No. ‘No,’ he said out loud in the empty back office at M1 House.
What about Colin Chang? The Chinese pharmacist who had got away – wriggly little bastard. Could he conceivably have hired someone to take down the crime lord who had kept him as little more than an indebted slave for years?
‘That would take some balls,’ Conky said, scribbling down Chang’s name and then immediately striking it out. ‘And if Hong Kong Colin had any of those, he’d have told Paddy where to go quite some time ago.’
With the club still closed after the slaughter, the silence echoed ominously around him. No music. No hubbub of workers preparing for the night’s revellers. Only Frank, out there, somewhere, wandering around his little fiefdom, wondering what the hell had gone wrong. Or was he? Perhaps everything that had come to pass was part of his master plan.
Conky drew a line under Frank’s name. Whispered, ‘Francis O’Brien’ to the four walls. It was almost a trope in literature that one lesser brother should seek to undo another. Genghis Khan – the plucky boy, Temüjin, who systematically did away with his siblings to gain dominance – sprang to mind. Good old Genghis. And here was docile, passive Frank, who had played second fiddle all these years to his overbearing narcissist of a sibling. A man who had lost his wife and his son because of the narcotic, violent life that Paddy had foisted on his kid brother, poisoning everything that had once been good. Conky knew the two men well enough to understand how their iniquity had come about and how volatile a brew festering resentment could be.
He couldn’t articulate why, but he was suddenly drawn to the shelves that contained album after album of photo archives from the club. Conky took down the collection that he had pored over at Jack’s wake. ‘Something in here,’ he said, tapping the spine of the album. ‘I’ll bet my first edition of Finnegan’s Wake on it.’
Draining his whisky and pouring himself another, he lit a cigarette, sat back and reflected on the photographs from the winter. Flipping through page after page, he arrived at a collection of action shots. Jack, DJing, clasping those trademark cans to his ears with a muscled arm. Ravers in the background. Some minor local celebrities, hanging out in the VIP area. Flip forwards, and the photos depicted the spring. Repetition, as Conky scrutinised snaps of Frank with his arm around various punters. A starlet from Coronation Street. A footballer from Manchester City. There was Paddy, clutching a bottle of champagne in one hand and a cigar in another. But wait. Here were photos of the VIP area, showing Jack and Frank, arm in arm. The same photos he, Frank and Paddy had reminisced over at the wake. Once again, Conky studied the revealing sight of Leviticus Bell in a clinch with Mia Margulies. Mia Margulies glaring at Jack O’Brien. It was telling. Two out of three of those youngsters were now dead. At a time when peace had been declared, this whole war had escalated because of Mia’s rape claims.
Conky wrote Love triangle? in his pad.
Remembering the tall figure that had sprinted out of the spa area and practically sprung up the back steps, decked out in a long coat and wide-brimmed hat with the beard and sidelocks, Conky reasoned that the Fish Man’s impersonator had displayed the agility of a much younger man. Dark, olive skinned, like Smolensky at a glance. But better built than Smolensky, now he came to think about it. Broader in the shoulders.
‘Lev Bell,’ he said, writing the name in his pad and underlining it several times. ‘It was you, wasn’t it, you little bastard? What was in the bag you were carrying?’ He visualised the heavy-looking holdall. Heavy enough to slow him down. What might a man with murderous intentions risk being slowed down and potentially captured by the enemy for? ‘Guns? No. Money. Somebody turned the alarm system off so you could get in.’ He chewed the end of the biro, savouring the thrill of piecing this jigsaw together. ‘No, someone let you in the night before when the alarm went off. They hid you, didn’t they?’
Contemplating all those workmen who had been crawling all over the boss’ Bramshott mansion, Conky pondered how likely it was that any of them had been involved. But they had all left, one by one, at 4pm. Conky had counted them in and out. So, the only theory that held water was that one of the remaining people in the house had let Bell inside. Frank, Paddy himself, one of his daughters, or Sheila.
Suddenly aware he wasn’t alone, Conky looked up.
‘Alright, Conks,’ Frank said, standing on the threshold to the office, staring at the albums that were spread out on the desk.
Conky reached for the handgun tucked into the back of his waistband.
‘Francis. Just the man.’
‘I hope you understand my need to be thorough and leave no stone unturned,’ Conky said, peering at Frank through the rear view mirror of the Jaguar.
On the back seat, Frank squirmed against his bonds. Tried to speak through the makeshift gag that Conky had innovated using a strip of torn office curtain. Muffled protest and clear hurt in his eyes. Or was it fear?
At this time of night, there was little traffic on Wilbraham Road. The leafy Chorlton suburb was devoid of life but for a gaggle of bearded young men, clad in tight jeans, ironically bad jumpers and sneakers. All heading towards the tram station, presumably in search of a good time in the city centre.
Turning into the side-street, Conky counted the houses and pulled up outside the neat semi-detached that belonged to Gloria Bell. A Mazda MX-5 on the drive, shining like an automotive halo under the streetlight.
‘Don’t try anything stupid,’ Conky told the struggling Frank. ‘And you mustn’t take this personally. I happen to hold you in very high esteem, Francis. I’m just doing my job.’
Locking the Jaguar with his prime suspect inside, Conky approached the front door. Hammered out a short tattoo using the brass lion knocker. Nothing. Peering in through the darkened windows, he could spy no evidence of Gloria being there. Perhaps she was asleep. Glancing up, he realised the bedroom curtains were only half drawn. Crunching on the gravel path round to the back, there were no signs of life there either. He inferred from the washing strung across the back garden that if she wasn’t home, she couldn’t have gone far. Withdrawing a hammer from his coat pocket, he snatched a tea towel from the line. Wrapped the hammer’s head in the cloth and smashed the back door window smartly. A key in the lock on the other side. Gloria of all people should have known better. Had she gone somewhere in a hurry?
His point of entry took him into the kitchen. Daring to switch on the light, he rifled through some papers stacked between cookery books on the worktop. They revealed nothing but utility bills, old birthday cards and recipes for cake. No clues as to her whereabouts. But there, stuck to the stainless steel fridge–freezer beneath a fridge magnet that showed Jesus with his arms held wide, was a sheaf of note paper and scraps containing scrawled telephone numbers. Conky removed them and leafed through. Stopped at the small sheet of lined paper that had been torn from a spiral pad. On it was exactly what he sought. Leviticus Bell’s Sweeney Hall address.
Switching off the light and closing the back door, were it not for a yowling cat, Conky would certainly have missed the fact that Gloria Bell had a garage at the end of the garden. Unsure as to what he expected to see, he approached the somewhat ramshackle structure. It wouldn’t hurt to have a look. Glancing back at the front drive, he hoped that Frank wouldn’t try to break his bonds and escape. Did he have time for this? Yes. Two seconds, just to make sure.
There was a filthy old window set into the pebble-dashed render. With his sunglasses on his head, he peered through the glass as the clouds parted, allowing a glorious bright moon to shine through. It lit up the garage’s contents. And there, under the corrugated iron roof, sat one million pounds’ worth of stolen Bugatti.
‘Got you, you shifty cow!’
Chapter 49
Conky
‘You wait here!’ Conky said, tearing the duct tape from Frank’s mouth. It left an angry red rectangle on the lower half of his thin face.
Frank yelped. ‘Shit, man! Like I can go anywhere when you’ve ti
ed me to a fucking chair, you ranchpot! Seriously, Conks. You’ve lost the plot,’ he shouted, struggling against his bonds. ‘I’ve got naff all to do with any of this. I swear on my Jack’s …’ A shadow passed over his face. His eyes darkened. ‘I swear on everything.’
‘Do you want me to put the tape back on your mouth, Francis?’
Behind the counter, in the shop of the builders’ merchants, Conky looked down at Frank. Wondering what steps he should take next. He looked through the window. The sun was rising on a rainy Sunday morning. It was cold in the Portakabin. The late-night trip to the seedy, damp Sweeney Hall flat had yielded little – certainly not Leviticus Bell.
‘Where on God’s earth is that cheap two-bit little gangsta arsehole?’ Conky asked, perching on the counter and running his fingers over the keys on the till.
‘How should I know?’ Frank asked, shaking his head. Resignation in his weary voice. ‘You’ve got this all arse about tit, man. Our Paddy’s a stone cold wanker and, Christ knows, he’s ruined my life. But he’s still my brother. I wouldn’t touch a hair on his head. You should know that.’ He looked up at Conky, tears swimming in his eyes. ‘I’m not a murderer. Paddy’s that man. You’re that man. Not me. I haven’t got it in me. You’ve known me since I was a young lad. If I wanted to pop our Pad, I wouldn’t have waited this fucking long, would I?’
Conky folded his arms and crossed his long legs, appraising the bewildered face of Frank. Saw the truth in it. Sighed deeply and started to untie him.
‘Don’t try anything funny,’ he said. ‘Remember I’m the one with the gun.’
With his hands sticky from used duct tape, he pulled Frank up out of the chair. Embraced his wiry, insubstantial body and felt an overpowering wave of guilt threaten to drown him. ‘I apologise, Francis. It was just that as I said before, your motivation to put a hit on the boss was beyond doubt. You must see that. And my judgement of your character was clouded by the need to solve this dastardly fucking mystery. We have a traitor among us. Until I find Lev Bell and hear from the horse’s mouth who paid him to impersonate the Fish Man, I’m totally stumped.’
Frank rubbed his chin and rotated his arms in windmills. ‘Don’t sweat it, man. No hard feelings. You’re a mad bastard but I know you’re loyal and that counts for everything.’ He waved his hands dismissively. ‘Anyway, I’m too knackered to start bitching about a misunderstanding. Too much has gone on. I couldn’t give a monkey’s any more. Want a drink?’ He walked stiffly to the drinks machine, switched it on and pressed the button for black coffee. Hissing and spitting as the scalding liquid spurted into a brown plastic cup. Handed it to Conky.
Conky eyed the back of Frank’s head, marvelling that he had subjected the poor wee bastard to a night of torture and yet, here his victim was, making them hot drinks as though they had merely spent the night in a bar, shooting the breeze over a few beers until the sun had come up. Releasing him had been a gamble but, without any evidence whatsoever, he had to assume Frank’s innocence. The Loss Adjuster had to remain unimpeachably fair.
‘What was Lev’s place like?’ Frank said, blowing the froth on the top of his coffee. Grimacing as he sipped it.
Visualising the dingy interior of the tiny council flat, Conky remembered the mess of the bedroom in particular. A dusty, stale smell, as though nobody had slept there in a while. The place had felt like an icebox, even though it was the height of summer. He tried to conjure a memory of the bed. Clasped his hand to his forehead.
‘There was a rectangular indent in the duvet,’ he said.
‘A suitcase,’ Frank said.
‘Aye. And a couple of the drawers in a tall-boy were open, with the contents all messed up. Why didn’t I realise it last night? I was looking but not seeing.’ He thumped himself in the temple. ‘Fecking eejit.’
Frank reached out to touch his arm. Seemingly thought better of it. ‘Take it easy, man.’
Striking himself again, Conky felt frustration twist and knot his insides into an uncomfortable tangle. ‘He could be anywhere.’
‘Well, if Gloria’s missing too, maybe they’ve had some big reunion and both run off.’
Taking out his phone, Conky scrolled through his contacts until he found the name he was looking for. ‘Paddy has a guy in customs on the payroll,’ he said. ‘If the Bells have left the country with what I presume was a bag of cash, he might be able to check flight rosters. And if they’ve flown the country, there’s an outside chance their tickets were paid for by someone else.’
Chapter 50
Sheila
Sheila walked along the corridor of the nursing home, clutching a bunch of white roses. Cheaply framed portraits of religious scenes hanging on the wall registered in her peripheral vision: stations of the cross; Jesus, the centre of attention during the Last Supper; the Virgin Mary clutching her holy infant. Plastic flowers in a cut-glass vase on a half-moon table, part-way up the corridor, trying to make the place look cheery. Marching along with purpose, she made virgin footprints with her stilettos on the well-hoovered utilitarian grey carpet. Trying her hardest not to inhale the smell of incontinence incidents, poorly masked by spray air freshener. Attempting not to listen to the shouts, whoops and wails of some of the residents, who were trapped by their troubled minds inside some alternate reality. Looked into the rooms on either side as she advanced towards Paddy’s new home, glimpsing the agonisingly slow onset of death in the faces of the dementia-stricken. There they lay in institutional beds, with the cot-sides up. Mouths open and staring into the abyss.
‘Depressing shithole,’ Sheila grumbled. ‘Why the hell did he have to come here? I’m gonna give that Katrina what for. Bloody bossy, shit-stirring old bitch.’
‘I’m so sorry,’ one of the nurses said, hastening to the threshold of the nurses’ office to greet her with an apologetic face. Biting her lip.
‘Sorry for what?’ Sheila asked, gripping the roses tight enough for the thorns to bite.
‘Sister Benedicta called you, right?’
Sheila felt her smile freeze along with her heart. The questioning tone and darting eyes of the nurse told her something was more than amiss.
‘What’s gone on?’ she asked. ‘Where’s Paddy?’
The nurse was wringing her hands. ‘Your husband passed this morning.’
Blinking hard, Sheila studied the well-scrubbed face of the nurse. ‘You what?’
‘Mr O’Brien. I’m afraid he’s gone.’ She picked up a file and read the notes. ‘I’m so sorry. Yes. Says here, registered time of death was seven fifteen am. Sister Benedicta told me at handover. The doctor’s been and confirmed the death. I’m to give you the paperwork for the death certification. Like I said, I’m so very sorry for your loss.’
The nurses’ room felt suddenly freezing cold. The rose stems inside Sheila’s right hand burned her skin. ‘Take me to him,’ she said. Her voice sounded like it belonged to somebody else.
She followed the nurse along the corridor, feeling her ankles threaten to give way. When the nurse pushed the door open to a cold, dark room, the first thing Sheila saw was Katrina sitting bolt upright in a straight-backed chair, perfectly still at the side of a single bed. Dramatically lit by a solitary Anglepoise lamp. The gaudy blackout curtains were closed, not allowing a shred of daylight in. All the life-saving machinery had been switched off. Beneath a sheet was a long lumpy form, approximately the size and shape of Paddy.
‘Ah. Sheila,’ Katrina said, rising to meet her, hands outstretched as though she had been plucked from one of her religious portraits. The fine lines in her face seemed deeper with that directional, unforgiving light. ‘Poor Paddy. He never made it.’
Sheila moved towards the bed, feeling like she had left normality back in the driver’s seat of her car. She was dimly aware of Katrina’s hand on her upper arm.
‘I don’t understand. He was in a coma but I thought he was stable.’ She pulled her arm free. ‘Why did he suddenly go downhill?’
‘There, there,’ K
atrina said. ‘The Lord has saved him from further suffering. But don’t worry. I’ve made all the arrangements to make it easier on you and the girls.’
This wasn’t happening to her. It was happening to somebody else. Perhaps she had fallen asleep and this had been an elaborate dream. ‘I have to see him,’ she said, reaching out to clasp the top of the sheet.
But Katrina manoeuvred her bulk deftly between Sheila and the bed, proprietorially taking the sheet herself and lifting it back with a certain ceremony, as though unveiling a precious religious portrait in a gallery.
Paddy O’Brien, the man Sheila had spent all of her adult life deferring and pandering to, lay slightly open-mouthed with his eyes closed. Gone were those ruddy cheeks and that overwhelming vitality that had always flowed from every pore. Now, Sheila drank in the sight of an ex-man whose face had become merely a ghastly pale death mask with a bluish tinge to the lips. She leaned in closer, narrowing her eyes. Sniffed the still air around him. ‘He smells funny. Sweet. Like talc.’
Katrina swiftly covered Paddy’s grey face anew with the sheet. She ushered Sheila away from the bed. ‘We cleaned him up a little. It’s not nice for you, otherwise. Don’t distress yourself, dear. He’s with God now. It was a peaceful end. I was here with him. You’re a strong woman. You’ll get through this – for the sake of the girls, you’ll have to.’
Backing towards the door, Sheila clasped her hand to her mouth, taking shallow breaths. Trying to absorb the unbelievable, indigestible news. Paddy was dead. After all that had gone on – decades of tyranny, the stabbing, the heart attack, the war, his hopes and dreams being built up and then dashed finally by the attack in the spa – he had been undone. Sheila had been left behind. The grieving Queen. She realised that that was exactly the role she must now play.
In the dim light of the nursing home room, as Katrina faffed anew with the sheet, with her back turned, Sheila allowed herself a broad smile.
Born Bad Page 29
