by Peter Cocks
“There’s another one,” I blurted out. “Another body. I was there. I helped.” I suddenly felt a huge relief letting it out. Able to tell someone what I had seen.
“Hyrone Brown,” Tony said. “Club owner. We know about him. That may be why you were sent the report.”
Tears sprung to my eyes involuntarily and my body heaved with sobs. Tony stood up and rubbed my back awkwardly. He took a bottle of whisky from his shelf and poured a slug into one of his disgusting mugs. I drank it gratefully and began to spill out the events of two nights before. Tony stood behind me and massaged my shoulders.
“I know, son,” he said. “I know.”
He picked up the phone and took it over to the window. I couldn’t hear what he was saying. He was good at that. He came back off the phone.
“Do you want to sort things out?” he said.
Twenty minutes later we had done one of Tony’s usual weaves through the back streets of Soho. We crossed the grey snail trail of Oxford Street, dodging through tourists and people holding placards for golf sales. By the time we had ducked behind a bus, danced around a few taxis and passed through the back of a clothes shop, I had pulled myself together.
Eventually we came out into Charlotte Street. Ian Baylis was already sitting at a table in the Greek restaurant.
“Good to have you back on board,” he said as I sat down. “If you are on board?” He looked at me and raised his eyebrows questioningly.
I nodded. The last few days had frightened me.
Tony patted me on the back. “We thought we’d lost you,” he said.
They scoffed hummus, lamb stew and stuffed vine leaves while I picked at olives, pitta bread and taramasalata. They talked about cars and Baylis’s favourite wine. Nothing official – we were out in public – but one thing nagged away at me.
“Where’s Anna?” I asked. “Sorry, Ysobel.”
Tony and Baylis exchanged glances.
“No word as yet,” Baylis said. Subject closed. I didn’t mention that I thought I’d had contact.
Just as coffee arrived, I got a text. From Sophie:
R U in town? x
I texted back:
Yes. Where U? x
She came back:
Can you meet @ Tate Modern 3rd floor 4.30?
I showed the messages to Tony and Baylis.
“Go,” Tony said.
I replied straight away:
I’ll be there xx
I shook both their hands as I got up to leave. Ian Baylis actually smiled at me.
“Be lucky,” Tony said.
I took the Tube to London Bridge and walked along the river to the Tate. The wind was cold and people had scarves wrapped around their faces so I could only see their eyes.
I went into the Turbine Hall at the entrance to the gallery. A black, steel sculpture that looked like a giant spider loomed over me, ready to bite. I crossed the hall and took the escalator to the third floor. Sophie was sitting on one of the sofas at the top. She was with her mum.
And her old man.
Sophie and Cheryl both kissed me. Pleased to see me, but looking drawn and edgy. Tommy shook hands and gave me a hug, relaxed as usual. He was wearing a soft, black overcoat with a grey scarf. He could have been an Irish priest with good taste.
“Why don’t you girls get a cup of coffee,” he said. “I just want to show Eddie some pictures.”
Sophie squeezed my arm. “I’ll get you a latte,” she said. “See you in a minute.”
They went up to the coffee bar and Tommy guided me through the galleries. Old paintings hung next to some of the modern ones. For comparison, I suppose. There was a German nineteenth-century snow scene hanging next to a Peter Doig of some tiny skaters on a massive, icy lake. In the snow scene was a cluster of tall pine trees and, in the middle, a man, dressed in black with his back turned, staring into the snow. It could have been Tommy Kelly.
“Caspar David Friedrich,” Tommy read off the label. “Ahead of his time.”
We went through to the next gallery. I recognized the paintings instantly. Massive, burgundy-and-black abstracts like the one Tommy had in his study. The room was empty except for us.
“Rothko,” I said.
“The guv’nor,” Tommy confirmed. “I always come to this room when I want to think.”
We circled the room in opposite directions, saying nothing. As I tried to concentrate on the pictures, the colours began to push and pull against each other and create a kind of buzz. A feeling. Deep misery seemed to pulse from them.
“You know, I look at these again and again,” Tommy went on. He came up and stood beside me. “But the more I look, the less I think I understand. I look and look again, and it’s still a mystery to me.”
I nodded. “They’re sad” was all I could find to say.
“Rothko must have thought so,” Tommy agreed. “He topped himself after doing these.”
It made sense.
“What’s this?” Tommy asked suddenly. Still looking at the paintings, he pulled his hand from his coat pocket and held something out in his open palm.
One of my magnetic bugging devices. I stared at it blankly.
“I don’t know,” I said.
“The cleaner found it under my desk.”
“Looks like a microphone,” I chanced. He glanced at it and nodded.
“Someone,” he said. “Someone is trying to listen to me. I want you to take this away and think very hard about who, in my firm, that might be. Any suspicion, anything you might have picked up. Sometimes it takes a bit of an outside eye to notice these things. Look into it. I need a result, fast.”
He folded the bug into my hand. Looked at me straight. “Let’s go and get a cup of coffee.”
I followed him out of the gallery, my palm sweating around the bug. He was right, I would have to work fast.
FIFTY-EIGHT
In my recent experience, there was one person, apart from me, guaranteed to bugger things up.
Jason Kelly.
It didn’t take long for him to raise his ugly head again.
Sophie was round at mine, the Friday night after Tommy had found the bug. It was the weekend, but I was more jumpy and paranoid than usual. There was a short list of names of who might have planted the device. I needed something to happen before the only one left on the list was mine.
“What is it, Eddie?” Sophie asked.
“Nothing. Bit stressed.” I knew things were tense for her at home too. The discovery of the bug had really cranked up Tommy’s need to clean up his firm. Dave and the rest had been working overtime “persuading” Hyrone Brown’s contacts that they were better off not being affiliated with Special K. Mr Brown himself was an example.
Sophie stroked my hair. “You’ve changed, babe.”
She was right. I’d already changed a lot over the last six months, but my whole attitude had shifted again in the past week. I looked at her. She was still every bit as beautiful, but when she stared back at me, I saw Tommy Kelly’s eyes staring back at me and I had to look away. It was not conducive to romance, and I realized there would be very few more dates like this. It was coming to an end.
We were supposed to be going to a club in Bromley with some of Sophie’s college friends, but it was getting late and neither of us really fancied it. We weren’t in the mood. We hummed and hawed until about eleven-thirty and thought we might just go for an hour. I was getting a clean shirt when Sophie’s phone rang.
“Naz…” she silently mouthed to me. Then her expression changed. “Oh my God,” she said. “Oh. My. God.” She sat down on the sofa. I could hear the voice of her friend almost screaming at the other end of the phone. Sophie’s face was white and she chewed her lip.
“When?” she asked. “How? Where?”
Finally Naz rang off.
“What is it?” I asked, desperate to know.
“Do you remember Benjy French, from college?” Her face was pale. “He’s been stabbed.”
“Shit,” I
said. “Is he OK?”
“They don’t know. The ambulance is still there.” Sophie took out a tissue and wiped the tears that had sprung to her eyes. “Naz was calling from there. Apparently they were all in the car together going to the thing in Bromley. It was some kind of road-rage thing. Benjy got out of the car and was stabbed in the chest.”
I could just imagine Benjy French with a couple of pints of cider under his belt, having a go in a road-rage incident.
She clutched the tissue in her fist, chewing the knuckle of her thumb. Then she looked up at me.
“What?” I said. She was holding something back. I had a bad feeling.
“Naz said it was Jason who did it.” She burst into tears. “Jason stabbed him.” She stared blankly at the wall for a minute, then grabbed her things together. “I’ve got to go home.” I didn’t try to stop her. If what she said was true, all sorts of shit would be flying about and I didn’t want to get caught in it. I would need to get in touch with Baylis.
Then her phone rang. A different voice gabbled at the other end.
“I’m at Eddie’s,” she said. She was sniffing and her voice was cracking in near hysteria. “Don’t muck about, Jason. You can’t.”
Jason’s voice was ranting wildly, shouting on the other end.
“Calm down, Jason.” Sophie put her hand over the phone. “Can he come here?” she asked. I debated for a second or two, then nodded.
“OK,” she told him. She cut the call. “He’ll be here in five minutes. I don’t know what to do, Eddie.” She was crying again.
“We’ll think of something,” I said. “Put the kettle on.”
This would be a new one, I thought. Jason paying me a visit. While Sophie was in the kitchen, I went over to the desk and lifted up the lid of my laptop. I switched on the webcam and set it to record, then clicked on the screensaver. A picture of Sophie came up.
Then the buzzer sounded.
Sophie opened the door. Jason looked behind him before lumbering in. He was sweaty, damp from the rain and wired. His eyes were out on stalks and his mouth was dry as he talked.
“Listen,” he said, pacing the room. “I’m sorry. I know we’re not the best of mates, but there’s been a right fuck-up. I didn’t know where to go.”
“I’ll take you home,” Sophie told him. “Dad will know what to do.”
“We can’t tell the old man. He’ll kill me.”
And save someone else the bother, I thought. “Listen, Soph,” I said, “You can’t stay here. It’s too much of a risk. You get back home while I sort something out. I’ll try and get hold of Dave.”
Sophie looked relieved to be let off the hook. She hugged me and got her things together for the second time. “Call me,” she said, and went out into the night.
I closed the door behind her and turned back to Jason, who was searching his pockets frantically. He finally found the wrap he was looking for.
“It’s OK, Jason,” I said. “Calm down and talk to me. We’ll figure something out.”
“You got a beer?” he asked. “Feel like my throat’s been cut.”
I went to the fridge and got him a cold one, and one for myself. He stayed put and began chopping himself a line of cocaine with a credit card, which he snorted through a ready-rolled note. I guessed it wasn’t his first of the night. I came back in with the beers. He had cut out two lines and gestured to the remaining one. I shook my head, so he did that as well, then glugged back the beer and lit a fag. He shook his head, swearing under his breath.
“So what’s up?” I asked.
“I’ve cocked up, is what’s up,” he said. “It’s a fuckin’ mess.”
“Tell me,” I said. He sat down on the sofa, facing the desk.
“You can’t tell the old man, OK?” He looked up, almost pleading.
“I’ll call Dave,” I said.
“No. Not Dave. He’ll dob me straight in when he knows what’s happened.”
“What has happened?”
“I’m down near Lee Green, right? And this piece of shit pulls out in front of me, a poxy Honda or something doing twenty. So I flash it and follow it down the High Road.”
I could imagine Jason, coked up, sitting on the car’s tail, flashing and hooting and shouting through the windscreen.
“So they speed up and I follow them up to the lights, but I don’t see the lights change and go into the back of them. Smash the headlights on the Audi. I’m pretty cranked up.”
“So then what?” I asked.
“I’m trying to reverse out of it to throw a U-ey, but then this kid gets out of the passenger seat holding a kebab and chucks it at my windscreen. Which pisses me off. So I get out to wipe it off, ready for a row, and he comes up and tells me he wants my insurance details and all that. He’s pretty cocky, like he’s had a beer or two. So I say OK, I’ll go and get it out of the car. Then I go back and get out the knife that I keep under the seat for emergencies, and I stick it up my sleeve.”
“Did he see it?”
“No. I go back and tell him I haven’t got the stuff, but if he gives me his mobile and that, I’ll call him with the details. Then he gets stroppy and tells me he knows who I am and that no doubt the police will be interested in sorting it out. So I go to scare him off and he grabs my arm.”
I tried hard to imagine Benjy French getting into a stand-off with the drugged-up, psycho-butthole sitting on my sofa. I did my best to adopt a sympathetic tone.
“Shit, Jase. What happened then?”
“The Honda’s full of girls and they’re screaming at him to get back in the car. I try to leave, but he’s got hold of my sleeve and won’t let go. So I go to push him off and the knife goes in.”
“Where?” I asked.
“In his chest.”
A knife doesn’t just slip into someone’s chest, I thought.
“I mean, it’s self-defence, isn’t it? I just didn’t know where to go.” He reached into his pocket for cigarettes. The pack was empty. “You got any fags?” he asked. I didn’t.
“Listen,” I said. “You’re fine here for a bit, while we work out what’s best to do. You can sleep on my couch tonight. I’ll just nip out to the late shop for a few more beers, and I can get you some fags too if you like?”
Jason’s jaw was clenched from all the cocaine and whatever else he had taken. He wasn’t going to sleep any time soon.
“Good man. Good idea. Get a bottle of vodka, will you?” He pulled some crumpled notes from his pocket, which I refused. “Don’t be long.”
“I won’t.” I watched him sitting there, his knees bouncing as his feet trembled on the floor. His eyes were staring at me, wide open.
“I underestimated you, Eddie,” he said. “Mate.”
FIFTY-NINE
I stepped out into the rain and speed-dialled Ian Baylis’s number. At last I had something that might please him.
“Nimrod? Elgar,” I said, doing my best with the protocols.
“What?” Baylis snapped.
“I have JK in my flat. He’s stabbed someone. I think I have plenty of evidence. He’s drugged up and very jumpy.”
“Keep him there. Lock him in if necessary. Even lock yourself in another room, if you have to. There will be a text on this phone when we’re ready to come in. Keep your head down. It might get nasty. Go.” He hung up, wasting no time.
I ducked into the late shop and paid for forty Marlboros, vodka and beer with shaking fingers. I couldn’t return empty-handed.
I ran up the back stairs two at a time, trying not to make a noise with the chinking bottles. I got out my key and put it in the lock. The door was already open.
I walked in.
“Jason?” I called. Nothing. I went through into the sitting room. No one: just the smell of cigarette smoke. I checked the bedroom. Then I took out my phone and texted Ian Baylis:
He’s gone. Sorry.
I felt ashamed. Stupid mistake, leaving him alone.
An hour later I was sitting in the fl
at while Baylis and Tony Morris drank what was left of the beer. There were four armed officers, dressed in black bulletproofs and prickling with automatic weapons. They searched the flat and outside, up on the roof and along all the backs, but found nothing.
A forensics guy asked me what stuff was mine. He emptied the ashtray of all Jason’s stubs. He looked at the glass top of the desk and found smear marks and granules and the last of a wrap of cocaine. “Yours?”
I shook my head. The forensics man picked up the remaining dust on a strip of sellotape and put it in a plastic bag with the wrap.
We wound through what had been caught on the webcam. It was pretty good. The sound was a bit muffled and Jason was talking nineteen to the dozen, but it was all there. What it hadn’t picked up would have been recorded by whatever else the flat was wired up with.
“Top stuff,” said Tony. He didn’t seem all that bothered that Jason had gone. He was confident they could find him. “He’ll lead us somewhere else. If we put him inside tonight, the trail goes a bit dead. It’s a case of watch and wait.”
Baylis was on the phone to the Met, trying to track down CCTV footage from the traffic lights on the Lee Green High Road. Footage that could show just how accidental Benjy French’s stabbing actually was. Tony swigged the last of his beer. There was something else nagging away at me.
“Tony?” I spoke quietly while Baylis was talking on the blower. Seeing Tony here in Deptford had jogged my memory.
“Yes, son?”
“My old man’s turned up a couple of times,” I said. “Sophie saw him.”
Tony frowned. “Who did you say he was?”
“Just a drunken nutter,”
“That’s about right,” Tony said with a grim chuckle.
I felt relieved that he didn’t think it was a major security gaffe. He looked at me squarely. “That waster’s no threat. He’s not connected. He’s no father to you.”
“Ain’t that the truth,” I said.
Tony told me to get myself to my safe house. We needed everyone out in case anyone tried to come back tonight, looking for me. It had to appear as if Jason had made a clean escape.
