by RJ Dark
Janine Stanbeck had told me which garage was Larry’s, but I had forgotten, so I had to go from garage to garage, trying the key until I found one that fitted. When I did, I turned round to find the old woman back at the window. I gave her another wave, but she didn’t wave back. Really not the friendly type.
Janine had been telling the truth about the lock-up being emptied. There was no sign of life at all in the garage. A couple of shelves were on one side; there was nothing on them but dead beetles. Near the shelves was a patch of oil and a scratch on the concrete floor, which I guessed was from the kickstand for Larry’s motorbike. There were plugs and lights in the garage which was odd, as most council garages didn’t have electricity, and when I tried to follow the line outside, it vanished into a thicket of brambles. Past the brambles was a high fence, and beyond that was an alley with a lonely streetlight. Larry had probably hooked the electricity into that illegally. On the walls of the garage were lighter squares where it looked like there had been posters, and when I looked around the edges of the garage, I found nails from a nail gun driven into the floor, bits of material were still attached in places. It looked like there had once been a carpet in here.
‘Malachite Jones, imagine finding you here.’
I turned to find DI Esther Smith leaning against the door. A golden cross sparkled against the dark skin of her chest where the top few buttons of her blouse were open. She had her arms crossed over her chest. Behind her was DC Sarah Harrington, looking as disapproving as ever.
‘When we got a report of someone suspicious nosing about out here, I didn’t expect it to be someone quite as suspicious as you, eh, Mal?’
‘Isn’t this a job for a uniform, DI Smith? Checking out suspicious-person reports from elderly ladies?’
‘Mrs Jasom isn’t just any elderly lady, Mal, she’s head of the neighbourhood watch for this area. I’d asked her to keep an eye out for anyone tampering with Larry’s lock-up.’ She pushed herself off the wall of the garage. ‘And here we are.’
‘Yes,’ I said, ‘here we are.’
‘And here you are, Mal. If you’re running a con on the Stanbecks, you’re either braver or stupider than I thought you were.’
‘I’m not running a con. Janine asked for my services.’
‘And you’re here trying to contact the spirits on her behalf?’ Gently mocking.
‘Familiar spaces often contain echoes and—’
‘You can save me some time by dropping the mumbo jumbo. Something is up with the Stanbecks, and Larry died because of it. I want to know what it is.’
‘It was murder then?’ I said.
She narrowed her eyes. ‘It’s a suspicious death, alright. We have questions, like why someone cleaned out this lock-up for a start.’
‘You didn’t then?’
‘No.’ She shook her head and walked in. ‘This place was a home away from home originally – carpet, desks, chairs, illegal electricity supply. I wasn’t happy having the Stanbecks so near a school, so I’d come and see Larry every so often. Said he just used this place for his Scouting duties. Wouldn’t let me in without a warrant.’
‘Imagine that, Detective Inspector, someone not trusting the police.’
She stepped closer. She was smaller than me, and rounder, but there was a fierceness to her that I utterly lacked.
‘The Stanbecks are up to something,’ she said.
‘They’re always up to something.’
‘I know that, but as long as they’re just dealing drugs to losers on the Edge and beating each other up about it, I don’t care. If they stay on the Edge, then they’re welcome to it, and Mick knows that. I’ve been happily ignoring the Stanbecks for most of my career. But now someone has died, Mal, so I have to pay attention.’ She stared straight into my eyes. ‘Something else is going on.’ A gap in her sentence she hoped I would fill. ‘I think you know what.’
I let the silence settle. Listened to the hiss of cars passing on the road beyond the big houses.
‘If the spirits tell me anything, I will be sure to share it.’
DI Smith shook her head. Her smile dropped away. ‘This is a potential crime scene, Mal, so piss off. If I see you back here, then I’ll do you for obstruction of justice.’
I stood, waiting for something, but I didn’t know what. After a bit, I felt a little uncomfortable. ‘I better be off then,’ I said, ‘got a taxi waiting.’
‘I sent it away.’
‘Thanks.’ I walked past DI Smith and up the potholed road. As I passed the last garage, she shouted after me.
‘And stay away from his Scout hut too – there’s nothing there!’
I had to wait fifteen minutes for another cab, and spent it watching DI Smith and DC Harrington drive past me, numerous times, to check I didn’t head back to the garage.
So, I headed back to my office instead.
I might not have been able to visit the Scout hut, but if Beryl had found the address, I could look at it on internet maps and do a search for it in any recent news stories.
However, I didn’t expect my office to be occupied when I got back. I generally don’t expect it to be occupied at all.
Two men were waiting for me. One was small and wide – muscular wide, like someone who worked out a lot, and he stood at the back of the office. He had a head the shape of a bullet, and his hair was shaved into a silvery sheen across his scalp. When he looked at me, his eyes were such a pale blue as to seem almost blank. On his back he had a knapsack and it pulled the cheap blue suit he wore out of shape. Sat in my chair was another man; older, his suit was expensive, and he had thick dark hair, slicked back like Ray Liotta in Goodfellas, but where Ray’s face was sharp his was soft, like he lived too well. He stood up, a big – genuine – smile on his face that revealed a golden incisor.
‘Mr Jones,’ he said. He had the voice and outrageous accent of a Russian bond villain. I stood where I was, unsure what to do.
‘Did Beryl let you in?’
‘Oh no.’ He waved his hands in the air, laughing. ‘We let ourselves in. But do not worry, we did not do any damage – we are very much the professionals.’
‘Well …’ I sat in the client’s chair opposite the man. ‘Thanks, I guess. Look, I’ve had a really busy day and—’
‘I am Frank,’ said the man. ‘And my compatriot’ – he spelled out each syllable like it was a word he had only just learned – ‘is Harry. Harry, see, he is like your prince, yes?’
‘He doesn’t really look like P—’
‘Shh!’ said Frank, holding his fingers to his lips. ‘Harry is very fond of your royals – it would not do to upset him.’
‘Okay,’ I said. ‘You’re Frank, and he’s Harry, like the prince.’
‘Exactly. Now, Mr Malachite Jones, I doubt you can tell from my speaking, but I am Russian.’
I didn’t know whether he was joking or not, so didn’t say anything.
‘Harry is Russian also,’ Frank continued, ‘but he has a very strong accent and has not truly mastered your language, so I do the speaking. We like to stay incognito,’ he grinned. ‘You know this word?’
‘Yes.’
‘Good! Good! We are getting on very well.’
I looked for the right way to explain how I felt about us getting on well. I wanted to use ‘uneasy’ but I wasn’t sure Frank would like that.
I finally opted for. ‘I’m glad?’
‘Yes!’ he beamed. ‘So am I.’ He leaned across my desk, steepling his fingers. ‘Now, Mr Jones, I have a problem. It is not a good problem, but it may be one you can help me with. I have a number of business interests around the city – clubs, bars, shops, etc. Many interesting things, and sometimes I come into contact with Mr Mick Stanbeck – you have heard of him, yes?’ He didn’t give me time to reply. ‘Well, it has come to my attention that Mr Stanbeck may be about to come into a large amount of money and I am afraid that may tip the delicate balance of capitalism in this part of the world too far in his favour. Somethin
g I do not want.’
Again, searching for the right reaction. I don’t think Frank wanted to hear my immediate though of, ‘Oh shit.’
‘Of course not,’ I said.
‘So, should you come across a certain missing lottery ticket when you are speaking to the spirits, I would like you to give it to me.’
‘Won’t that tip the balance in your favour?’
‘You are a clever man, Mr Jones.’ He leaned forward, still grinning. ‘It will, yes. But that is not something I find as objectionable.’
‘The thing is …’
He held up a finger. ‘I understand, you are loyal to your clients, Mr Jones, and that is a very good trait for a man to have. But, I will let Harry explain to you why you should be helping me.’
‘I don’t think I need Harry to—’
‘Ah.’ He held a finger up again. ‘You be quiet. Just watch, please.’
Harry came forward and let his sack slip onto the desk. It landed with a thud, as though there was something very heavy in it. From the bag, he took out a ream of wrapped printer paper and opened it. Then he started laying out pristine white pieces of paper on the desk.
‘Stationery,’ I said.
‘Yes,’ whispered Frank, and it gave a sinister edge to a series of entirely unremarkable words. ‘Harry owns a number of stationers. Stationery is one of his many interests.’ He stared into my eyes. Something cold lived behind his. ‘Now, I think I told you to be quiet.’ He was no longer smiling.
Harry put out a triple layer of paper on the desk and placed the rest of the printer paper back in his knapsack. Then he took out a paper guillotine out of it. The old type. A heavy base with a long blade attached at one end that opened like one blade of a scissor. He placed the base in the centre of the white paper, the blade sticking up and turning the machine into half an arrow that pointed at Frank, who sat and watched as though Harry’s actions hypnotised him.
I had a sudden and terrible need to get out.
Jackie had taught me a number of ways of hurting people, but when you are sat down and a man as big as Harry grabs your hand, there is little you can do. I’m not professionally violent in the way Jackie is, and Harry’s huge paw was like a vice around my wrist.
He pulled my hand across and forced it onto the base of the paper guillotine. I tried to keep my fingers wrapped up in a fist, but he used his other hand to force mine open, like I was a child and he was an adult who had, quite frankly, had enough of my nonsense. He was firm, but not cruel. When he had my fingers splayed over the well designed for the blade to slip into, he held my hand there. Then he placed his other hand on the wooden handle of the guillotine.
‘Now, Mr Jones,’ said Frank. ‘You know what happens if Harry pushes the blade down?’
I swallowed before I spoke. ‘I lose my fingers.’
‘Yes, that is exactly right.’ Frank leaned forward, and this time, when he spoke, his English was perfect and unaccented. ‘Harry will not push down on the handle today. But when you find the ticket, you will give it to me or I will have Harry come back and he will use his guillotine to cut off your fingers, one by one, do you understand?’
I nodded, because, at that particular moment in time, I had found I could no longer speak.
Harry stared at me impassively, and Frank smiled. Then he gently slapped my cheek.
‘I think you are a good boy, I think you know what is best for you. Harry, put away your toy – let us go.’
They took the guillotine and left the paper on my desk. A stark, white reminder of their intent.
All things considered, I’ve had better Mondays.
7
TUESDAY
Jackie Singh Khattar first hit me when I was eight. I thought he wanted to scare me, which he succeeded in. He thought he wanted to scare me too, so he enjoyed it. I was too young, and so was he, to understand that violence was his only way of forming an emotional link with another human being.
He hit me again when I was twenty-eight, but for very different reasons.
‘I’m going to hit you in the stomach,’ he said.
‘Please don’t.’
‘I’m going to hit you in the stomach, and I want you to try and stop me.’
‘I don’t know how.’
‘I’ll show you.’
And he did, and I got hit in the stomach a lot before I finally mastered the sweep of my arm that would knock away the incoming blow. Then Jackie taught me a counter that would hurt my opponent enough for me to run away. I’m not a naturally physical person, so it took me almost six months before I could do it fluidly enough to make him happy.
There was never any chance of me saying no to this – Jackie doesn’t really understand the idea of no. Once he has what he thinks is a good idea in his head, then it’s happening. You can not do it, but that doesn’t mean he will stop trying to convince you that you should be doing it, or that he will not do whatever it is he has decided he wants to do anyway. As I didn’t want to be hit in the stomach every time I saw Jackie, I had to learn to defend myself.
For similar reasons, I was staring at a paper plate of dosa.
‘I can’t eat curry for breakfast, Jackie.’
‘It’s not curry, it’s dosa, and it’s really good. It’s from the sweet centre in Bradford.’
‘Still spicy. Breakfast isn’t spicy. I’m a Rice Krispies guy.’
‘You should try it – stop being so white.’
‘I’m not going to.’
‘Well, I’ll have to have it then.’ He reached over for the paper plate containing a pancake, yoghurt, various sauces and vegetables.
‘I think that’s the real reason you bring it for me, isn’t it? To get two helpings.’
He paused.
‘ … No …’
I paused.
‘Take it.’
It was, of course, but he would never admit that. The thought of being greedy was anathema to him, up there with wasteful. Ideas of ‘badness’ drilled into him by his foster mother, of whom we did not speak. Jackie stared at me, as if searching for a lie in my face, and then slid the plate over and started shovelling food into his mouth.
‘Got you another present,’ he said.
‘If it’s another crime-family wife with a lost fortune, you can keep it.’
‘Not going well?’ He paused in between mouthfuls of dosa.
‘I saw more criminals yesterday, in one day, than I ever did in all the time I was doing drugs.’
‘Like you even remember,’ he said.
I didn’t give that an answer.
‘Who did you see?’ Jackie crammed more food into his mouth.
‘The Stanbecks.’
‘Twats.’
‘Benny Callaghan.’
‘He’s alright. As long as you don’t owe him. What did he want?’
‘To say I should give him the ticket, rather than give it straight to Janine or Trolley Mick.’
‘Mick’ll skin you if you do that.’ More food into his mouth.
‘And I saw DI Smith and her partner again, and two Russian men.’
‘One of them called Frank?’ He covered his mouth as he asked; he never liked to speak with his mouth full, and that he did now was a mark of how important it was for him to know. His brown eyes fixed on my face.
‘Yes.’
‘Did he hurt you?’
‘No.’
‘Did he threaten to?’
‘No more than anyone else has.’
‘Do you want me to hurt him?’
‘No.’ He stared a little longer, then shrugged and went back to eating dosa. ‘This is really good, you know.’
‘Spicy, and I don’t like raw onion for breakfast.’
‘When we bring in Sharia law, you’ll have to eat this for breakfast.’
‘You’re not even Muslim.’
‘Don’t you tell me what I am.’ He grinned at me.
I changed the subject.
‘I wonder how the Russians knew about the lot
tery ticket?’
Jackie started cleaning the paper plate of the last of its sauce with his finger. ‘Mick’s outfit leaks like a sieve – that’s what happens when half your family are as thick as mince.’ He licked sauce from his finger. ‘Anyway, my bag under the table, present for you.’ He kicked a rucksack out from under the desk with one expensive-looking shiny leather brogue then lifted it onto the desk. I expected it to thunk down on the desk – like it had a paper guillotine in it – but whatever was in there wasn’t heavy. ‘You look like you think it has a head in it.’
‘Does it?’
‘No.’ Jackie looked appalled at the thought. ‘You don’t keep evidence like that hanging around. Did DI Smith ask about me?’ He pushed over the bag.
‘No,’ I said, untying the toggle.
‘That’s cos she fancies me – doesn’t want to make it too obvious. Playing coy.’
I opened the box. In it was a folder made out of blue cardboard. I took it out and opened it, surprised by what I found inside.
‘Police autopsy reports?’
‘Well, I knew DI Smith wouldn’t give them to you cos she’s playing hard to fucking get, isn’t she? So I talked to a friend of a friend and sorted them out for you. You read, I’ll sit and think about how good that dosa was.’
There wasn’t much in the file. Larry Stanbeck had been travelling at about eighty miles an hour when he was knocked off his bike on the motorway. He never stood a chance. He’d been sideswiped, fought for control of the bike over a four-hundred-metre stretch, before he hit the central barrier, which catapulted him from the bike, and he hit a streetlight. He must have been spinning through the air as he hit it with the centre of his back. The line used in the report was ‘folded him up like a piece of paper’.
