think someone just turned out the lights.”

  Caz stepped into the street, her head turning left and right. “I wonder…” she muttered and crossed to the two huge wooden gates on the right of the office building as the clouds cleared and the moon, catching the wood in an oblique angle, showed, under the flaking paint, the phantom of an ancient identifier: ‘Mayerlings Horsefeed.’ Caz stepped up to the gates, inspected them and, after a moment of fiddling around, let loose a single, whispered, “Aha,” and stepped aside as one of the two gates moved slowly inwards.

  “The key for the yard,” she said sotto voce, as she stood to one side and gestured for me to pass through the opening she’d created, “not the office.”

  I stepped through the gates. To my left and right, the walls of the buildings on either side created a long narrow corridor.

  “That office looked pretty solidly locked,” Caz said quietly, following me through the gate as a familiar shape appeared at the end of the corridor, the flitting clouds managing to make it obvious yet only semi-visible.

  I held a hand up. “I think,” I said, “he’s been living in his car.”

  Which was when the smell hit me.

  It was metallic, but sharper, more acrid. And then, like a second wave behind it, there was a waft of scorching and a sweet undercurrent of petrol and toast.

  The clouds broke and the moon shone down on the scene as I walked forward into the yard at the back of the building. The pale blue light disclosed the car, the beautiful shiny paintwork – glossy and scarlet as a posh manicure last time I’d seen it – was now blackened and blistered down to the scorched bodywork. The front windscreen – whether from the heat of the conflagration that had incinerated the vehicle or from furious blows with a blunt object – had vanished and sparkling shards of glass were scattered all over the ground, their facets reflecting the moonlight.

  The fire had obviously blazed furiously, but it had clearly burnt itself out some time ago because not so much as a wisp of smoke came from the blackened bonnet, the scorched roof or the tires; which were exploded and partially melted so that Dali-esque pools of melted and reformed rubber spread across the yard.

  And, sitting in the driver’s seat, as though staring out at us with the youthful arrogance we’d seen when we’d met him what seemed a lifetime ago – as his curly dark hair had shone in the autumnal sunlight and his long, slim tanned limbs had sung with vigour and life – was what was left of Alex Chatham.

  I jerked my phone from my pocket and, with shaking hands, dialled 999.

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  A thunderous banging echoed around my head and it took a few moments to realise that it was actually echoing around my bedroom as I slowly swam towards consciousness.

  I’d gotten home in the early hours of the morning, after being interviewed several times by numerous different East London coppers, all of whom had wanted to know what Caz and I were doing in the disused yard that night.

  That we’d already decided to tell almost the whole truth hadn’t really helped, because the fact was that the truth was so bizarre as to be almost unbelievable. Still, Alex’s dad hadn’t heard from him in a few days and had been worried. We’d managed to trace the fact that he used to work for Al Halliwell, who had – we believed – previously used this yard, we and came round just on the off chance that the missing young man might be hiding out here.

  “Why would he be ‘hiding out’?” One of them had asked, and I’d lied that I suspected the whole thing was just a spoiled kid trying to wind up his dad.

  I don’t know why I did that; it just seemed like anything else – the full unvarnished truth encompassing missing diamonds, dead bodies and a rapidly dwindling gang of crooks – would take too much explaining.

  After the 999-phone call and before cops had arrived – before the scene of crime gang had erected a couple of arc lights, ushered us away, taped the place off and begun a fingertip search of the entire area – I’d summoned my courage up, crept forward and peered at the horrifying figure in the driver seat of the destroyed vehicle.

  And clearly, unavoidably, seen the hole in the skull where a bullet had either entered or exited.

  Which explained why poor Alex had simply sat still as his Ferrari burned around him.

  The cops finally let us go sometime after 4:00 a.m. We’d come back to The Marq and crashed, exhaustion meaning we hadn’t even had the time to discuss the events of the night, and now it sounded like someone was using a sledgehammer to demolish the four walls of my bedroom.

  “Door,” Caz moaned from somewhere under the duvet. “Back door.” And she resumed snoring.

  I staggered from bed in my t-shirt and boxers, and squinted at the time on my phone.

  “Jesus,” I said, “it’s half eleven.”

  The banging continued.

  Caz, still snoring, snuggled across to the warm spot I had just vacated and pulled the duvet over her head.

  I walked to the window and lifted a tiny corner of the curtain to be greeted by yet another grey drizzly day, the light dim enough that it didn’t offend my eyeballs.

  The banging continued.

  “Whoever they are,” Caz sleep-muttered from under the duvet, “I don’t think they’re going away.”

  I glanced back over her, then, with a sense of impending doom, pulled on a pair of jeans, threw my feet into a pair of trainers and jogged – the laces flapping dangerously around me – down the stairs.

  I opened the back door and Carlton, his hair and shirt soaked from the drizzle, fell into the hallway.

  “What have you done?” he cried plaintively, grabbing on to my shoulders. “What the fuck have you done? And what did you think you were doing?”

  “Nice to see you too,” I replied. “You’re looking well. Have you been at a health spa?”

  “Don’t fucking joke with me, Danny,” he snarled. “What have you done?”

  “Pointed the police to security camera footage and a living breathing witness that proves you couldn’t be guilty.” I hooked an arm around and lead him into the kitchen.

  When we had entered the kitchen and I had closed the door firmly behind us, I turned to him.

  “And before we start,” I said, “you’re welcome. For, y’know, your freedom and all that.”

  “Where’s my mum?” he demanded, his eyes blazing.

  “She’s still inside,” I explained, holding my hand up to stave off the verbal assault I feared was coming.

  But no assault came. Instead, Carlton looked
wildly around the kitchen as though searching for something.

  Then, the smell hit me too.

  “Mate,” he choked, “this kitchen stinks. You got another body in here?”

  I held up a hand to silence him and listened to the sounds in the room. “Shit,” I hissed, charging over to the giant chest freezer in the corner. “Shit, shit, shit.”

  And then, stupidly, I lifted the lid and, as the smell of thawed and slowly rotting meat wafted out of the water-filled box, I gagged, staggered back and dropped the lid from my grasp.

  My freezer, it seemed, had finally given up the ghost, although – from the state of what was left of the contents – the ghost had been given up some days previously.

  “Any more?” I demanded, casting my eyes heavenward.

  Carlton collapsed into one of the kitchen chairs, his long slim legs stretched out before him.

  “This is all my fault,” he said, despair filling every syllable.

  “Oh mate,” I sighed, “it was an old freezer. God knows how long it’s been here, but everyone knew it was on its last legs.”

  “Not the fucking freezer,” he snapped. “My mum. Jimmy. All of it.”

  I crossed to him. “Carlton – enough with the Jesus complex. You’re not here to take on the sins of the world. Or to be responsible for everyone in it. You didn’t kill Jimmy Carter. We’ve proven that, otherwise you wouldn’t be here now.”

  He looked at me wildly. “Are you really that stupid?” he asked, then choked back a sob and folded into himself.

  “Carlton,” I crossed to him and hunkered down, trying to look into his eyes, “this is not your fault.”

  “He threatened me,” Carlton said, his eyes still downcast. “Do you have any idea how frightened I was when he turned up? I barely remembered him – I was just a baby when he left – but I just knew who he was, and I was so fucking scared.”

  “He’s gone now,” I said, putting a hand on his arm.

  Carlton looked up at me. “Exactly,” he said. “Because he attacked me, and he threatened me, and my mum dealt with it. Cos that’s what mums do, innit?”

  I straightened up. “Wait, you think Ali killed him? What am I saying?” I asked, shaking my head, and moving myself into another chair, which I pulled alongside Carlton. “Obviously you think Ali killed Jimmy, why else would you have confessed to a crime you clearly couldn’t have committed?”

  “Exactly,” he said, looking back up at me. “She did this for me, and I was trying to take one for her.”

  “Oh Carlton, mate,” I shook my head, “a couple of points on your licence, an evening babysitting instead of partying with your pals, even letting your mate cop off with the one person in the club that you fancied – those are all taking one for the team.

  “But spending twenty years in prison for a crime you didn’t commit is insanity.”

  “It’s all my fault.” He choked back a sob.

  “It’s not,” I said. “And it’s not your mum’s fault either. Jimmy Carter was a nasty, worthless piece of shit, and he upset and offended a lot of people,” I said, “and any one of those people could have killed him.”

  Carlton frowned, a light of sorts coming on behind his eyes.

  I nodded. “Ali didn’t kill him either. I saw her when he first turned up and she was terrified too. And I’m not saying that Ali would never have killed him. You’re right, if she had no other way out, I’m not ruling out her doing something silly. But she’s not a murderer, Carlton. You know that.

  “Your mum is bluster and fire and pride and determination. She’s ripped me off a strip once or twice, and I’ve seen her put nasty drunks in a headlock and sling them bodily out the door in that bar.

  “But she’s not a murderer.”

  “But she’s still in prison,” he said, his voice cracking on the last word.

  “For now,” I said, patting him on the shoulder. “But she didn’t do it, and you confessing to having done it just muddied the water. So I had to clear you. Besides, your mum would have crucified me if I’d left you inside whilst Tara was out there with a full alibi for you.”

  At the name Tara, he looked up. “You met her?” he said and when I nodded, he smiled softly. “How’s she doing?”

  “She’s doing okay,” I said, “but worrying about you.”

  He nodded. “She’s okay. You know—”

  He broke off, and I nodded. “I know,” I said. “Life’s rarely perfect, but there are still good people in it. She’s one of the good ones.”

  “You think my mum would like her?”

  “I think if you like her, your mum would like her too,” I said and he cracked again, a single sob escaping him.

  “Can you get my mum out too?”

  I shook my head. “Not yet. You had an alibi, and one that the police were able to independently verify. But Ali’s not got one right now.”

  “So what are we going to do?”

  “We’re going to find out who the real murderer is,” I said, as someone knocked on the kitchen door. “Come in,” I called, turning back to Carlton. “And when we do, your mum will be back behind the bar here and all will be well again.”

  “How am I gonna look my mum in the eyes when we know she’s in prison cos she was trying to protect me?” Carlton said morosely.

  “You’ll do it,” I said, “because you know she’s innocent, and you know we’re going to find out who did this and get her out. Okay?” I asked, repeating the question, when he made no response, until he smiled sadly and nodded.

  “Okay,” he said, glancing over my shoulder and frowning.

  I turned. A fill-in barmaid stood in the doorway. “A man is asking for you,” she said. “Looks posh.”

  I squeezed his shoulder. “I’ll be back in a bit,” I said, following the barmaid down the hallway, wondering what posh bloke would be looking for me, and why.

  The bar was quiet for the time of day. Only one or two lunchtime lushes sat in the far corners nursing pints as they fingered, idly, their iPads or newspapers.

  A tall man, his upper half encased in a smart grey cashmere overcoat, leant against the bar, his back to me, and a quiver of tension ran though my body as, even from behind, I recognised him.

  “Mr Lowe,” I stepped forward and he turned slowly to me, a friendly smile on his face.

  “Danny,” he said, his eyes sparkling pleasantly, “nice to see you again. How have you been keeping?”

  “I’m well,” I said, wondering what the pleasantries were for. Balthazar Lowe, I was now sure, was a piranha and his presence in my bar was a source of real concern to me. Still, “How are you?” issued from my lips as I complied with the expectations of the scene.

  “I,” the smile altered, almost imperceptibly, “am as well as can be expected. Is there somewhere we could have some privacy?”

  I glanced around the bar. There was no way he was coming back to the kitchen or the parlour. I didn’t trust him and wanted at least the witness of the blonde, who was now polishing the optics with a duster and surreptitiously eyeing the two of us up whilst earwigging on our conversation.

  “Sure,” I said, affecting nonchalance, “we can sit over there.” I nodded at a round table in the corner with two low stools beside it. “Can I get you anything to drink?”

  He paused, smiled once again that slightly feral half-smile at me and shook his head. “Very kind,” he said, “but no. Thank you.”

  I came out from behind the bar and followed him over to the table.

  “So,” I said, trying to keep my nervousness from showing in my voice, “what brings you here?”

  “Here?” He looked around him, like a man who’s just woken up and realised where he is. “Why our arrangement, of course. I did try Lady Caroline first, but she didn’t seem to be at home so I thought I would pop round here and see if you had any updates for me. Re the,” he paused, the smile appearing once again, “donation we discussed, when last we met.”

  “The donation?” I stammered, wh
at I hoped was a friendly smile plastered on my face. “Well,” I mentally scrambled for something – anything – to say, and failed, “um, you’ll have to talk to Caz – Lady Caroline, that is – about that.”

  “Indeed,” he murmured, his eyes boring into me. “Now, if only we knew where she was.”

  “Well,” I began, wondering whether to tell him that she was upstairs in my bed, “she can’t have gone far.”

  “Well that’s comforting,” Lowe said, dipping a hand into the pocket of his cashmere overcoat and extracting a brown envelope. “Mind you,” he carried on, “we do know where she was on Sunday night, don’t we?”

  “Do we?” I asked, a cold sweat beginning to creep up my spine.

  “Well, she was here, wasn’t she?” Lowe said, peering into the envelope, selecting a photograph and placing it flat on the table facing me.

  I looked down, though I really didn’t need to.

  There we were; Caz, me, Phoenix and Ray, caught with mouths open, eyes wide and looks of shock and horror on our faces.

  “That lighting,” said a voice behind me, “is criminal.”

  I turned. Caz pulled a stool from another table and seated herself beside me.

  “Ah,” Lowe smiled his shark-like smile again, “Lady Caroline. How nice to see you again.”

  Caz fixed him with her no-nonsense stare, anything that might even hint at warmth sucked from it, and stared unblinking at him for a few moments before glancing down at the photo and then back up at him. “What do you want?”

  “To discuss the donation you promised,” he answered.

  “Donation?” She laughed dryly. “Blackmail money. Nothing more or less.”

  “As you wish,” he answered, the steel in his voice being dialled up substantially. “I made a deal with you, agreed to give you time to make the necessary arrangements. I was completely unaware that the necessary arrangements would include attempting to hack into my system.”

  “Well that shows a singular lack of imagination, wouldn’t you say?” she smiled at him, and I wondered whether, perhaps, she had been at the sauce already.