My Bloody Alibi

by Dominic Milne

  The cabbie, a small bald case in his early fifties, looked at the pair in his mirror.

  ‘Where to next?’ he asked. He’d spent the last twenty minutes driving up and down Parkhurst Road, while Cass made him keep his eyes open for ‘a hot black chick who looks a little like me.’

  ‘City centre,’ replied Cass. ‘Soho.’

  ‘Family reunion is it?’ he asked.

  ‘Oh we ain’t family sweetheart,’ said Marcella. ‘We’re practically the same person.’

  9

  The flat was in a perfect spot. The disused Victorian haunt in the middle of St Anne’s Court had more crumbling curves and false features than Liza Minnelli’s face. Half-hearted attempts to renovate the place over the years had failed badly. The flaking plaster under the two big front windows looked like tears running down the face of an ageing spinster with too much make-up. The walls were thick with grime and the guttering had split under the weight of a century of pigeon crap.

  The tall thin building was the rotten meat between two sandwich shops, neither of which looked like they would stand up to much scrutiny from environmental health. The word “massage” shone from the long window in the building opposite the house, the letters flashing in electric blue neon, like the lights that repel flies in a butcher’s window – except these were designed to attract the parasites.

  ‘Jeez,’ said Marcella, tipping her head back to scan the top of the house. ‘How the hell did you find this little beauty?’

  ‘Me and the girls used to crash here sometimes,’ replied Cass. ‘When things got a little too hot back in Hackney, we used to hide out here.’

  ‘You really know how to live girl. Who owns the place?’

  ‘Some old bankrupt who ran off to South America with a fifteen year-old five years ago. Never been seen since. He tried to sell this before he went but couldn’t because of subsidence or something. The place is falling down. It’s like the devil’s own outside-toilet in there, full of shit, needles and damp. Oh and it’s riddled to high hell with rats and cockroaches. Come on honey, let’s go upstairs. I know you’re just dying to see inside.’

  ‘What girl wouldn’t with that sales pitch?’

  Cass took a key from her bag and opened a large padlock that secured a steel flap on the reinforced steel front door. The air inside was thick with the stench of water rot. The wooden steps that led upwards before them looked like they might give at any time. Cass took out two pairs of surgical gloves and handed a pair to Marcella.

  ‘No prints remember,’ she said.

  ‘Hey babe, you know the last time I had a pair of these things on…’

  ‘I don’t want to know honey,’ laughed Cass. ‘Come on.’

  There were three flights of stairs to the top of the house. At the top of each flight, a torch had been strapped to the banister. Cass switched on each one in turn, which then lit up the next leg of their journey. When they reached the top she produced the key for another padlock and let them in the third floor flat. The room inside was large and airy, empty but for an old table and chair in one corner. Another big camping torch hung from a hook on the wall.

  ‘I’ve cleaned the place up some,’ said Cass, opening a window that looked out onto the fire escape at the back of the building. ‘You can get onto the roof here if you have to, in an emergency.’

  Marcella leaned out of the window and looked down. Directly below she could see an industrial-size steel bin. A guy in a grubby white overall deposited some potato peelings in the bin then disappeared into the back of the sandwich shop next door.

  ‘So what’s the verdict?’ asked Cass.

  Marcella paced round the sides of the room. Cass knew she was checking out the space, visualising what would happen there. After a few seconds, she nodded slowly.

  ‘It’s just like you said Cass baby. Perfect.’

  ‘The place comes with hidden extras,’ said Cass. ‘Check down there under your foot.’

  She pointed at a floorboard, significantly smaller than the others along side. Marcella leaned down and lifted the loose wood.

  ‘Wow,’ she said, as the barrel of a gun shone back up at her.

  ‘That’s just a little insurance, in case things get a little edgy.’

  ‘What about the Alley Cat?’ said Marcella, feeling the weapon for size and weight. ‘Did “Sylvana” have any trouble making friends with the management?’

  ‘A little,’ replied Cass. ‘But that was kind of fun. Getting the podium was a piece of cake and you’ll just love the Sylvana outfit honey. Watch your back in the area though. There’s some racist shit going down at the moment.’

  ‘So I hear. Have you found Barry Leonard yet?’

  There was a steeliness about Marcella’s voice when she said the name. Cass had heard that tone from Marcella before, usually before a storm erupted in the prison. She gripped the gun all the harder as she spoke.

  ‘Not yet,’ she replied. ‘But we know where Leonard hangs out. I’ll go and have a look-see before my stint at the club later. Don’t worry honey. I’ll find him.’

  ‘What about the copper?’

  Cass took a deep breath before answering. It was her turn to sound like the devil was chewing away at her insides.

  ‘He’s with the traffic unit now,’ she replied, moving to the window. A bunch of pigeons took off from the roof outside. ‘PC Jack Thorne works regular office hours and drinks in the Fitzroy Tavern on Charlotte Street after his shift most nights. You’ll find him there tonight. I got a picture of him off the internet.’

  She handed Marcella a printout of a photograph; a headshot and not a pretty sight. The guy was ugly in a post-1950s way, like an ageing Elvis wannabee, complete with burger addiction.

  ‘Nice,’ said Marcella. ‘Where the hell did you find this?’

  ‘A police website,’ she said. ‘The kind where the local filth smile and try to look like they give a shit about the community.’

  ‘Jeez girl,’ said Marcella. She let out one of her crazy laughs. ‘You have been busy since you got out. With your head for organisation you should have been in the army or something. And you’re sure this Thorne pig’s going to fall for my charms?’

  ‘That piece of shit couldn’t resist the likes of you honey, especially not if you dress a little young for him.’

  The two fell silent for a minute and looked at each other. It struck them both what a dirty game life had made them play to survive. Marcella put the gun back in the floor and replaced the board on top.

  ‘You still want to take this all the way honey?’ asked Cass.

  ‘Too right I do.’ Marcella stood up to face her friend. ‘We’re in this thing to the very end girl.’

  ‘No matter how bitter it gets?’

  ‘That’s right. I’ll go and meet the pig Jack Thorne tonight.’

  ‘And I’ll find Barry Leonard for you.’

  ‘Cool. Now where the hell’s that drink you’ve been promising me?’

  10

  Cass and Marcella knew Barry Leonard worked out of Old Compton Street. One of his ex-customers, a crack-whore called Candice, had been banged up on the hospital wing of Holloway prison six months earlier. She told Marcella about Leonard’s current operation when they met during one of Marcella’s assessments at the mental health unit. Candice was having treatment for her addiction at the time. She was released two months later and found dead in an alley a month after that with an arm full of holes and a blood system full of bad junk.

  Candice had told Marcella that Barry Leonard didn’t deal directly these days. He had a posse of rickshaw-riding lackeys to take his risks for him. Leonard spent his time between the bars and coffee houses on the corner of Frith and Old Compton Streets; waiting for the profits to arrive, schmoozing with the Albanian mob to safeguard his business. The main problem was that Candice had never actually seen Barry Leonard. They had no real idea what he looked like these days, save for the fact they knew he had a gold front tooth; Marcella had remembered that detail
from ten years ago.

  Marcella reckoned she would recognise Leonard anywhere of course; the face of the dealer who killed her little brother would always have a special niche in the dark side of her memory. But they couldn’t risk Leonard seeing Marcella now. She’d sworn revenge on him, loudly and publicly. Those threats may have been screamed a long time ago but if Leonard were to see and recognise Marcella, the whole plan might be blown.

  Cass meandered down Old Compton Street checking out the scene. She had a couple of hours before she was due at The Alley Cat and was determined to make some headway in the search for Leonard. Once she’d found him, “Sylvana” would turn up the seduction heat and draw him in. It may have been needle-in-a-haystack stuff, but she made one hell of a magnet.

  She took a seat outside a coffeehouse and watched the weird world and his transvestite wife pass by. A procession of scantily-clad muscle-men marched down the street in front of her carrying a banner that read: “Soho says no to fascists”. They were cheered and applauded all the way.

  ‘Amen to that brother,’ shouted Cass, as she watched an empty rickshaw pull up by Ronnie Scott’s Jazz Club. The driver jumped off and peered up and down Frith Street. He looked like a Spanish schoolboy, pipe-cleaner thin and fresh-faced. His tee-shirt read: “shag first, ask questions later”. She flagged him over.

  ‘You want ride lady?’ he asked with a grin.

  ‘I’m looking for Barry Leonard honey. Do you know him?’

  The boy shook his head vacantly, not too slowly, not to keenly. She reckoned she just about believed him.

  ‘You want ride lady?’ he repeated.

  She sent him on his way. No luck this time, but if Barry Leonard hung out here, his crew of rickshaw dealers were sure to show up at some point. She just had to sit tight and wait.

  11

  Marcella rocked up at the Fitzroy Tavern just after five o’clock. She had the best part of two bottles of champagne swimming through her veins and was as ready as she figured she would ever be to take on her new role. She was dressed from head to toe as Sylvana, complete with fake lettering across the shoulder blades, which matched Cass’s tattoo to a tee. The afternoon had been spent in a pokey hotel room in Earls Court getting used to the outfit, along with her newfound freedom. The wig felt weird at first and the boots were a little tight, but she loved the shades and the dance they’d dreamed up for Sylvana was a blast.

  Marcella hadn’t been in the Fitzroy Tavern before, the old haunt being a little too tame and way too bohemian for her tastes. She arrived before the early evening rush and took a stool at one corner of the rectangular bar, choosing a position where she could easily check out either door. The minutes passed and the space around her gradually filled with punters. There were several old boys with whisky faces; suckers who looked like they might have been something once, before the booze took hold and turned their brains to mush. Younger groups rolled in around them and made all the noise. Marcella ordered a succession of bottled lagers and sipped them slowly. She had no idea how long this would take.

  Every so often some optimistic guy would sidle up to her with a smile and a cheesy line. Cass had command of the patter in a way Marcella never would and she knew as much. Marcella tended to use a more direct rebuff. Cass could put a guy away with one slick line; Marcella just used a middle-finger salute to achieve the same goal, or maybe a fist down the throat. If she’d learnt one thing from Cass though, it was that treating guys mean really did work a treat – as long as you made them think you were only joking when you were dishing out the insults. Every so often you just had to throw a sweet-as-you-like comment into the mix and act like you meant it with all your heart; one cheesy compliment for every three or four sassy jibes usually did the trick. That way, the sucker felt real good about themselves and just lapped up the teasing all the more. If you hadn’t been turning them on in the first place, you sure as hell would then.

  Most guys were basically pathetic. Sure, some were beautiful with it, some were total bastards, some made you laugh and a very small handful you could properly trust. They made good pals when you could find them, but Marcella had been inside so long she’d lost touch with the male world.

  Cass and Marcella figured from now on it would be best to stay away from Soho during the day. They definitely didn’t want to be seen together. The hideout Cass had found was a cheap double room in a hotel off the Earls Court Road. The Sun Inn was the kind of filthy hotel hell-hole that gave other filthy hell-holes a bad name. The place had a lightning turnover and was teeming with low-lifes from all the five continents. The floors around them were packed with benefit claimers, asylum seekers, dealers and prostitutes; a plethora of people whose lives were riddled with mistrust, and fraught with danger and insecurity. It was the kind of place where, if you had any sense, you’d sleep with one eye open and a knife by the bed. Marcella tended to do that anyway. The Sun Inn was the kind of place where nobody asked questions however, and that meant the place made for good cover.

  Six o’clock came and went for Marcella; still no sign of PC Jack Thorne at the Fitzroy Tavern. She figured it was worth staying another hour, but beyond that there probably wasn’t much chance of him showing up tonight. She’d try again tomorrow. She bought another bottle to bide her time and keep her throat cool in the evening heat.

  The clock had just struck 7pm when the door swung open and three big men marched up to the bar, their beer-bellies arriving ahead of them. Two of them were in their late thirties and the third, a little goofier than his friends, was in his mid-twenties. The trio all wore black trousers, regulation boots, short-sleeved white shirts and couldn’t have been more “Old Bill” if they’d had the words stamped across their foreheads in black ink. Marcella peered round discreetly through the sides of her shades. She didn’t need to look twice, or get the photograph out again, to know who one of the older guys was.

  12

  Time was running short for Cass. She’d have to get to the club soon or Henson might give her podium spot to someone else. She’d tried three rickshaw riders so far, none of whom were letting on to knowing Barry Leonard. She’d even spent a couple of tenners being cycled around Soho, travelling in circles, getting nowhere fast. She moved across to Bar Soho, ordered a cold lager and a brandy chaser to get the blood moving and sat in the window. Another rider pulled up outside Ronnie Scott’s. She waved him across.

  ‘Where would you like to go gorgeous? Love the wig, by the way.’ The rider was early twenties, wearing a skin-tight tee-shirt and leather hot pants. His body was completely hairless and looked like it might have been dipped in a vat of wax, dried on a spit and peeled. Maybe it had; pretty much anything was possible around here.

  ‘We’ll start with Dean Street,’ she replied, climbing in the back and crossing her legs. The rider did a little

  shuffle and took to his saddle obligingly. He did as he

  was asked, weaving through the crowds of pleasure-seekers, sex-tourists and deviants. When he arrived on Dean Street, she leaned forward and tapped him on the shoulder.

  ‘Now how about a little of what’s down here?’ she said, pointing at his saddle.

  ‘I presume you’re not talking about my crown jewels darling,’ he laughed.

  ‘You know what I mean honey.’

  He nodded and pulled into a recess by a defunct restaurant, the disused doorway offering adequate cover for a private exchange. He looked up and down the street sharply then sat next to her.

  ‘So what is it you’d like exactly sweetheart? I’ve got just about everything and anything I haven’t got I can get within the hour.’

  ‘You work for Barry, right?’ she said.

  ‘Who wants to know?’ he replied, suspiciously. He might as well have screamed ‘YES’ and jumped up and down nodding his head.

  ‘I want to see him honey. I want you to help me.’

  ‘Sorry darling. Not possible. Barry never sees punters anymore. He leaves that to the likes of me.’

  ‘I just
want you to point him out to me.’

  ‘No way darling. Sorry, but it’s more than my bottom’s worth. If he found out he’d kill…aargh…’

  Cass reached forward and grabbed his crotch in her hand. She squeezed hard, but not too hard. She reckoned it only fair that the guy was able to speak.

  ‘I apologise for this honey, but I really don’t have time to mess around,’ she said. ‘Now how about a little cooperation here? It’s what makes the world go round. Even your sick, fucked-up, drug-dealing world.’

  He yelped with pain, but quickly checked his reaction and put his hand over his mouth. With the stash of merchandise hidden under his seat, the guy was clearly in no hurry to draw any attention to himself.

  ‘But he’ll kill me,’ he whispered, his words forced through gritted teeth.

  ‘And I’ll rip your testacles off honey. Then your life wouldn’t be worth shit anyway.’

  ‘Okay, okay…’

  He nodded vigorously.

  ‘Good boy,’ she said, loosening her grip then quickly tightening her fist again. ‘But no funny business. Alright?’

  He nodded violently, like his life depended on it, which was kind of true. At least his sex-life did. She relented again, but kept hold.

  ‘What’s your name honey?’

  ‘Trevor,’ he whimpered.

  ‘Trevor?’ she laughed. ‘That’s not very Soho is it honey?’

  ‘It’s not my fault,’ he replied, full of indignation. Trevor had had some lousy nights over the years and this one was right up there.

  ‘Never mind. Now listen to me, bald Trevor.’ She patted his head with her spare hand. ‘You show me Barry Leonard and I’ll leave you alone forever. So don’t you try and be clever. And never mention any of this to him, ever. Never ever, bald Trevor.’

  She couldn’t help but chuckle. Trevor’s face was fraught with pain and bemusement. She let go of his crotch. After a few seconds deep breathing, he gingerly cycled her back on to Old Compton Street, her fingernails tapping against his lower back the whole time. He pulled up by the window of 34B, a coffee shop on the corner of Frith Street and peered in through the side of the window. Cass stood right behind him, one finger tucked into the back of his hot pants.