Truth or Dare

by Tania Carver

  Looker shifted uncomfortably in his seat, but pressed on with his attack. ‘And that’s not all. I received a call from another of my clients, Moses Heap. I’m sure you remember him.’

  ‘Like it was only yesterday,’ said Phil.

  ‘I want DS Sperring to stay away from him, too.’

  ‘Seems to have been busy, my detective sergeant. When did he go and see Moses Heap?’

  ‘Well, he hasn’t. Not yet.’

  Phil frowned. ‘So… what? You’re threatening me, is that it? Threatening me to keep my officers away from your clients, is that it?’

  ‘My clients are innocent. They have done nothing wrong. They are not guilty of any crime.’

  ‘In this instance.’

  Looker paused. Phil, for a few seconds, almost expected Looker to agree with him. However, Looker ignored the interruption, kept going. Leaning forward, speaking slowly to make his point. ‘As I said, they are not guilty of any crime. If you persist in targeting them in this manner then I will assume you are deliberately harassing them and will have no choice but to take further action.’

  Phil leaned forward too. He kept his rising anger down, his voice controlled. ‘Mr Looker, let’s get something straight. I’m in the middle of a murder inquiry. A very nasty one. And your clients’ names have come up in the course of that. If I, or my officers, want to speak to them in connection with this case then we will do so. Without your permission or any compunction to call you. Is that clear?’

  Looker sat back, sighed. For a second, Phil saw his professional demeanour come down, his façade crumble. He looked old, tired. Worn out by his words. Then the mask was put firmly back in place and he continued. ‘You may question them. Of course you can. That’s your job.’

  Phil smiled. ‘I thank you for your magnanimity.’

  Looker, momentarily thrown, paused then continued. ‘Yes, your job. And I have no problem with that. But what I do object to, in the strongest possible terms, is harassment. Making Mr Richards and Mr Heap feel like criminals.’

  ‘But they are, aren’t they?’ Phil knew it was a cheap shot but he just wanted to see Looker’s reaction. ‘They should be used to it.’

  Looker’s voice got louder. ‘May I remind you that Mr Richards is in no way complicit in what has happened? He is an innocent victim in all of this.’

  ‘Well, if you want to get into semantics,’ said Phil, ‘he wouldn’t have been placed in the position he was and targeted the way he was if he hadn’t committed a criminal act in the first place. And if his lawyer hadn’t got him off on a technicality.’

  Looker looked incredulous. ‘Are you condoning what this killer has done? Seriously?’

  ‘No, I’m just pointing out a fact. If he was innocent, wholly innocent, he wouldn’t have been there. That’s all.’

  Looker decided not to pursue that avenue. ‘Mr Heap is a respected community figure now. Yes, he may have a criminal past but that’s all it is. The past. Surely you believe in redemption? Second chances?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Phil, ‘I do. Probably more so than some of my colleagues, if I’m honest. But I take each person as I find them. I make my own decisions.’

  ‘Well, I suggest you tread carefully. Or you and your department will find yourselves on the end of a very nasty lawsuit.’

  Phil sighed and stood up. He had had enough of this sanctimonious little nobody. ‘Just what do you get out of this? Eh? It can’t be justice or the sense of justice being done, can it? So what is it? What satisfaction do you derive from what you do?’

  Looker opened his mouth to answer but seemingly thought better of it. Instead, he gave what he hoped was a composure-regaining smile. ‘There’s more than one kind of justice,’ he said. He stood up, made for the door. When he reached it, he turned. ‘Just stay away from my clients. That’s all.’

  He let himself out.

  Phil watched him go. Slightly puzzled, an idea forming.

  More than one kind of justice…

  43

  S

  perring sat outside the old Victorian redbrick building, the No Postcode Organisation logo displayed prominently over the doorway. The music being made inside there a world away from the Radio Two easy listening coming out of the car’s sound system.

  Moses Heap, he thought, I’m on to you.

  He had left Darren Richards having his delayed pity party and driven straight to the music studio. Given what he knew and had seen, that was where he figured Moses Heap was most likely to be. So far, he hadn’t seen anyone go in or out. Or at least no one he recognised. No one gang-related.

  Gang-related. Yes, he knew that Moses Heap had turned over a new leaf. Or said he had. And yes, crime in the area, particularly knife and gun crime, had gone down considerably since the truce was declared. But that didn’t mean nothing was happening. There was nothing to stop the two gangs coming together and just carving up the territory, deciding who took which streets and estates to sell drugs on, to traffic women into prostitution, to set up protection rackets… Sperring knew that just because they weren’t killing each other, didn’t mean they weren’t doing something wrong.

  And then there was this Lawgiver business. Darren Richards was one thing but this banker was a whole different level. His initial thought was that it was too clever for Moses Heap to organise. Too much planning, too many variables. But the more he thought about it, the more it seemed possible. After all, hadn’t Heap been head of a gang? Surely that took some organisation, more than just muscle and threat? So it was possible. And if he wasn’t actually the Lawgiver himself, then he was certainly connected to him in some way. Sperring didn’t know how, couldn’t say why. Or at least not yet. But something, his old copper’s instinct, told him so. And so he had no choice but to follow it.

  He smiled. He could just imagine what Phil would say if he could see him now. The strip he would tear off him. The lecture he would get about how many other avenues he should be exploring instead of carrying out a vendetta against this one person, a person who he had already been warned off. Yeah, well, when he brought Heap in – when he exposed just what he was doing – then we’d see what Phil’s reaction would be. What all of them would say.

  Sperring jumped. He didn’t realise he had been talking aloud. His hands had been going too, gesturing as he mouthed the words. Yes, he thought. Brennan still gets to me.

  The song on the radio finished, something equally anodyne took its place. Sperring kept staring at the building across the street.

  Something must happen.

  Something must happen soon…

  44

  ‘S

  o what’s this place, then?’

  DC Nadish Khan looked around the space he had entered. The outside gave no clue to what was inside. The first thing that struck him was how big it was, like a TARDIS. What had been a terraced, redbrick frontage gave way on to what seemed at first glance to be a workshop. It was dark, the only light coming from a doorway through to the rest of the building and what Nadish made out as a set of stairs. He squinted, looked around the room, counted: three large benches positioned at regular intervals, tools hanging up in their correct places on the walls. Everything covered in grime and dust. Cobwebbed. Overhead were old fluorescent strip lights, not turned on. Possibly not even working.

  He became aware of Hinchcliffe standing right behind him. Too close, invading his personal space. He turned, found himself face to face. ‘What is this place?’ he asked again, taking a step back.

  ‘Is that what you wanted to ask me?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘What was it then?’

  Nadish looked around. ‘Is there somewhere more comfortable we can go?’

  Hinchcliffe looked around, seemed to be making his mind up about something. ‘Come through,’ he said eventually.

  He led Khan through the workshop to the stairs and went up. Khan followed. Once at the top of the stairs, Hinchcliffe turned. ‘Will here do? For your questions?’

  Khan looked
at where he had been led. He was in a corridor, rooms running off it. It looked to have once been industrial or at least a continuation of the workspace down below but there had been attempts to domesticise it. He glimpsed a kitchen at the far end, the corner of a bed in another room.

  ‘This is where you live, then?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes.’ Hinchcliffe didn’t move.

  ‘Anywhere we can sit down? I’ve been walking all morning.’

  Hinchcliffe sighed. Khan caught the flicker of something behind his eyes. Fear, nervousness? He wasn’t sure. It brought his eyes more into line with the rest of his body, replacing the earlier fire. Khan still felt an unease about him, like something was off kilter. He still had a good feeling about him. Thought he was on to something.

  ‘Come through,’ Hinchcliffe said.

  He opened a door at the far end of the corridor from the kitchen, walked through. Khan followed. And stopped, looking round.

  ‘Wow,’ he said. ‘Someone would pay top dollar for this place.’

  The room was stripped, bare brick walls. The furniture was either old or reclaimed industrial. A huge, modern TV stood in one corner. On the walls were models. Planes. Spaceships. A scale model of a huge ship. All in glass cases, carefully preserved.

  ‘Is that,’ said Khan, pointing, ‘is that the Titanic?’

  Hinchcliffe nodded, giving nothing else away.

  ‘Okay.’ Nadish was feeling slightly uncomfortable. ‘So you live here by yourself?’

  ‘My sister. She’s with me.’

  ‘Is she here now?’

  ‘Not at the moment.’

  ‘No wife, or anything?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Kids?’

  Hinchcliffe shook his head. ‘Are these the questions you wanted to ask me, Detective…?’

  ‘Khan. Detective Constable Khan.’

  ‘Detective Constable Khan. Are they?’

  ‘No, sorry. Just got side-tracked. Amazing stuff.’ He was about to sit down but saw something else in the corner. He crossed to it instead. ‘Is this authentic?’

  ‘It is.’

  ‘What kind is it?’

  ‘A Rock-ola Princess 435. Quite rare, I believe.’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Khan. ‘Got a mate who collects them. Does them up, like. Sells them on. Tidy little business. Is it working?’

  ‘It is. Now, these questions…’

  ‘What you got on it?’ asked Khan, unable to keep the smile from his face. ‘If you don’t mind me asking.’

  ‘Not at all.’ He crossed over to Khan, stood by the machine. ‘Sixties soul. That’s my passion.’

  ‘You’re an old soul boy, yeah? Bit of Aretha, James Brown, all that?’

  ‘Yes.’ Hinchcliffe smiled. ‘All that. And more.’

  ‘Brilliant. Love a bit of that. Rare groove, they used to call it, didn’t they?’

  ‘I believe so.’

  Khan was starting to warm to Hinchcliffe. His earlier misgivings pushed to one side. He checked the song listing. ‘I’ve never heard of half of these.’

  ‘Like I said, it’s my passion. You know what collectors are like. We enjoy seeking out the most obscure things. They’re often the most rewarding. It’s the juxtapositioning of a production-line mentality, a factory, and the fact that they produced something truly beautiful. That’s what interests me.’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Khan, still looking at the listing on the jukebox. ‘Brilliant, look at this stuff. Can’t beat the old school…’ He straightened up. ‘And look at that.’ He reached out, touched the wall. ‘It’s not real.’

  The scene behind the jukebox showed a set of French windows leading into a garden in lush, summer bloom.

  ‘Wow. That’s almost lifelike. You could step through that.’

  ‘It’s a wall,’ said Hinchcliffe. ‘You’d get a nasty injury. It’s tromp-l’oeil.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Trompe-l’oeil. French. Means “to deceive the eye”. It’s a kind of painting.’

  ‘Right,’ said Khan, laughing. ‘Nasty injury.’ He looked at it again. ‘You do it yourself?’

  ‘My… another family member.’

  ‘Your sister?’

  Hinchcliffe said nothing.

  Nadish took his silence as agreement. ‘You’re a talented lot. What about you? What do you do?’

  Hinchcliffe made a show of looking at his watch. ‘Do you have some questions to ask me, Detective Constable Khan?’

  ‘Oh yeah, sorry. It concerns the building over there.’ Khan walked to the window, looked out. ‘You’ve got a pretty decent view of it, haven’t you?’

  ‘It takes up the whole of that side of the street. There’s nothing to see when you look out but red brick and grey sky.’

  ‘Right,’ said Khan. ‘I can see why you had that painted.’ He gestured to the garden scene.

  ‘Quite.’

  ‘Well, you probably know there’s been a murder over there. You’ll have seen our presence, the TV news crews, all of that.’

  ‘I have.’

  ‘Well, I’m going door to door round here, seeing if anyone has noticed anything suspicious.’

  ‘You mean did I see a murderer?’

  ‘Something like that.’

  ‘I wouldn’t know what a murderer looks like, Detective Constable Khan. I presume they’re just like the rest of us.’

  ‘They are. Did you see anyone suspicious going in or out of that building? Perhaps at a time when they shouldn’t have?’

  ‘I’m afraid not. I just live here. I don’t take part in the comings and goings of the community.’

  ‘So you didn’t see anything at all?’

  ‘Nothing. But then I wasn’t looking.’

  ‘Even in the days or weeks before?’

  ‘I’m sorry. No.’

  ‘Okay. One last question. Where were you on Sunday night? The seventeenth?’

  ‘Was that when this murder happened?’

  ‘We presume it was. Where were you?’

  ‘Here. At home, I suppose.’

  ‘And you saw nothing? Heard nothing?’

  ‘When I’m in for the night I’m usually listening to music. That would drown out anything else, I presume. Especially anything unpleasant.’

  ‘Right.’ Khan looked around once more. ‘Well, thank you for your time. Fantastic place you’ve got here.’

  Hinchcliffe smiled. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘I’ll be off. And if you remember anything else in the meantime, here’s my card. Give me a call. Even something little, you never know.’

  ‘I will do.’ Hinchcliffe took the card. ‘You never know, Detective Constable Khan, you might hear from me again.’

  ‘That would be good. All the best.’

  Hinchcliffe led Khan downstairs and outside, closing and locking the door firmly behind him.

  Walking up the street, Khan thought about the encounter he had just had.

  Odd sort of bloke, he thought. At first. Bit of a loner. Even suspected him. But he warmed up. And what a jukebox…

  45

  T

  he Lawgiver waited for the needle to fall, the snare to hit twice then the horns to come riffing in before dancing round the room, his voice enthusiastic but no match for Curtis Mayfield’s beautifully pure and soulful singing. ‘Move On Up’. He had that right.

  Stupid rozzer… stupid thick fucking rozzer…

  Talk about models, talk about jukeboxes, talk about anything but what he was there for. Easy to fool. Easy to lie to. Stupid. Thick. He had thought at first that the police hadn’t questioned him because he had been lucky but meeting that example, witnessing him in action (or inaction) first hand, he knew that luck had very little to do with it. He was cleverer than them. Superior. That was all there was to it.

  They hadn’t caught him yet and they weren’t going to. No stopping him now. Because he was doing the right thing. He knew that. Any doubts he may have had – and there had been doubts, any endeavour worth doing had doubts surround
ing it – had been banished by the police officer’s appearance. The Lawgiver had been looking for a sign, something to show him that his calling, his chosen profession, was the right one. He had thought that talking to Phil Brennan would have supplied that. But he had been wrong. Brennan was turning out to be just like all the rest of them. And if Khan was indicative of the calibre of people Brennan surrounded himself with, the members of his team, he wasn’t surprised. Like attracts like, dull attracts dull.

  No. Khan’s visit had been just what he needed. He stood still in the middle of the room, let the music flow around him, the beat pound through him. This was it, he thought. This was what he was made for. Put on this planet for. And nothing was going to stop him. No one was going to stop him. No one.

  An omen. He didn’t normally believe in such things, didn’t consider himself to be superstitious. That was for the lesser people, the dullards. The ones who didn’t believe in themselves, who needed to blame someone else for the state they were in. Who needed zodiacs and God and crystals and whatever else to get them through life. He was resolutely not like that. His father had drummed it into him. You work, he had said. That’s what you do. You work, you get on in life. You make your own chances, you don’t wait for anyone else to give them to you. Because if you do, you’ll be waiting there a bloody long time.

  He had been right, his father. Even after he lost all his work and soon after that his health then ultimately his life, he never lost sight of what he believed in.

  It wasn’t his fault that fashions changed. That what he did, what he was skilled at, had devoted his life to, was an artist at, wasn’t wanted any more. Not his fault at all. And he tried hard not to blame anyone else for it. But in the end he couldn’t do that. When his health started to ebb away, when he no longer knew who he was on a day-to-day basis, then he started to say, in his more lucid moments, that it wasn’t his fault. He wasn’t to blame for this. But watching his father fade away in front of him, seeing him disappear piece by piece and bit by bit, like one of his precious models being made in reverse, the Lawgiver knew that he had to blame somebody. And when his father eventually died, that’s when he put his plan into action.