by Colin Garrow
'Elise.'
'Elise Andersson?'
'Could be.'
He raised an eyebrow. 'Picked her up before?'
'No, first time.'
He leaned inside the car so his nose was almost touching mine. 'Word of warnin - she's a fancy bit of stuff, but divvent try anythin, or ye'll end up sitting on the Dogger Bank wi' your heid in your hands.'
'Thanks for the advice.' I watched him cross to the steps and speak to a young man who went off in search of my client. While I was waiting, I pulled out my phone and Googled the man whose contract I was fulfilling. Turned out it was a common name - certainly too many to look through without a couple of hours to spare. I tried the name of the company and came up trumps for rock bands, but the only website that looked likely to be my guy was 'under construction'. Aye, right.
A door slammed and I looked up to see the vision of loveliness that was Elise Andersson standing in the doorway. The apron wearer led her over to my car and opened the door.
'Good evening,' I said, being polite.
She stared at me in a way that seemed to suggest I should shut the fuck up and drive. So I did.
It was a half-hour run to the town at that time of night and the coast road was in that cooling-off period between folks racing home from work and on their way out to the pub. I kept an eye on my passenger but she seemed happy enough to stare out the window. She was certainly good looking and the dress she wasn't quite wearing wouldn't have looked out of place on the cat-walk. I guessed her age to be about thirty-five but without a closer look, I wasn't going to stake my life on it.
As we hit the early evening traffic it occurred to me she didn't have a coat or any baggage - apart from one of those ineffectual clutch bags. I was tempted to point out she'd catch her death if she walked around half naked, but the attendant's warning kept my inquisitiveness at half mast.
Twenty-five minutes later, I slid into line at the train station and was about to jump out and open her door when the Swedish goddess sat forward and tapped my shoulder.
'Can you take me somewhere else?'
Her voice was like silk sheets on a glass bed - smooth and cold. I turned to look at her. 'The job was just to bring you here. To the station.'
'Yes, but I want to go somewhere else.' She reached into her bag and pulled out a scrap of paper. 'Can you take me here?'
I peered at the address. It was a street in Elswick. Not an area I'd recommend to classy people like her. Not an area I'd recommend to anyone. 'Alright then, but I can't wait around.'
She shrugged. 'It's fine - my husband will pick me up.'
I manoeuvred the car out of the line and back into the westbound lane. 'What about the fare? It's going to be more.'
'I'll pay the extra in cash. Don't put it on the receipt.'
'Okay.' It was getting dark now and I couldn't see her face clearly, but her demeanour had definitely changed. And since now I was doing her a favour, I reckoned she might be open to answering one or two questions.
Five minutes later, I turned into a side road and slowed down so I could see the doors. 'What number is it?'
'Here will do fine.'
She waited while I wrote out a receipt. After embellishing it with her signature, she handed it back together with a twenty-pound note. 'That will cover it?'
'More than enough.' I stuffed it into my cash bag before she changed her mind. She already had the door open so I jumped in quick. 'Why did you ask for me?'
She hesitated and blinked several times. 'I didn't.'
'Whoever booked the taxi mentioned my name.'
She gave a slight shrug.
I tried another tack. 'I think one of my mates might have picked you up the other night.'
She slid one leg out the door and looked back. 'Mates?'
'Yeah, Frank. Older guy, grey hair.'
She pursed her lips and gave the smallest of nods.
'Bring you here, did he?'
'I think that's enough questions.' She climbed out of the car and disappeared through a gate. A moment later, a light came on and I caught a glimpse of a tall bald-headed man before the door closed.
I drove a little way down the street, reversed round the next corner and stopped. Basically, I was none the wiser. All I'd found out was that she'd met Frank and he may or may not have picked her up on Friday night and he may or may not have brought her here.
I drove back up the road and out onto the main drag. Two hundred yards along, I parked up outside a pub, walked back to Nugent Crescent and nipped down a narrow path at the side of the first house. As I'd suspected, it was one of those streets with an alley behind it that backed onto the yards of the next row. Since I didn't know what number I'd dropped her at, I had to guess at the location of the house. The darkness and lack of streetlights meant I probably wouldn't be observed, but it also meant I couldn't see where the hell I was going. About half way along the lane, I noticed one house in particular was lit up more than the others. As if there might be something special going on.
Most of the properties had high wooden gates on them, so it wasn't easy to see into the ground-level rooms. However, the lit-up house had a well-placed baton across the lower section of its gate and I was able to clamber up high enough to see over the top. Keeping low, I peered over the edge. There was a long yard area at the back of the house with a couple of motorbikes chained to the wall. Between them and the house itself was a sort of patio with one of those swinging chairs, a table and chairs and a brick-built barbecue. The house was double width with the back door in the middle and two floor-to-ceiling windows that left nothing to the imagination. A dozen or so people milled around in both the downstairs rooms, though it was the performance going on upstairs that caught my attention.
Wafts of dark fabric were draped over the windows, but thanks to the well-lit rooms, they weren't hiding much. At the left-hand window, a woman looking remarkably like Ms Andersson had her back to the glass. Either side of her were two Asian guys with big smiles. Both of them had their shirts open as if in the throes of undressing.
My voyeuristic activities were rudely interrupted when something hard and boot-like slammed into my right leg. I did a vaguely athletic move along the lines of a Fosbury Flop, before landing on the ground with a thud.
Chapter 4
'What da fuck you doin, man?'
I looked up at my attacker and scooted backwards, in case he intended having another go, but he just laughed.
'It's cool, man. Just messin witcha.'
I reckoned he wasn't actually African American, given he was wearing a flat cap and a pair of Dunlop wellies.
'What the hell was that for?' I scrambled to my feet and glanced around, but we were alone.
'Dat Mister Ahmed'll smack you up good if catches ye, man. Good fing me found yer first, hey?' His accent shifted from generic black American into a weird version of Jamaican Cockney.
'Ahmed, you say? He the baldy bloke?'
'Nah, that's Crazy Horse.' He paused. 'You wantin ter know why they call him Crazy Horse, yeh? I'll tell yer for why - cos he's crazy and has a cock like a horse.' He laughed again, though now it seemed like he was trying too hard.
'You must be on intimate terms.'
His face fell and he sneered. 'Wit him? Nah. Bastard caught me trying to nick one of them bikes one night. Thought he'd just smack me up or sumfink, but nah. Know what he did? Bent me over a wheelie bin and tried to stuff his dick up me arse. An he would've done an'all if I hadn't elbowed him in the guts.'
I blinked. 'I see.'
He shook his head. 'Nah, man, I don't fink you do. I got off dead light that time. One of me mates, yeh, he broke inter the guy's garage one time and I ain't never seen him again. What I'm sayin is if'n you mess wit those fuckers you'll get well fucked, yeh?' He nodded sagely.
'Who lives there? Just Mister Ahmed?'
He took my arm and led me along the lane. 'Don't want ter 'ang about 'ere, or they'll see yer.' We walked a little further then pulled me to
one side. 'That Ahmed - he hardly never goes nowhere, but there's loads of women an that in an out all night. Fellers too, mind. It's like they's always having parties an that, yeh?'
'What sort of parties?'
'I dunno. Never got close enough to find out.' He peered at me. 'What's your interest, man? What you doin here?'
'Just dropped someone off, that's all. Then I got curious.'
He shook his head. 'If I was you, I'd leave curious alone, mate, less'n you want bits of you to go missin an that, yeh?'
He glanced back along the lane. 'Look, I'm off. You go that way and don't walk round the front.' He patted my shoulder then skipped across the lane and scrambled over the fence opposite.
I pondered on going back for another look, but wasn't keen on bumping into the man called Horse, so I followed my new friend's instructions, walked down to the end of the lane and round to the left, then circled up to the main road.
Back in the car, I sat for a moment considering what I'd learned. Or rather, what I hadn't learned. If this Ahmed bloke was dangerous why would Frank have got involved with him? Frank wasn't known for taking risks - putting salt on his fish 'n' chip supper was about as dangerous as he got. The only reason he might have been drawn in, was if a woman was being threatened. That was his soft spot. In fact, if I remembered rightly, that was how he'd met Lizzy. She'd climbed into his cab one night with a particularly aggressive guy in tow. The pair were arguing about something and when the guy started slapping Lizzy around, Frank bopped him over the head with his fire extinguisher.
Nevertheless, I couldn't see Frank walking into a place like Ahmed's without a damn good reason.
I was still sitting there contemplating this when Carol's voice came over the radio.
'Car ten? You clear yet, Terry?'
I called in and told her I was on my way home. She clicked the radio twice in reply, meaning she was on the phone and couldn't respond. I was just about to set off back when a vaguely familiar tinkling noise caught my attention. Since communications from actual people were something of a rarity, it took me a moment to work out that the pinging noise was in fact a text message. It was Carol:
Come round to mine when you get back. Got some news.
I wasn't sure from the text if this 'news' was likely to cheer me up, but as I'd never been in Carol's flat, it was as good a reason as any to have a nosy.
Driving back, I used the time to go over everything that had happened since Friday, but I couldn't see an obvious explanation for Ronnie's murder. If my inspector friend decided to share what she knew, maybe I'd be able to put it together, as whatever additional info they had, they were obviously keeping to themselves.
It was gone half seven when I pulled up outside Carol's place on Crimea Walk. Looking up at the bay window, I guessed that must be her living room. A telltale flicker lit up the window. She was watching telly, though knowing her, it'd be a box-set of some crass American sitcom. I rang the bell and she buzzed me in.
'Took your time.' She left the door open and went into the kitchen to refill her own glass and pour one for me. 'Hope you don't mind, it's only cheap chardonnay.'
I took a sip. 'Tastes fine to me.' I followed her through to the lounge, noting she'd changed out of the jeans and jumper she wore to work and was now wearing a pair of smart leggings and a silk blouse. Maybe that's what she always wore at home, but I preferred the theory that it was for my benefit. The room was tastefully decorated with a cosy lived-in feeling I'd've liked my own place to have. The floorboards were sanded and a couple of pretend Persian rugs completed the arrangement.
Plonking myself down at one end of a lumpy sofa, I half-expected her to sit next to me. But she didn't. Instead, she walked back and forward a few times, sipping her wine.
It was pretty obvious there was something on her mind.
Eventually, she crossed to the built-in wall unit that doubled as a kind of Welsh dresser and bookcase, and took a piece of paper from between two books.
'When I got home, this was pinned to my door.'
I took the folded sheet and opened it out. I read it twice then stood up and searched through my coat pockets for the note I'd found pinned to my own door. Spreading the two sheets on Carol's dining table, I stood back.
'You got one as well?'
'Saturday. I'd assumed it was from Ronnie.'
Carol leaned on the table and studied the notes. I stood beside her, re-reading them. Mine was short and to the point:
Give it back or youll get whats comin to you
Carol's was even shorter:
Give it back!!
'What's it mean, Terry?' Her hand went to her mouth. 'What'd you do?'
'Me? I didn't do 'owt.' I turned and leaned against the table. 'Anyway, if this is about me, why did you get one?'
She shook her head.
I took the two notes and went back to the sofa. After a moment, Carol joined me.
Studying the handwriting, which I'd logically thought to be my former employer's, it was obvious. 'It's the same - whoever wrote my note, also wrote this one.'
Carol made a humphing noise. A crease worked its way down her forehead. 'Why did you think it was Ronnie?'
I explained about seeing him approaching my flat, but Carol shook her head. 'If you thought it was him that wrote it, why didn't you give the note to the cops?'
Good point. 'It might have incriminated me.'
Her mouth dropped open. 'How?'
I looked at the note again. 'I thought it referred to me still having the meter and radio in the car. Ronnie texted me a few days ago demanding I give them back.'
'And you didn't?'
'He still owed me for those Sangster jobs I did last month. Which is why I didn't want to do any contract work.' I glared at her.
She pulled a face. 'Fuck's sake. Ken would've given you the money.'
'Yeah, but that's not the point. And I can hardly ask him now. Given the circumstances.'
We sat for a moment, then Carol turned to face me. 'But still, somebody must think you did something?'
'No, I don't think it's what I did, I think it's what Frank did. Or what somebody thinks he did.'
She picked up my note and looked at it again. 'But this was on your door, so it must've been meant for you.'
I nodded. 'Well, it looks that way, except that now you've got one.'
'Maybe the first note was for Ronnie?' She grabbed my arm. 'What if someone followed him to yours and thought it was his place? And then...'
'Smashed his head in with a hockey stick and pinned a note to the door that he clearly wasn't going to be reading since he was already dead?'
She blinked. 'What hockey stick?'
Fuck.
The sofa wasn't as uncomfortable as it looked, though I couldn't help thinking I'd have been much happier sleeping in Carol's bed. With Carol. But she'd dropped no hints, obvious or otherwise, that anything like that was going to be happening. The only reason she wanted me to stay the night was because some psycho bastard was out there with (probably), a ticky-list of psycho-type inclinations.
On the other hand, it could be she hadn't quite believed my story about the hockey stick, which was fair enough, given that it was the murder weapon. And explaining it to her, I could see how it must've sounded - my prints all over it (despite the fact I'd handled it loads of times before), and Ronnie's blood dripping down the handle onto my sleeve (that was never going to look good), but mainly because whoever had come into my flat and smashed Ronnie's head in, hadn't come armed with a weapon. And anyone intending to commit murder would have thought of that, wouldn't they? Whereas me - I didn't need a weapon, did I? Not when there was already one there.
Well, that was my theory - that the cops would jump to conclusions and I'd end up in the crap. And that's why I'd hidden the hockey stick. Thinking about it now, though, in terms of extenuation circumstances, it sounded a bit flimsy and I wondered if I was making things too complicated.
I lay there in the dark, cont
emplating the two notes. If they weren't written by Ronnie (and at least one of them couldn't have been), then someone else had been up to the flat, and that same someone had also caved Ronnie's head in and left the note. And then they'd come round to Carol's and left a note for her. Or me. Except, if the first one was meant for Ronnie, it must have been left before he was murdered. But if either or both messages were intended for me, none of that made sense. So did that mean two people were involved? Without knowing who wrote the notes, the missing pieces of this particular jigsaw seemed likely to continue to remain conspicuous by their absence.
As I stared up at the ceiling, I remembered something else.
Knocking on Carol's door, I hoped she wouldn't think I was after a shag, but she was there in an instant and clearly wide awake.
'Can't sleep either?'
I shook my head, gazing down at her polka dot pyjamas. 'You said the Andersson pickup had specifically requested me. Was that true?'
She frowned. 'Course it was - why would I lie?'
'You spoke to the person who called?'
'Ahm...yeah, must have.'
'So who was it and what did they say?'
She studied the floor for a moment. 'It was a bloke. I assumed it was one of the waiters - usually is from that place. He said Elise needed a car on the Andersson account to take her to Central Station and could they have Mister Bell.' She shrugged. 'Maybe you've picked them up before?'
'What, before Ronnie negotiated the contract, you mean?'
'Oh, yeah, I forgot. But still, the contract's for a company so maybe some of their workers know you. Could've picked them up off the rank, maybe?'
I thought about this for a moment. 'Possibly, but I definitely haven't seen Elise before - I'd've remembered her.'
'Oh aye - got big tits, has she?' She gave me an accusatory glare.
'I just mean she's not someone I'd forget. Don't suppose you know what this Sven bloke looks like?'
'Never met him. You could Google him.'
'Already did - there's millions of Anderssons.'
