by Jeff Gulvin
‘Yo.’ The UC slipped him some skin and then began peering at the car, walking around it with his hands in his pockets, eyes bunched up in his face. He looked the bodywork over first and then the wheels, smoothing long black fingers over the alloy spokes.
‘It’s all there, brother.’ Pretty Boy twirled keys.
The UC stood up and nodded briefly. ‘Why you selling, man?’
‘No reason. Fancy a change is all.’
Again the UC nodded. ‘Lift the bonnet, yeah?’
Pretty Boy obliged and the UC took a good long look at the engine, very clean, well kept. He nodded and lowered the lid.
‘Whizzer eh?’
‘It moves, man.’
‘I get to drive?’
‘Leave yours here.’
‘Ain’t mine. Borrowed.’
Pretty Boy nodded. ‘I want cash.’
‘Sure.’
They went for a drive. When they came back the motorcycle courier was gone. A small white van was parked further along the street. A man outside fiddling under the bonnet. Pretty Boy climbed out of the passenger seat.
‘I want my buddy to take a look. Mechanic, man.’
‘When?’
‘I got to call him.’
‘So do it.’
‘He’s working. Later?’
Pretty Boy twisted his lip a fraction. ‘You just wanted the drive right?’
The UC grinned and shook his head. ‘That what you think, man?’
‘It’s what I think.’ Pretty Boy moved round to the driver’s door. ‘Don’t fuck with me, man. I got buyers.’
‘Hey.’ The UC’s face was still. ‘Nobody’s fucking with you, brother. I got cash. I’ll make my call and I’ll phone you later on.’ He pointed at him, hand waist-high, finger stiff before him. Further along the road the van driver lowered his bonnet and got behind the wheel.
Pretty Boy was back in the car. ‘Call if you want to. Can’t say I’ll be there.’
The UC lifted both hands palm upwards. Pretty Boy shook his head, spat out of the window and made a U-turn. The van had turned also and was waiting for him to move.
For a second Pretty Boy stared at the driver who drummed fingers on the steering wheel.
‘Jessica didn’t wear false fingernails.’ Turner’s voice was steady, his eyes fixed on Weir’s face. Next to him Ryan shifted in his seat.
‘You’re sure?’
Turner looked witheringly at him. ‘I was married to her for ten years. Don’t you think I’d know?’ He looked at Weir again. ‘Why d’you want to know?’
They were seated in Turner’s lounge. He had spent two nights with his neighbours but now he was back in the house. He looked much older than he had done on Monday morning, face drawn and pale, hair mussed on his head. He massaged the shoulder he had hurt playing rugby.
‘We found a false nail in your kitchen, Alec’ Weir said it in a flat voice. Turner stared at him. ‘So?’
‘So we thought maybe it was Jessica’s.’
‘Well now you know it wasn’t.’ Turner pushed back his hair with both hands, dragging his fingers across his scalp. He sucked breath. ‘Look, I’ve told your man Morrison you can have a picture. Shouldn’t you be out there doing something?’
‘We are doing something, Alec. But we’ve found a false nail, two black hairs and a piece of pink wool here at the scene.’ Weir paused. ‘Do you know any other women who wear false nails?’
Turner stared at him then. ‘Meaning what exactly?’
‘Meaning — do you know any other women who wear false nails?’
‘You mean am I shagging anyone?’
‘Are you?’ Ryan cut in.
Turner flashed his eyes at him. ‘I loved my wife.’
‘Course you did.’ Ryan lifted his shoulders. ‘I love mine. We have to ask, Alec.’
Turner sighed then and closed his eyes.
‘Okay, Alec,’ Weir said. ‘What about the weekend — where could she have gone? Have you any idea?’
‘We don’t know that she went anywhere.’
‘The neighbours, Alec,’ Ryan said gently.
‘They could be wrong. So she went out on Friday. That’s not unusual. She often goes out on Fridays.’
‘Workmates?’
‘What?’
‘Does she go out with workmates?’
‘Sometimes she does — yes.’
For a few moments they were silent. Ryan could hear the ticking of the clock on the mantelpiece. ‘What’s to say she didn’t go out, come back and go out again. She told me she was shopping on Saturday.’
‘You phoned her?’ Weir asked him.
‘She told me before I went away. But yes, I phoned her. Mobile from the bar in Cork.’
‘What time?’
‘I don’t know. Six — six thirty.’
‘Was she in?’
‘No.’
Ryan stood up and took out his cigarettes. He showed the pack to Turner who nodded. Ryan lit one and put away his lighter. ‘Look, Alec. We’ve spoken to your neighbours. They’re adamant she was away from Friday night to Sunday night—late. Your Mr Roberts — he’s a canny old buzzard. Doesn’t miss a trick.’
Turner stared at the floor. ‘Nothing better to do than sit around all day watching us all from his window. There’s nothing goes on here that he can’t tell you in advance.’
Ryan nodded slowly. ‘So you reckon he might be right then.’
Turner rubbed his face with his hands.
After a few moments Weir said. ‘Have you ever suspected she might be seeing someone?’
‘No.’ Turner snapped out the reply. ‘Well, maybe. I don’t know.’ He looked from one to the other of them. ‘Sometimes you get a feeling you know.’
Ryan touched his teeth with his tongue. ‘Things she said. Things she did.’
Turner nodded.
‘What things?’ Weir said.
Turner looked back at him. ‘Nothing specific. A couple of times I wondered. She went away once before.’
‘When?’
‘December. Said it was a work thing but that was the first time she’d ever had a work do at the weekend.’
‘Did you check?’
Turner lifted his chin. ‘No, I didn’t check. Strange as it may sound I trusted her.’
They were still once more. Ryan sucked on his cigarette. ‘No children.’
‘What?’
‘You don’t have any children.’
‘What’s that got to do with anything?’
Ryan shrugged. ‘Did you never want them?’
‘I wanted them. Jess didn’t.’ He made an open-handed gesture. ‘No big deal. I knew it when I married her.’
Weir looked at him carefully. ‘Career girl was she?’
‘Very much so. She was bright, Inspector. Going places.’
‘Which of you earned the most?’ Ryan asked him.
Turner again looked at Ryan, questions standing out in his eyes. ‘Why?’
‘No reason.’
‘I do—did,’ Turner replied.
Ryan paced over to the window. ‘You’ve no idea who she might’ve been seeing—assuming she was that is?’
‘I haven’t got a clue.’
They drove back to the incident room, Weir musing, face twisted, fingers alive on the wheel.
‘He knew she was over the side, Guv,’ Ryan said.
Weir shot him a short glance. ‘You reckon?’
‘Yeah. Something else I reckon too.’
‘What’s that?’
‘He’s playing away himself.’
‘You think so?’
Ryan nodded. ‘He’s got that just had guilty look.’
They drove on. ‘Suppose he is. That doesn’t put a bird in the house and it doesn’t give her false fingernails does it?’
‘No.’
Weir looked at him then. ‘So you reckon our shooter was a woman then?’
‘False nail. Long black hair and pink wool. How many blokes d’you know lik
e that?’
Weir nodded. ‘And the angle of the shots gives us somebody between five-five and five-nine or else somebody crouching.’
‘Spells totty to me, Guv.’
Back in the incident room Ryan gave his 50/20 form to the girls feeding information into Holmes. At the desk across from his own Pam Richards was leafing through the Turners’ phone bill from the December quarter. Ryan leaned in front of her. ‘You got this month’s yet?’
Pam shook her head. ‘I’ve been on to BT, Sid. It’s coming. How’s the husband?’
‘So so.’ Ryan sat down in his chair and glanced at the phone messages on the pad. ‘Doesn’t know anyone with false nails and his wife did not own any angora wool in pink.’
Pam turned her mouth down at the corners. ‘Why would a woman shoot Jessica Turner?’
Ryan leaned forward. ‘Why would anyone, Pammy?’
Vanner was looking at the selection of photographs of the Brit-Boy posse party. Jimmy was in the kitchen making coffee. They were waiting on a call from 2 Area Surveillance. Vanner pored over the photos, scanning every inch of Pretty Boy’s face. It told him nothing. Jimmy Crack placed a mug of coffee at his elbow and Vanner grunted. Then he tapped a picture of one of the black girls seated at a garden table. ‘Who’s she?’ Jimmy craned his neck to see. ‘Carmel, Guv. She’s Stepper-Nap’s shagpiece. The one Plug’s looking at.’
‘Gets about a bit doesn’t he.’
‘They all get about. Babe mothers. It’s a pride thing. More Yardie than Brit, but they’re much of a muchness. Kids by different women, Guv. Baby mothers.’
Vanner looked at Carmel, a petite, pretty black girl with her hair stripped back from her face. ‘She got kids by Stepper?’
‘I don’t know. I think he just likes her pussy.’
‘What about the white bird?’
‘Don’t know who she is, Guv.’
‘The Mixer not clocked her?’
Jimmy shook his head.
‘And Stepper-Nap’s married?’
‘Three kids by the wife. He lives with her, but he’s got other kids dotted here and there.’
‘Must cost him a bloody fortune. No wonder he’s washing crack.’
‘He gets by, Guv’nor. Word is he’s in the market for a Porsche.’
Vanner looked up at him. ‘And he lives in a council house, right?’
‘On the dole, Guv. Getting it from everywhere.’
‘You ever eyeballed him, Jim?’
‘Oh yeah. He doesn’t know me though.’
‘You sure?’
‘He might know my car.’
‘Change that car, Jim.’
‘My life’s work, Guv’nor. But I told you. I shouldn’t have it in the first place.’
Vanner sat back and sipped coffee. He looked at his watch. ‘Surveillance still got eye contact?’
‘Last time I heard.’
‘Taking his time,’ Vanner said. ‘To go home I mean.’
‘We don’t know where home is, Guv. That’s the point.’
Vanner rolled his eyes. ‘Go through the log with a fine-tooth comb.’
The doorway was suddenly filled by an immense frame behind them. Steve Riley, the Surveillance team skipper, stood there in a blue poloneck sweater that stretched over his massive chest. In his hand he held a little brown book.
‘Guv’nor,’ he said to Vanner.
‘Steve. What you got?’
‘Loss.’
‘Shit.’
‘Only for twenty minutes. 4/2 picked him up again on the Uxbridge Road. Parked outside an amusement arcade.’ He handed the book to Vanner. ‘Last address. Let himself in with a key.’
‘Where?’
‘Semi near Sudbury and Harrow Road.’
Friday night and Stepper-Nap sat with Young Young in the Dome at the National on Kilburn High Road. Young Young wearing a black suit, slouched in his seat, legs so far under the table they poked out the other side. He swirled spiced rum in his glass and watched the comings and goings at the bar beneath them.
‘Where’s Eilish?’ he said.
Stepper gave him a laconic look and dabbed at the perspiration that gathered in sticky globules on his brow. ‘Dancing.’
‘Girl likes to dance.’
‘Irish. They all like to dance.’
Young Young smiled slowly. ‘She dance with you, fat man.’
Stepper wagged a finger at him. ‘Don’t call me fat man.’
Young Young drew breath through wide, flaring nostrils. ‘I’m bored, man. This place sucks on a Friday.’
‘Then take off, Young Young.’
Young Young drained his glass and ran a hand over his flattop hair. He watched little Bigger, his half-brother, come up the stairs with a tray of drinks in his hands. Behind him Pretty Boy stepped very deliberately with Jig moving beside him. They eyeballed everyone they passed.
Young Young sat up in his seat and gestured towards Pretty Boy. ‘What you doing about him?’
Stepper looked where he looked and a steady smile played on his lips. ‘I don’t need to do nothing.’
‘Word is he’s after the action, Daddy.’
‘What he’s after and what he gets is two different things.’
‘You think so?’
Stepper moved his bulk in the chair as Little Bigger set the tray on the table. His flattened hair gleamed with freshly pasted gel and gold flashed in his mouth. Pretty Boy and Jig had paused at the top of the stairs. ‘I’m watching him, man.’ Stepper went on. ‘I got that nigger’s number.’
Young Young lifted a fresh glass of rum from his brother’s tray and lit a cigarette. ‘You want him outa here you tell me.’
Stepper laid a hand on his arm. ‘If I want I will.’
The girls came up the stairs, three black women and two white. Eilish with her red hair brushed back from her face, green dress off one shoulder.
‘Who’s that with Eilish?’ Little Bigger asked.
‘Name’s Mary-Anne. Another Irish chick.’ Stepper waved a hand at the women. Carmel smiled at him. Eilish looked at Young Young.
The girls sat down and Young Young stared at Mary-Anne. Older than Eilish with long black hair. She sat down, glanced a little nervously at him and nibbled on a fingernail. Little Bigger passed them each a drink. Carmel sloped behind Stepper-Nap and draped one arm across his chest. At the head of the stairs Pretty Boy and Jig were deep in conversation with a ginger-haired whiteman.
‘Who’s your friend, Eilish?’ Young Young said.
Eilish glanced at him now, accepting a light for her cigarette from Little Bigger. ‘Mary-Anne.’ She looked at Mary-Anne and smiled. ‘Meet Young Young, Mary-Anne.’
Young Young touched a fingertip to his forehead and pointed at her. ‘Where’d you come from?’
‘She’s an old friend, Young Young. I’ve only just met up with her again.’
‘Ireland was it?’
Mary-Anne nodded. ‘We go way back.’
‘I bet you do.’ Young Young caught Eilish’s eye then and grinned at her. Stepper caught the look and patted Carmel’s arm still fastened over his shoulder.
Pretty Boy and Jig came over and stood before the table. ‘You got time for a word, man.’
Pretty Boy looked at Stepper. Stepper looked back at him then shook off Carmel’s arm. The two of them moved to the bar. Young Young stared at Jig. Jig looked away.
‘What’s happening?’ Stepper said.
Pretty Boy lit a cigarette, inspected the end and blew smoke in a trail at the ceiling.
‘Tuesday. Gatwick. I got two girls coming in.’
‘We gonna need the doctor?’
‘Yeah.’
‘When on Tuesday?’
‘Morning flight from Kingston.’
‘Who you gonna send?’
‘I figured Young Young’s brother.’
Stepper half-nodded. ‘He up to it?’
‘He can drive can’t he.’
Stepper sipped at a beer. Pretty Boy smoked, o
ne hand in his trouser pocket. ‘Who’s that with the black hair?’
‘Friend of Eilish.’
‘Another Paddy is it?’
Stepper nodded.
‘Don’t know that I like the Irish.’
‘They fuck real well.’
Pretty Boy laughed then and blew smoke rings.
‘You sell your car?’
Pretty Boy shook his head. ‘Not today, man. Had me a looker but he was just a fuck.’
‘What you gonna buy?’
‘Mercedes.’
Stepper nodded. ‘I got a Mercedes.’ He nodded to the ginger-haired man at the head of the stairs. ‘You priming the man over there?’
Pretty Boy nodded. ‘Let me know when and where for the doctor.’
Stepper smiled at him. ‘You bring your women to me, man. I’ll sort the doctor.’ For a moment then they looked at one another, then Pretty Boy shrugged his shoulders. ‘It’s cool,’ he said, and went back to the table.
Five
RAY KINANE SAT AT the breakfast table watching his two young sons spooning Coco-Pops into their mouths. Timmy, the younger one, dribbled milk down his chin and wiped it on the sleeve of his school pullover. He looked up guiltily at his father.
‘Don’t let your mother see you do that,’ his father said. ‘She’s only just washed it.’
Timmy wiped the sleeve on the leg of his trousers and went back to his breakfast.
In the hall the letterbox flapped and Kinane eased back his chair. He went through to collect the post and the morning paper. Nice to have breakfast with the family. It was not often he could do it these days. Brown envelopes lay on the mat and a folded copy of The Times bulged out of the flap. Kinane scooped up the bills and slid the newspaper from the letterbox. He flapped it out and then stopped. A woman’s face looked him right in the eye and a chill crept over his neck.
‘What is it, love?’ His wife’s voice suddenly from the bottom step of the stairs. He had not heard her come down. For a moment he stared at her.
‘Ray?’
‘Nothing.’ He folded the paper. ‘A woman got killed in London. Shooting.’ He shook his head. ‘Shocked me that’s all.’
His wife took the paper from him and scanned the headlines. Her brow furrowed. ‘Good God. In her own home.’
Kinane went back through to the kitchen and laid the bills on the side. His sons had finished their breakfast and were flicking dried cereal at one another. ‘Pack it in,’ he snapped. ‘Get your coats and I’ll drive you to school.’
