by RJ Dark
Callum shrugged, took his hands from his coat pockets and clasped his arms around himself. ‘Maybe he betrayed someone else,’ he said.
‘Well, don’t worry, Callum,’ said Jackie, and he sounded as hard as I had ever heard him. ‘They won’t get away with, I’ll see about that. And you can keep your money, this is on me.’
Callum nodded his shaggy head. ‘Thanks,’ he said, then again. ‘Thanks.’ Then he turned and walked away, his body slumped over with the weight of grief.
28
I didn’t want to talk to Janine Stanbeck, but it was unavoidable. She’d paid me and, somewhere in the back of my head, I thought of that as a contract that I had an obligation to fulfil as best I could. So I set off to her house, though I didn’t get far.
I was quite glad to be pulled over by DI Esther Smith. She leaned into the car and asked me to come into the station for a formal interview. Well, I was as glad as you can be when someone asks you to come into the station for a formal interview. I followed her car to the station and parked up beside her. When I got out she watched me walk toward her, probably puzzled by how pleased I seemed to be.
‘Am I under arrest?’
‘Should you be under arrest, Malachite?’ she said. DC Harrington loomed behind her.
‘Not as far as I’m aware, and I prefer “Mal”.’
‘I know,’ she smiled and walked toward the station. ‘Follow me’ – she looked back over her shoulder– ‘Malachite.’ I followed her into the station, and she signed me in at the front desk. Introduced me as someone she ‘was going to have a quick chat with’ and asked which interview rooms were free. We went from there to the interview room and sat down.
‘Do you want a drink?’ she said. ‘Coffee, tea, something cold?’
‘A solicitor?’
‘Do you need one?’
‘I am in a police station.’
‘It’s just for a chat.’
‘You won’t be putting that on then?’ I pointed at the recorder on the table between us.
‘Well, I will, but that’s just to protect us both, you see?’ She grinned at me. She had the most bright and sparkly eyes of anyone I had ever seen. ‘So no one can accuse anyone of saying something they didn’t.’
‘And so you have a record of what was said.’
‘Well, that is useful too.’ She pressed record on the machine and did her little speech, giving the date and time and who was present. ‘Now, Malachite, you know Benny Callaghan, right?’
‘Yes.’ My heart sank a little.
‘Well, I’m afraid he’s dead.’
Broken fingers. Bloodied face.
‘I’d heard.’ Jackie always says, if you’re in a police interview and you did it, get a solicitor and go ‘no comment’. But if you’re in an informal interview and they’re just digging, then give short answers that are easy to keep track of and don’t offer any new information. He’s done a lot more of this than I have, so I reckon taking his advice would be a good thing. I mean, I have done quite a few police interviews, but they were mostly done in the shy haze of drug or alcohol withdrawal.
‘Bomb scares, fires, murders.’ She smiled at me and let out a little laugh. ‘It’s all go this week.’ Then she leaned forward, suddenly serious. ‘Who told you Benny was dead?’
I shrugged.
‘It must have been a shock, finding out someone you knew had died.’
‘I didn’t know him well.’
She stared at me.
‘You were round Mick’s house last night,’ she said. ‘Then you went into town to a club known to be frequented by some less-than-law-abiding Russians. What were you doing?’
‘I went to give my commiserations about Benny to Mick. He asked me to drop a package off at The Russian Club, but they’re not all Russian, some of them are Ukrainian.’
She raised an eyebrow. ‘What was in the package?’
‘I didn’t ask.’
‘And here’s me thinking you were the curious type.’
‘I’m not curious where Trolley Mick is concerned.’
She nodded and started to doodle something on the pad of paper in front of her. ‘There’s been some bad blood between Mick and the Russians, recently.’ She stopped speaking. I almost made a joke about blood, but images of Benny’s body flooded my mind and the joke died on my lips. ‘Odd, that they’re suddenly exchanging presents,’ she said.
I shrugged.
‘Odd that they both have such an interest in you as well.’
I shrugged again. I was finding shrugging very useful and had decided it was the way forward. Maybe I should tell Jackie about my new strategy.
‘What were you doing up near where Benny was killed?’
‘What?’
‘Your car was seen up there.’
What would Jackie do? What would Jackie tell me to do? Say something plausible.
‘I like to drive round the moors sometimes.’
‘So you know where he was killed then?’
She never mentioned the moors. I walked right into that.
I should have shrugged, but now I needed to get myself out of this. And I realised, belatedly, that if they had me in here, and knew I had been on the moors, then they would probably bring Jackie in too. Anything I said, they would check with him.
‘When I heard about Benny dying and I went to see Mick, give him my condolences. He mentioned where it happened, and I realised I’d been up there. I’d even seen the smoke from the fire.’
‘But you didn’t stop.’
‘There wasn’t any reason to.’
‘Or call the fire brigade.’
‘I thought someone else would already have done it.’
She nodded, then put her handbag on the table. She took out some chewing gum, put it on the table. Took out her keys. Put them on the table. Took out a tampon, put it on the table. Then she took out a rolled-up bit of paper in a plastic wallet and lay it face down on the table. Then she put everything else back in her bag and put her bag back on the floor. She turned the paper right side up in front of her and pretended to read from it. You can always tell when someone is pretending to read, they don’t totally engage with the paper and get lost in the words in the same way a reader does. After a bit more pretending, she spun the bit of paper round and pushed it across the desk toward me.
I was trying to think about what incriminating bit of paper I’d had with me at Richmile Industrial Estate that I could have dropped while looking like I wasn’t worried about it.
‘This,’ she said, leaning forward and tapping the plastic wallet. ‘is a warrant.’
‘I think that maybe I should talk to a solicitor if you are getting warrants.’
‘Well, it won’t change what’s written here, Malachite’ – more tapping – ‘so you may as well hear me out.’
I shrugged. It was a strategy that had been working well for me until I strayed.
‘This warrant allows me to access the GPS positioning data from your mobile phone. So, if you stopped at Richmile Industrial Estate, for any length of time, I will know, Malachite Jones. I’ – she tapped the wallet with each word – ‘Will. Know.’
I shrugged. I didn’t really need to, but it felt right and it covered up the shiver that ran through me.
She leaned forward. ‘You are not a killer, Mal, we both know that. But your friend is. He is bad news, we both know it. What were you doing up there?
‘Am I under arrest, DI Smith?’
‘Not yet,’ she said, and her eyes were no longer sparkly, but intent.
‘Well, I’ll be going then.’
‘I’ll see you out.’ She gave a glance to DC Harrington, who left the room. ‘Just a bit of housekeeping to do first, papers and such.’ She grinned and produced a form. ‘This is to say we didn’t coerce you into saying anything. If you could sign here’ – she placed a cross on the form – ‘and here’ – another cross. I signed. Then she stood. ‘Right then, Mal, let’s get you on your way.’ She smiled and led m
e out.
As she was leading me down the corridor DC Harrington appeared, leading Jackie up it. For all the attention he paid me, I may as well have not existed. I was never quite as poker-faced as Jackie, and I couldn’t hide my surprise. Though I probably shouldn’t have been surprised that they had orchestrated this. When we got to the outside door, DI Smith stopped. ‘If there’s anything you want to tell me, Mal,’ she said, ‘now is probably the time.’
I shrugged.
The visit to the police station left me unsettled, like the edges of my mind were fraying; a tiny version of DI Esther was inside, picking away at me, pulling on my strings of thought. Even though I hadn’t had anything to do with Benny Callaghan’s death, I had still lied to the police, and when the records from my phone came back, she would know that. And it would look bad.
Really bad.
I had a record of shoplifting and attempted burglary from a long time ago when I was a different person. The new person I was didn’t want my old record updated with ‘accessory to murder’, which would be a real backward step for me. I was sure there were more deserving people than me for DI Esther Smith to focus on.
I even knew some of them.
Leaving the car park, I nearly backed into a police car and got shouted at by the policeman sat in it. I really didn’t feel like I should be driving about; my mind wasn’t on the job, but it wasn’t that far from the police station to Janine Stanbeck’s house on the Edge. I owed her an explanation, at least. Even if I thought she might react badly.
Halfway through my drive, my phone rang. I didn’t have anything as fancy as hands-free in my little Ford, and couldn’t shake the feeling that police might be following me about, so I found a place to stop before I got my phone out.
Jackie had called me. I called him back.
Jackie: What did you tell them?
Me: Nothing.
Jackie: No, I told them nothing, you definitely told them something.
Me: Only that I was on the moors.
Jackie: Mal, you never tell the police anything. How many times have I said that?
Me: They knew!
Jackie: They suspected. Now they know.
Me: Well, they’ll know anyway – she’s got a warrant for my phone records.
Jackie: I doubt it, but even if she has, I told you, I’ve sorted that.
Me: But …
Jackie: Mal, if DI Smith comes back at you, what do you say?
Me: No comment.
Jackie: Did you tell them anything else?
Me: No comment.
Jackie: Not funny. Did you?
Me: I said we took a parcel from Mick to Frank. Said we dropped in on Mick to say sorry about Benny.
Jackie: You’re an idiot sometimes.
Me: Jackie, I—
But he had rung off.
The police didn’t like me, Jackie was mad at me and now I was going to go and make Janine Stanbeck, who didn’t like me much already, dislike me even more.
I’d always thought of myself as a people person.
Maybe I was wrong about that.
I drove to Janine Stanbeck’s house, parked behind a rusty old Ford van, and rang the bell. No answer. I stood back, trying to see if there was any movement in any of the windows, because I was sure she would pretend not to be in if she wasn’t in the mood, but there was no sign of anyone being home.
‘She’s not in, love.’
I turned. An old lady in the garden next door was doing something earthy to some roses.
‘Do you know when she’ll be back?’
‘Dunno, love. Might be a while, considering.’ She clapped her hands together to get soil off them. ‘It’s the kid I feel sorry for.’
‘Yeah, it can’t be easy losing a father.’
‘And grandparents.’
‘Sorry?’
She did a good job of pretending not to be elated that I clearly hadn’t heard the news yet, but not good enough. ‘Last night, love, police were here and everything.’ She took a pair of secateurs from her apron pocket. ‘Both dead from what I heard. Some sort of car accident.’
‘Oh,’ I said. ‘Best I don’t bother her then.’ But it was too late. As I turned to walk away a taxi drew up and Janine Stanbeck got out, dragging her son behind her. She didn’t look particularly upset, but everyone reacts differently to grief, and I knew as I got to see a lot of it.
‘What do you want?’ she said. She put a lot of emphasis on the word ‘you’ and not in a very welcoming way.
‘It doesn’t matter – nothing important.’
‘You wouldn’t be here if it was nothing. Have you found my money?’
‘Well …’
She stared at me, then fished her keys out of an expensive-looking bag, made of padded golden material.
‘You had better come in,’ she said, ‘but you can’t stay long.’ She walked up to the door and slid the key in. ‘I’ve had a hard night and the boy’s tired.’
‘I heard what happened, I’m sorry.’
‘It was my dad,’ she said. She walked in and sat at the table. ‘Silly old bastard.’ She bit her lip. ‘Do you smoke?’
‘No.’
‘Neither do I. I wish I did though.’
‘Was it suspicious?’
‘You mean like Larry?’
‘Well …’
‘Can’t you just ask them? They’re in the spirit world now, right?’ She didn’t let me reply. ‘I know, it doesn’t work like that.’ She sighed. ‘My dad ran a red light, and they got hit by a truck. Killed them both instantly. Put the truck driver in hospital, poor guy – he’ll never be the same again, will he?’
She slumped forward a little, hands on the table in front of her. She still wore her wedding ring and was twisting it round and round on her finger.
‘I suppose not.’ Her son climbed onto the couch in the front room and curled up. She ignored him.
‘So, bad news always comes in threes,’ she sat back. ‘What do you have to tell me? I’d rather get it all out of the way now.’
‘The ticket Larry—'
‘Lawrence,’ she snapped it out.
‘Lawrence had. It wasn’t his.’
She sat straight. Focused herself on me.
‘What?’
‘It’s complicated, but the money on that ticket belongs to Mick Stanbeck and a Russian mobster called Frank.’
Janine Stanbeck nodded slowly. Then she laughed.
‘Bloody Lawrence, he could never get anything right.’
‘I think he’d worked for Frank for a while.’
‘A while?’ She stood, turned and walked toward the kitchen. There was a shiny logo on the back of her jeans, designer. ‘When was he doing this? He was always off, doing his bloody Scouts or his interior design for …’ Her voice tailed off but she didn’t look at me. ‘Frank? That Frank, his boss Frank?’
‘I think so. I think Lawrence was helping Mick launder money with Frank, and the ticket was part of that.’
She walked back in and sat down.
‘So, he left me with nothing then? The fucking bastard. Well, I’m glad he’s dead. There, I can say it now. I was glad when I heard it on the day, but I had to play the grieving widow.’ She had done that very badly, but I didn’t think I needed to tell her that. ‘No more. He fucking lied to me. I was trying to build something and all along he was lying to me.’
‘Well …’
‘Fuck off, you,’ she said. ‘You’re fired, you can stop now. And I never want to see you again. You know where the door is.’
29
SUNDAY AND EVERYTHING AFTER
The false summer heat that had stilled the air for the past week was gone. It seemed spring proper was here, and though I had no idea of how to find the lottery ticket Mick and Russian Frank were desperate for, the sound of birds singing and the scent of cut grass in the air brought a sense of promise with it that made me think that maybe, just maybe, it was possible to find it.
I had no idea how.
<
br /> On my doormat the next morning was an envelope with a note from Jackie inside. At the top was the name, address and telephone number of his solicitor. The note said to memorise it and call him if the police picked me up again. Then he said he was going away for a few days and not to get into trouble. Well, it said STAY IN! Jackie wasn’t subtle. Aftooq from Spice ‘N’ Saucy would be keeping an eye out, and I was to contact him if there was any trouble. Jackie’s list of gangsters was missing from the desk, so I presumed he’d gone to follow up on his suspicions that someone Mick had laundered money for was responsible for the death of Benny Callaghan. I pitied them if they were; something about his death had affected Jackie. And Jackie hated anything that ‘upset his poise’.
And torture, he really hated torture.
But I couldn’t get my own poise back either. I kept expecting DI Esther Smith to get the results from her warrant and turn up with a pair of handcuffs. The image of her coming through my door to arrest me with a smiling DC Harrington hung over me like the sword of Damocles. On the other hand, maybe being arrested was my best option. Better than my week to find the lottery ticket running out and Frank sending Donald to visit me, anyway.
For the rest of the day, Beryl crashed around in the back room and I barely noticed her. Clients came and went and I put in minimum effort because my mind was elsewhere, but they didn’t seem to notice. I jumped every time the doorbell rang, but the sword refused to fall.
I wanted, needed, something to do, to distract myself but didn’t know what I could do. I had nowhere to go. I drove out to where Larry Stanbeck had died and walked along the verge of the motorway, pretending I was interested in the budding twigs and branches of the trees that lined it when really I was looking for the lost ticket.
Nothing.
So, I turned to social media.
I don’t actually have a social media presence. People don’t want to see photos of their conduit to the spirit world throwing up by the pool in Benidorm – it destroys the mystique. Generally, I let Beryl do social media for me, and she happily spends half her time on it, arguing with people she doesn’t know about things I’m not sure either side really understands.
