The End

by Dave Lacey

  This fact didn’t sit too well with other leading lights of the shady world that was the Manchester underbelly. Although it was not a popular lifestyle choice in his line of work, Jack couldn’t believe that it would be the reason for his sudden demise. But he couldn’t rule it out. He couldn’t rule anything out. He started to think about who might have wanted Ngwenye dead. It was likely to be a lengthy list, but they had to start somewhere. He started to jot names on a pad, starting with boyfriends and ex boyfriends. Next he moved on to known associates, enemies, fellow ‘gangsters’ and various other forms of human detritus. Finally he resolved to do a little more digging on one of Alphonse’s seedier work-streams, male prostitution.

  He knew from the existing investigation that Alphonse had a network of rent boys working for him throughout Greater Manchester. They ranged from the lower end of the scale right to the upper echelons. Previously, various senior council officials and members of the North Western celebrity top table had been implicated in his ‘Glory Boys’ network. It had been hugely embarrassing for those involved. The story had been unearthed by a local journalist who was both diligent and relentless in his pursuit of the story. Somehow, the named parties and Alphonse had effectively suppressed most of the details and had muddied the waters sufficiently enough to ride out the storm.

  The problem was that heads had still rolled. Jack found himself wondering if that had proved enough of a motive for revenge in the manner laid out in front of him in photographs? He couldn’t imagine anyone previously incriminated might have done it themselves. As he and Smithy had previously discussed, Alphonse was no pushover; in fact, he had a history of violent conflict. That made it more likely that the avenger had hired somebody else to do the dirty work. The more he thought about it, the more he thought this had the hallmarks of a professional job. A hit.

  On his pad, he started to outline further directions for the investigation:

  Trace the dark BMW through the active CCTV

  Track down all of the names published in the article on the rent boy network

  Link those names into contacts they may have in the crime world

  Investigate possible retail outlets for Gauloises

  Find out what Alphonse had been involved in lately

  Speak to pathology and confirm cause of death

  The last point was only really a matter of crossing the t’s and dotting the i’s, as they had already had the preliminary report from the pathologist. Jack was trying to think if anything else should be added to the list when Smithy knocked on the door and walked in. He was swinging Alphonse’s phone back and forth in an evidence bag.

  “Ah, that’s what I’d forgotten,” said Jack.

  “Shall we go through it?”

  “Does it have any charge left on it?” Smithy managed to find an appropriate charger and brought it into the chief’s office.

  After booting up, the mobile immediately received a flurry of text messages, six in total. They checked inbound and outbound call lists then downloaded the content from the phone to a specialist piece of software designed for the police. It enabled them to keep the content of any phone on the entire police network. In the two days between Alphonse’s death and the cause of the death being revealed, Jack and Smithy had put together a list of relatives and friends of the deceased, and they had visited Alphonse’s parents, his sister and two brothers.

  Besides the obvious grief, they encountered nothing indicating that any of the family knew what had happened to him. Nor did they glean that much about what he did to earn a living. His friends, though, had more than a few theories as to what, or who, may have been responsible for the death of Alphonse. Those implicated ranged from fellow criminals to those impacted by the journalistic piece that had run the previous year. Amongst other things, the friends kept coming back to themes of jealousy, homophobia, revenge and double cross.

  Dutifully, they had noted all of these theories down, some to be followed up, others not. Now, though, they had to start the painstaking task of matching names and numbers to the people they had already spoken to. Then, they would call the people who they hadn’t already spoken to. It would take time, but it was part and parcel of police work. People often held the popular belief that police work consisted of car chases and mad dashes, saving lives at the last minute.

  They held that belief because of popular TV dramas and films. It was so far from the mind numbing truth that it was hard to quantify. Most of the time it was about the hard yards. It was about trawling through paperwork looking for oddities and patterns. It was about knocking on dozens of doors and talking to hundreds of people, most of whom longed to be involved and in the know. It was very seldom about heroics on the grand scale of gunfights and suave hostage negotiation.

  Yes, this would be long and tedious, but it was how cases were cracked. They went through the numbers called list; it looked to be at least an hour before being tracked by Jack that Alphonse had last made a call. However, when they looked through the calls received, they saw that he had taken a call around two minutes before he died. From a landline.

  “Hmm, you think this had anything to do with his death?” Smithy posed.

  “Let’s take a look at the duration of the call.” Jack drilled down into the call details. He was wondering if the call had still been open when the attack took place.

  “The call ended after one minute and ten seconds. So, either it’s a big coincidence, or it was very much something to do with him coming to a sticky end,” Jack pronounced.

  “Do we call the number?”

  “Damn straight we do.” Jack punched the number into the desk phone. It rang for a minute and a half before Jack hung up.

  “No answer. Let’s get a trace on it.” He rang ops, and asked them to call him back on the chief’s desk phone when they had the location of the number.

  “You know what was interesting when we talked to his friends and family?” Smithy asked during the hiatus.

  “How none of them mentioned boyfriends of the deceased?”

  “Exactly! Don’t you find that a little funny?”

  “Not really, maybe he was very private about his love life. He may have been embarrassed.”

  “Yeah, but surely with his friends he would have been open about things? Maybe that’s who the other twenty or so people in his phone are – love interests,” Smithy pondered.

  As they were thinking about this, the desk phone rang. Jack answered.

  “Hi, go ahead. Oh really? That’s odd. Hmm, what street? Yup, great, thanks.” He hung up.

  “This gets stranger by the second.”

  “How so?”

  “The call was made from a payphone.”

  “Really? Where?”

  “Two streets away from where he died.” Jack raised his eyebrows in invitation.

  “That is odd. He died a few hundred yards from his house. Could it have been a friend waiting for him at his house do you think? Calling to see where he was?”

  “Maybe, but wouldn’t his friends have mobiles? Why would they call him from a payphone?”

  “There could be a hundred reasons for that: dead battery, left phone at home, no coverage…”

  “Yes, but equally it could have been somebody calling him and not wishing to leave a trace.”

  “That’s a possibility, but I wouldn’t like to jump the gun here.”

  “Okay, but look at the facts. He was on his way home. I was thirty seconds behind him all the time, and he never knew I was there. He gets a call from a payphone round the corner, it lasts for a minute, he’s out of my sight for fifteen seconds. He goes over the wall around the time the call ends, he winds up with a broken neck. Somebody helped him on his way, we see them, they take off.”

  “When you put it like that…”

  “You think it would be worth sending forensics out to dust the phone and run it against the database?”

  “I do. I really do.”

  ***

  That night, as Jack made
his way home, his phone rang and displayed a number he didn’t recognise.

  “Hello?”

  “Sumner?”

  “Yes. Who is this?”

  “This is Lee Farnsworth. We spoke yesterday about Alphonse?”

  “Hi Lee, what can I do for you?” Jack had spoken to him yesterday, he was one of Alphonse’s friends.

  “Since we spoke, I’ve been thinking about what might have happened to him, to Alphonse.”

  “And what have you come up with?”

  “Well, there was a guy he started seeing just recently, about two months ago. But it was all very secretive like.”

  “Who is he? Do you have a name?”

  “I never met him. I didn’t even officially know he existed. But I remembered that Alphonse had gone out on a date a couple of months ago. Then he slipped up a couple of times after that about a new guy. So I put two and two together.”

  “Do you think anybody else knows who he was, or possibly his name?”

  “I don’t know. I get the feeling there was a reason for the secrecy. He wasn’t usually so closed off about things.”

  “Do you think this person might have had something to do with his death?”

  “I really don’t know, but they may know more than I do about this whole thing. Who knows?”

  “Any ideas on where I can start with this then?”

  “If I were you, I would speak to the manager of Alphonse’s club on Canal Street.”

  “Name?”

  “Katherine… Kathy Clancy.”

  “Anything else Lee?”

  “No, sorry.”

  “No, that’s great, it gives us somewhere to start. Thanks a lot.” He hung up and turned the car around. Back to work.

  Chapter 6

  Manhattan, New York.

  The day following the discovery of Zefram Mayer’s body, Nick Moretti decided to pay Ambrosii Ryabukha a visit. As Ryabukha had been Zefram’s closest thing to a guardian for the past fifteen years or so, their paths had crossed many times. He knew what the Russian was, but could not help but feel that he was not the mean hearted mobster he purported to be. In fact, Moretti knew for a fact that the man gave generously to many charities, mostly those centred on abandoned and orphaned children. This was not widely known, but when he had argued with Zefram over his choice of employer, his friend had spilled the beans. He had to admit that, although he hadn’t backed down during the argument, it had made a lasting impression and had left him feeling considerably warmer toward his friend’s mentor.

  He pulled up outside Eastern Promise, Ryabukha’s bar and place of work, at then thirty in the morning. The door was locked, but he could see lights on inside, so he knew that somebody was home. He banged on the door, announcing his presence. It took a few moments, and then a hatch in the door was pulled aside.

  “Who are you?” came the heavily accented question from the other side of the door.

  “A police officer to see Mr Ryabukha. Open up.”

  “You wait.”

  Nick stood for a few seconds while he decided what his next move was. He didn’t get time to complete his thoughts, as the door opened and two large, dour looking East Europeans beckoned him through it. They led him through the vestibule and into the main interior of the establishment. As they reached the far end, their boss got to his feet to greet his guest.

  “Nicholas, welcome.” He stood, arms outstretched, beckoning Nick with his hands. He was a huge figure with a lengthy black beard tumbling down his chest. His sparkling blue eyes twinkled with amusement at Nick’s discomfort. They hugged. When Nick was released from the crushing embrace, he spoke.

  “Ambrosii, I have some bad news.”

  “It is Zefram, no?”

  “It is. He’s dead.”

  The Russian closed his eyes for a few seconds while he fought his emotions. Nick knew that he had three daughters but no sons, and that Zef had filled this void in his life. Finally the silence was broken.

  “How did this happen, Nick?”

  Moretti explained to him the circumstances under which the body was discovered. Already knowing the impact this would have, he was not surprised to see the look of horror and disbelief on Ryabukha’s face. Eventually these reactions gave way to a terrifying anger.

  “This is simply not possible. He would never do this! He was happy!”

  “Ambrosii, I understand you’re upset, and I know how you felt about Zef, but it’s happened. I’m going to do the best I can to figure out how this all came to pass. And I may need your help with it.”

  “Anything. You will have anything you need.” Ryabukha looked at his men, and motioned for them to leave the room. After they had filed out, he spoke again.

  “I don’t understand this. It does not make sense.”

  “What was he involved in, Ambrosii?” Nick looked hard at the huge man, trying to get a feel for whether he was going to hear the truth. He turned his anger upon Nick.

  “You know what he was like. He wanted to be in the business. If I had not allowed him to work for me, he would have found somebody else to work for. Somebody who would not have cared for him. Somebody who would have used him. I never allowed him to do anything bad. I kept him away from things that would have placed him in danger. He was not involved in anything that would have caused this.” He pronounced this last word with something bordering revulsion.

  Moretti believed him. He knew Zefram had been nothing more than a pretend villain, almost a caricature.

  “Okay, so he wasn’t involved in anything work wise that would have made him do it. What about his private life. Was he moody at all? Any break ups?”

  “I told you, he was happy, and he was not somebody who could make believe he was happy. He never really stayed with girls long.” Ryabukha smiled. “You know him, he liked to spread his love around.”

  “What about money? Did he have any money troubles? Is it possible that he could have been in trouble with somebody without you knowing about it?”

  “It’s possible, but unlikely. I know about most things that go on in this place.” This last statement rang true with Moretti. He knew as well as anybody that Ryabukha’s tentacles had spread far and wide since he had arrived in America thirty-five years ago. He was one of the most successful criminals in New York’s long history of villainy. Nick rubbed his stubbled jaw thoughtfully as he ran through possible reasons for his friend’s demise.

  “You look confused, Nicholas. Is it because you have some doubts?” Nick paused before answering.

  “I don’t know, Ambrosii. Until we hear back from the coroner we won’t know for certain, but I agree with you, it doesn’t make much sense to me.” He stared at the floor as thoughts whirred through his mind at immeasurable speed.

  “Not only does it not make sense to me Nicholas, but I have no doubt that he did not do it as самоубийство, suicide.”

  “Well, we’ll know more in a few days.” Nick stood up to leave.

  “You will come back to see me when you have news?” Ryabukha asked.

  “I will, but these things take time, and I am not sure what that news will be.” He looked pointedly at the big man.

  “I understand, and I’m glad you came here, even if it was to deliver such terrible news. I will start asking questions of my own. If there was anything, anything, that was out of place, I will know about it.” He looked stoical as he finished his sentence.

  They embraced in farewell, and Ryabukha saw Nick to the door as a courtesy. As his son’s friend drove away, a great wave of sorrow overtook the man from St Petersburg, so that he turned from the locked door with his eyes glistening. This was too much to bear. Everybody knew that he was strong, brutal sometimes, but fair. He was capable of both great kindness and acts of violence in equal measure. He had outlived his wife, who had died from bronchitis, and his daughters distanced themselves from him because of how he earned a living. Zefram had been his heir, his gift, his son. And now he was no more.

  He stoo
d alone in the silence of the club, brooding on the life he had chosen. It had been an accident, this life, just a strange twist of fate’s cruel hand. He had been married just four years with their first child on the way when he veered onto the path less trodden. He had worked at the docks in his home of Sankt-Peterburg, St Petersburg, and he had enjoyed it. He was big and strong, and took pleasure in showing off to his peers. He could lift and transport things they could only dream of lifting themselves.

  He was six feet five and three hundred and ten pounds at just twenty-two years of age. Twenty-two stones of pure bulk and muscle. The irony was, they only saw him as ‘The Bear’. In reality, he was shrewd and patient. He knew what they thought, but consoled himself with the knowledge that they misjudged him. That gave him the edge. It was nothing mean spirited; they just treated him like a big dumb animal, so he let them.

  One night, a co-worker, Sergei Kaitukin, had tried to talk him into stealing on his behalf. The man figured that if The Bear was caught with goods about his person, nobody would be stupid enough to try to stop him. Ambrosii knew what the man was about; he had tried it with others before. The problem was that Kaitukin was a man not unfamiliar with violence. In the past, there had been an unsolved murder on the docks: a murder so brutal that none of the workers had been willing to put their own lives at risk in order to tell the police anything. Of course, almost everybody knew that it had been Kaitukin, and it had been a deal gone wrong that had been the cause. The warning rang clear.

  The following day, Ambrosii had gone into work still not having decided what to do. In some ways it had been easy for him, as he did not see his colleague for almost the whole day. Almost. Twenty minutes before it was time to punch out, he had a visitor. It had not gone well. They had argued, Ryabukha refusing to carry out the task. And so they had fought. Kaitukin was no match for The Bear, especially when The Bear was roused. In a terrifying show of strength, he had broken the smaller mans neck. His friend Aleksandr had approached him as he stood holding the corpse of his tormentor.