by Colin Garrow
So it was late afternoon when I got back to the flat and found the note pinned to the door. Quite what Big Ronnie was doing with a packet of drawing pins about his person, I couldn't imagine, but he'd put one in each corner of the A4 sheet to make sure his message didn't go unseen. His spelling reminded me of something and I wondered if he'd gone to the same school as his dad.
Carefully pulling the pins out, I pushed the note into my coat pocket and went inside.
I knew before I closed the door that something wasn't right. The remaining books and records had been flung across the passageway like someone big and heavy had smashed into the bookcase. The rug in the hall was rucked up and the coat rack lay in two pieces. But it was the size twelve Dr Marten boot protruding from the open living room door that made my guts perform a quick tango while my shoes did a moonwalk back onto the landing. It wasn't necessary to see the rest of him to know who was occupying my floor space and I didn't need to be a fortune teller to predict he wasn't going to be waking up anytime soon.
I stood for a moment trying to recall if there'd been anything different downstairs: I'd come in through the front and there'd been no sign of forced entry. Mrs Nicholson's plant pots still sat on alternate steps all the way up to the first floor, so apart from Ronnie, whoever else had come up that way had taken care not to disturb anything on the way down.
Of course, that's assuming the intruder had actually left.
I peered back into the passage. The foot was still there, sticking up like it had been nailed in place to stop it falling over. Reaching round, I picked up one of the few items Sharon had left behind and advanced towards the living room. Holding it like an axe, ready to wallop the killer (who was surely standing behind a door waiting in murderous anticipation), I glanced into the bathroom. As Sharon had taken the shower curtain there was no possibility of a Psycho moment. I looked into the bedroom, but the mirror on the opposite wall told me it too was empty. Keeping to the left hand wall and wishing I'd done the sensible thing and called the police, I took another three steps and peered into the kitchen. Like the previous rooms, it was free of murderers, though if I'm honest, I'd already worked out that anyone with a grain of common sense would have realised the only place to hide was behind the living room door.
I took a breath and stepped into the same square of carpet occupied by the boot. Sure enough, the man it belonged to was lying flat out on my floor, his face bashed in with some heavy object. The only good news seemed to be that as the door was pushed back against the wall, whoever had done for him had long since gone.
As I lowered the hockey stick, I realised that not only had I discovered the murder weapon, I'd also just put my fingerprints all over it. A sliver of Big Ronnie's blood slid down the shaft and onto my hand.
Great.
Chapter 2
Charis Brown had been the best-looking girl at my school. She was small and graceful, with an elfin-like smile and eyes that could melt a Mr Whippy at fifty paces. She was the sort of girl who'd have a sly fag behind the bike sheds, then blame someone else when she got caught. She wasn't the sort of girl to go to Hendon and work her way up to Detective Inspector. Or rather, she was. Apparently.
When the shock of seeing her had worn off a little, I stepped back and let her into the flat. The two plods in the living room were still taking notes and the scene of crime bloke was still doing whatever scene of crime blokes do. I backed into the kitchen and offered coffee.
'Didn't know you lived round here,' said Inspector Brown.
'Didn't know you were interested.' I was aiming for gentle humour but only managed cynicism.
She glanced into the room opposite. 'Friend of yours?'
'Not exactly.'
She crossed to the living room and had a few words with the taller of the plods. They glanced back at me a few times, but as coppers always make me nervous, I couldn't tell if that was a good thing or not.
Charis came back and leaned on the counter. 'You used to work for him, didn't you?' It wasn't really a question.
I nodded. 'For him and his dad, yes.' I poured the coffee and slid the milk carton along the counter. 'Only gave it up a few weeks back.'
'Funny.' She helped herself to a Custard Cream.
'What is?'
'That two stiffs turn up in less than twenty-four hours and you're connected to both of them.'
A bad feeling started to make a name for itself in my stomach. The sort of bad feeling I'd been expecting, but was hoping might've buggered off before the police arrived. 'You talking about Frank?'
'Aye.' Her face had lost its elfin-like charm.
'Hardly the same thing - he didn't get his face bashed in, for a start...'
'Maybe not, but he's still dead.' Her dark eyebrows knitted together and she peered into her mug as if searching for a clue. 'Bit of a coincidence don't you think?'
'What ye sayin, like?' I hoped I sounded more comically-offended than I felt.
She gave me a long, hard look. 'I'm like that Sherlock Holmes - I'm not fond of coincidences. In fact, I'd be willin to bet they don't exist.' She took her coffee through to the other room and stood in the doorway watching the guy in the paper suit, who appeared to be dipping cotton buds into Ronnie's face.
I wanted to ask how she knew about Frank - after all, heart attacks are hardly police business. I had the feeling I wasn't getting the full story and the old-school-pals bit wouldn't be enough to cut a deal.
Sipping my Alta Rica, I looked out of the kitchen window. A few of my neighbours had huddled together in the lane at the end of the gardens, a couple of golf umbrellas keeping them relatively dry. No doubt they'd be venting their spleens on the myriad reasons why half a dozen coppers were trawling through my dustbins, taping off my rear entrance and asking all the usual awkward questions.
Inspector Brown coughed. 'Got somewhere to stay, have ye?'
'Why would I need somewhere to stay?'
She jerked her head to the murder scene. 'They'll be hours yet.'
'That's alright.'
She sighed. 'No, what I'm sayin is, you need to go somewhere else. At least for tonight.' She held out a hand, palm up, wiggling her fingers. I noticed there was no wedding band.
'What?'
'Fuck's sake, Terry, I don't want to play with your bollocks. Give me your keys.'
I coughed and felt myself flush. 'Right.' Detaching the flat keys from the bunch, I handed them over.
'Better let me have your mobile number as well. And the address of where you'll be.'
I rooted around for a piece of paper, scribbled down the information, folded the sheet in half, then half again, aware of the slight tremor in my hand. Passing it over, I ventured, 'Must've been quick with the autopsy?'
She inclined her head to one side.
I coughed again. 'I mean, with Frank.'
'Hasn't been done yet.'
'So how..?'
She glanced across the passage, then took a step towards me. 'Let's just say we've reason to be interested.'
I posed a couple more exploratory questions, but she wasn't budging, so I got permission to pick up a few things from the bedroom and stuffed them in the bag I'd packed earlier.
At the front of the house, a uniformed constable stood by the door. He gave me a nod as I passed and I was glad to see the rain was slowing up - unlike my neighbours, I didn't play golf.
Jessie's house was on the nicer side of town, where the accountants and wankmanagers lived, in the relative splendour of what the Americans like to call a 'gated community'.
Tudor Grange, with its spotless driveways and manicured hedges, wasn't what I'd call a des res, but the extra bedrooms meant houseguests were easier to accommodate than in the compact and bijou restrictions of Otterburn Terrace.
I parked the car around the side of the house, since Jessie didn't like her neighbours' visual experiences to be marred by the economic limitations of a bog-standard Japanese ex-taxi.
'You're late.'
My sister ne
ver said hello. Come to think of it, I couldn't remember a time when she'd said goodbye. This greeting, however, was a new one.
'Late for what?' I walked past her into the wide entrance hall.
'You were coming for lunch. Remember?' She stood, hands on hips, her mouth set in the almost permanent sneer that passed for smiling.
'Ah, sorry. Forgot.'
'I expect you've got a good excuse.' And she moved off into the kitchen, the space she always favoured in my company. I liked to think it was something to do with growing up in a small and claustrophobic mid-terrace in the Seventies, but it was more likely she just didn't want me contaminating her perfect lounge.
I dished up the potted version of recent events and to her credit, she managed to look suitably aghast.
'Christ, Terry man, what've ye got yerself into?'
I noticed she'd slipped out of her 'posh Geordie' voice and into the working class version she so deplored in others, but on this occasion I didn't bother pointing it out.
'I haven't got meself into anythin, Jess, it's just a misunderstandin.' I watched her spoon Italian beans into the grinder and pondered on the wisdom of pouring another jug of caffeine down my throat, but it was either that or alcohol and I wanted to keep a clear head.
She gave me the usual lecture on mixing with 'that load of tossers' at Ron's Taxis, then wanted to know why I hadn't found another job yet. It was a fair point - forty grand wouldn't last long and as I wasn't known for my ability to talk myself into work, eventually I'd need to get back to the treadmill. Though not for a few weeks.
I changed the subject. 'Where's his lordship?'
She sniffed and pressed the button on the grinder, making conversation impossible. Watching the beans banging around in the hopper, I realised Jessie had a gadget for everything. I wouldn't be surprised if she found a replacement for David one of these days.
'He's at church.'
'Gone to repent his sins?' It was meant as a joke, but she didn't smile.
'He's supervisin work at St. Johns. They're puttin a new roof on and ripping the insides out.'
I wasn't a fan of David any more than he was a fan of mine, but he always made the effort to pretend he liked me - a talent I envied a little too much. We spent an hour or so watching a bit of unreality TV, then when David came home, Jess produced a spontaneous three-course meal.
We moved through to the dining room and I wondered if they always ate in there, sitting in silence, staring at each other from opposite ends of the table. The conversation was sporadic and I felt obliged to entertain, but the effort of relating my tale yet again got the better of me and I gave in to the lure of alcohol. To his credit, David did his best to make enthusiastic replies and relevant comments. After Jessie sloped off to bed, the two of us sat for a while in the living room listening to Mozart.
I was onto my second bottle of Pinot Grigio, so probably wasn't being terribly attentive. However, I did listen to David's woeful tales of building contracts and the difficulties of keeping things going through the winter months. Apart from the shit-load of money he made, it sounded like a difficult life and I was pleased I'd never taken up his offers of labouring work.
'You see, Terry, what ordinary mortals like yourself don't understand, is that the building game isn't about bricks and mortar any more.'
'It isn't?'
'No, it's about politics. Pure and simple. You should come down to the site some time - I'll show ye round.' He was pissed now and I felt my brain closing down as he chuntered on about his latest contract on the Farmway estate on the other side of town. I might have been interested if he'd refrained from quoting hourly rates and tax initiatives at me, but when he changed the subject and started on about how Jess wasn't doing her bit in the bedroom and he was having to look elsewhere for a decent shag, I thought it was time to go.
I drained the last of the Pinot and went to bed.
The next morning it took me a few seconds to remember where I was and several more to recall my reasons for being there. I checked my mobile: I'd missed three calls from an unknown number, though the necessity of relieving myself of a full bladder took precedence over listening to my voicemails.
It was a long walk to the toilet at the other end of the landing, but the room gave me a view of the front garden and, as it turned out, a hint of what was to come. I assumed the position and unfilled myself while peering through the unfrosted half of the bathroom window. I could see Jessie sweeping leaves into a pile. She was talking to someone across the driveway. As my sister turned and headed back to the house, the newcomer came into view. It was Inspector Brown and she had a child with her. That'd be the missed calls, then.
I'd forgotten to bring a complete set of toiletries, so using one of Jessie's supply of spare toothbrushes, I brushed my teeth twice in a bid to vanquish the taste of excess alcohol from my breath. I looked at myself in the faux art deco mirror that sat on the wall above an art nouveau washbasin. The clash of artistic styles was testament to Jessie's abundance of money and unfortunate lack of taste. Nevertheless, the mirror worked fine and my face looked better than it felt, which was about as good as I was going to get. Back in the bedroom, I grabbed a few items from my bag, pushed it back under the bed and got dressed.
'The police are here.' Jessie was half way up the stairs and glaring at me like I'd dropped a clanger. Which I suppose I had, if you assumed a visit from the fuzz counted as bringing disrepute upon the neighbourhood. Oh, well.
The visitors had been ushered into the conservatory, presumably so the neighbours would think we were simply entertaining guests. I migrated towards the armchair in the corner - the only comfortable seat in the room.
Charis introduced me to her child: 'This is Detective Constable Paul Ramshaw.' The youngster nodded at me without making eye contact. His boss continued. 'We've a few more questions to ask you Mr Bell.' She gestured to the obligatory rattan sofa. 'Okay if we sit down?' I wondered if the formal approach was for my benefit or Constable Child's.
Jess hovered in the doorway miming, Shall I make coffee? I gave her a Yes please! sign and she scurried off.
'Right then,' said the inspector. 'How about you tell us exactly what you were doing the evening before last?' She took out a small black notebook. Her sidekick copied her actions. I wondered if they'd compare notes later.
'Friday, you mean?
'That would be the evening before last, yes.'
Going to be like that, then. I sniffed and made on I was thinking about it.
Charis raised an eyebrow, her pen at the ready.
'Well, normally I'd have been on the rank from about 4.00pm, but —'
'But you weren't?'
'No. I weren't.' She didn't smile. 'I was working on the car.'
'All night?'
I nodded. 'Til about nine o'clock, half-nine. Car needed a service, ye know, so...brakes, filters. That sort of thing.' I glanced at the child, then for good measure added, 'I had take the meter and radio out as well, and remove the plates.'
The teenage constable leant forwards. 'That's the taxi meter and the two-way radio you rented from Ron's Taxis in your service as a Hackney carriage driver?' He inclined his head and for a moment I thought he was going to smile winsomely.
'That's right.'
Inspector Brown glanced at her colleague and I sensed some pre-planned strategy. She looked at me. 'That's strange, because the hackney plates are quite clearly still on your car. So you didn't take them back to the taxi company, did you? In fact, as you'd resigned your position as a driver with the firm three weeks ago, you should have returned all the equipment then.'
I swallowed hard. 'I should have, yes.'
'But you didn't.'
This was getting a little repetitive. 'No, I didn't. What's your point?'
'My point, Mr Bell, is that maybe you wanted a reason to visit Ronnie's Taxis yesterday morning?'
'I already had a reason - to tell Ken about Frank.' I glanced at the sidekick. He was scribbling away furiou
sly on his pad, as if he couldn't fill the pages quick enough. 'Am I missing somethin here?'
'Why did you go to see Ronnie Thompson?'
'You know why - I've just told you. Anyway, Ronnie wasn't there.'
'So you knew Ronnie wasn't around?'
'How could I know Ronnie wasn't around? As you pointed out, I don't work for him anymore.'
She leaned back and let out a long sigh. 'You and Ronnie didn't get on.'
'Not so's you'd notice.'
'But you still went out of your way, knowing he might be there yesterday morning?'
There was a polite cough from the doorway and Jessie was hovering again, this time carrying a tray.
'That's very kind of you,' said the constable, taking it from her. He stood for a moment unsure what to do with it. Eventually he opted for lowering it to the ground then made a dick of himself trying to fill three cups from his crouched position.
Jess caught my eye and half-smiled in a rare example of familial concern. She left the door open and disappeared back into the kitchen.
Charis took her cup and leaned forward, balancing it between her knees. 'In the statement you gave to Constable Riley yesterday you said you'd gone to the taxi office on Saturday morning at the behest of Mrs Armstrong.'
I nodded and sipped my coffee. 'That's right. To tell them about Frank.'
'You said Mrs Armstrong called you.'
I nodded.
'And what time was that?'
Not having a naturally suspicious mind, I didn't see where this was going. 'I dunno. About seven-thirty, maybe.'
Charis glanced at her colleague again, and I saw that same look pass between them.
'So you went round to Rothesay Terrace and Mrs Armstrong let you in?'
'Yes. Well, no, not exactly. The door was open.'
The constable shuffled forward, sweat glistening on his brow. 'So you found the body?' The gleam in his eye told me what I'd been missing.
