As threats went, it had been amateurish, and Clay had put the phone down slightly rattled and feeling it best not to tell Tate about it quite yet. He hadn’t even discussed it with Aurelio, having put it off because of everything else going on. Since then, Clay had no further calls, and he made a mental note to talk to Relio about it sooner rather than later.
“Maybe.” Tate rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Aurelio did seem a little more wound up than usual. Probably all to do with Tomas, though. He’d give anyone grey hairs.” He laughed softly. “And there was definitely something more than friendship going on between Eleanor and the dead man. I’d stake my balls on it.”
Clay smirked. “Wow. You must be certain to do that.” He nudged Tate’s shoulder.
Tate chuckled. “Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.” His face grew serious. “Come on, we’d better go see Mr Shaw to find out what he can contribute.”
Chapter 3
Tate and Clay walked through the cobbled streets of Fetish Alley, located beneath an underpass deep in the Square Mile district, and was wedged between historic buildings, stone alleyways, and the bastions of financial powerhouses. Once upon a time, it had been called Graffiti Alley, and had been renamed for obvious reasons. Busy with people of an eclectic mix of shapes, sizes, and dialects, Tate remained fascinated by the draw of the place. Walking past open shop doorways, a mix of scents assailed his nose: spicy food, brewing coffee, incense, the occasional whiff of weed, and layering over it all was the scent of human bodies, some unwashed, others sweetly perfumed.
A man jostled Clay’s elbow as the stranger pushed past in the narrow street, a small undetermined breed of dog clutched under his arm. The pup’s brown eyes, covered with matted hair, regarded the crowd in interest from the shelter of his owner’s arms. It gave a small “woof” as it passed, and Clay smiled.
“He’s cute,” he murmured. “Have we ever considered getting a dog?”
Tate nodded as he ploughed ahead, but turned to regard Clay thoughtfully. “We have,” he acknowledged. “We both agreed it wouldn’t be fair to have an animal and spend so much time away. The poor thing would spend more time in kennels or being dog-sat than anything else.”
“Yes, I remember,” Clay said, squinting at someone lying on the sidewalk, covered with grubby blankets. Even an alley like this, with its unique blend of shops and customers, had its share of homeless. “But we’re going to be home more often now that we’re closing up the office premises.”
Clay and Tate had taken a poll a few months ago among the staff in the Wembley office as to who’d prefer to work from home, and the answer was a resounding everyone. Closing the office would save on the exorbitant expense of the lease, which was due to go up again if they renewed, or the costs of relocating and potentially losing good staff. Given that most of the employees used hot desks and the office was little more than a touch point, shutting the doors had seemed the right thing to do, even though Clay wasn’t too happy at the splintering of the personal relationships. The overwhelming consensus, much to Clay’s chagrin, was that people would prefer to work from home with a mandatory monthly meeting at Clay’s home office in Twickenham.
“And we’re not doing as much travelling.” Clay’s tone rose as he reached into his pocket, crouched down, and placed a few pound coins into the person’s waiting tin. They clanged in with an empty sound, the bottom of the tin sprinkled only with a few coppers and the shine of Clay’s pound coins. He sighed, dug deeper into his pockets, and put a five-pound note into the tin.
Tate stopped dead, ignoring someone who had to dart around him quickly to avoid a collision. The person carried on with a series of expletives. A soft smile played across Tate’s lips as Clay stood up.
He is a sucker for lost causes.
“You are such a softy,” Tate muttered. “That’s one of the things I love about you. You make me a better person.” He reached into his pocket and threw a few more coins into the tin, then reached up to run his thumb down Clay’s jaw. “And yes, maybe we should give the canine thing a rethink.” He scowled as he moved off again, his strides eating up the street. “Nothing too small. If we get a dog, it needs to be something with big teeth and a scary-ass personality.”
“Like you then.” Clay smirked as he walked beside Tate. “I’m not so sure about that. I don’t think I can handle another one like you.”
Tate huffed but was secretly proud of his reputation as a badass. Hey, it had taken a lot of work to cultivate it.
They continued in comfortable silence until they reached the shop with the unfortunate title: Stuffed for Choice. Tate regarded the window with distaste. Filled with stuffed animals and birds of all shape and description, it extended back into the dark recesses of what appeared to be a small shop. “Not my cup of tea having dead things in my home, but I guess it takes all sorts.” He opened the door and stepped in. Somewhere in the shop, a bell tinkled, announcing their arrival.
Tate squinted around the darkened inside. The disturbing evidence of the SOCO team presence was everywhere. White powder lingered on multiple surfaces, and the blue and white crime scene tape still ran across the floor, sealing off an area of about twelve feet square. In all fairness, the crime scene took up most of the shop floor, with an edge open around the room barely large enough for a person to slip through. At the back of the shop, a door led into what looked like an office.
Tate bet the owner, Simon Shaw, wasn’t happy with the mess and the disruption to business, if he was anything like his brother, Steven Shaw, who was an arsehole of huge proportions. Tate supposed in all fairness having someone murdered in your shop and the resulting lack of trade, a man might get a bit pissed off.
“Hello?” Clay shouted. “Mr Shaw? We’re working with the police, and we’re friends of Aurelio Borese. Could we have a few words please?” Tate smiled in amusement. It couldn’t harm to bring up Aurelio’s name right from the start. After all, that’s why they’d been engaged to work this case.
Something rattled in the office and there was a curse, then a man appeared in the open doorway. Tate blinked. The guy was enormous. Easily six foot five, he managed to fit in the space with little more than a beam of light to spare.
Thick blond hair sprouted from underneath a woollen beanie, and the man’s face was currently twisted in a snarl as he stared at them. “I thought I’d locked that bloody door,” he growled. “Too many fucking nosy parkers coming in to see what was going on. Vultures, all of them.”
Clay pursed his lips and shook his head. “It was open. Is there somewhere we could talk? I presume you are Simon Shaw?”
The man nodded. “So you’re not coppers then?” His eyes narrowed in suspicion. “You say you know Aurelio?”
Clay nodded. “He’s a friend, yes. He asked us to look into the case.”
Shaw grunted and held up a large finger and motioned them over. “I’m not coming over there,” he grumbled. “That fucking tape leaves no room for someone my size, and I don’t feel like getting stuck in it again. Like a fly in a web, I was. You’ll have to come into the back room.” He turned and disappeared into the recesses of the office.
“Wow, he’s a charmer,” Tate whispered as they made their way to the back, skirting the tape best they could. “I wouldn’t want to meet him in a dark alley. He’s like the bloody Hulk.”
Clay huffed. “The words ‘brick shithouse’ come to mind,” he agreed softly. “He’s certainly not what I expected after seeing his brother.” He flashed a smile. “You take the lead on this one. I’ll watch.”
They’d reached the office and entered into a space that was larger than expected. The place was deceptively small-looking from the other side. Tate thought the huge stuffed brown bear in the corner, towering over the shop floor, much like Simon himself, contributed to the lack of space. Who the hell would want that in their study or living room? He shuddered in distaste and looked around the room. A back door was cracked open, revealing another alleyway. A soft breeze filtered thro
ugh, fragranced with something curry. Tate instantly felt hungry and made a mental note to get some before they left.
Shaw sat behind a wide wooden desk in a chair that was surely too weak for his bulk. He regarded them with suspicion, bushy brows furrowed over deep-set pale blue eyes.
Tate produced a business card, put it on the desk, and nodded at Shaw. “We’ve been appointed by the police as consultants,” he said smoothly. “Are you up to answering some questions?”
Shaw glanced down at the card then threw it to one side. A grin formed on his meaty face. “You’re the ones who nabbed my brother, aintcha?”
Tate shrugged. “Depends on your definition of ‘nabbed.’ If you’re referring to a man who hid a dead body for his own gain, and we found out and reported it, then yes. We’re the ones.” He crossed his arms over his chest and leaned back against the wall.
Beside him he sensed Clay’s watchfulness, his partner ready for a confrontation. You never knew how people were going to respond to a family member being arrested and rumbled.
Simon Shaw stared at them glacially for a minute, then burst into belly laughter. “Fuck me, like I’d care. My brother is a miserable little upstart and he deserved to get a fucking roasting. Dixon was a good bloke. He even bought some of my stuff now and then for his country house out in the Cotswolds. I lost a good customer when he went.”
Tate saw Clay relax and forged ahead. “We’re sorry about your employee,” he said as he perched down on the corner of Shaw’s desk. “Must have been really upsetting to find him like that.”
Shaw’s eyes shadowed. “It were no picnic, I can tell you that. Jeff was a good lad.” He scowled fiercely. “He didn’t deserve what happened to him.”
Clay asked, “Jeff was JJ Baxter, correct?”
Shaw nodded. “Jeffrey Joseph Baxter. Twenty-five years old, poor sod. A good worker with the makings of being a great taxidermist.” He sighed heavily. “He had the gift.”
Tate consulted his phone. The morning’s police report had already been sent over. Email was a wonderful thing. “You found him that morning around eight o’clock.” Shaw bobbed his large head. “Can you tell me what happened?”
Shaw grimaced. “He were lying there on the floor, on his back. His eyes were wide open, and he had that…that obscene thing in his mouth.” His face creased in disgust. Tate wasn’t sure whether it was because it was a stuffed penis or the fact someone had desecrated the body, or both.
Shaw’s next words confirmed Tate’s guess. “It ain’t right for someone to do that. Those pieces were a bit of fun. A mate of mine makes them because people are always coming in here asking if I can stuff their dicks. So I brought some in. Because the one thing I draw the line at is stuffing anything human. Not going to happen.” He stopped and took a gulp from a bottle of water on his desk. “I checked his pulse, but it was obvious he was dead. He was cold and blue.” His huge bulk shuddered. “I called nine-nine-nine and that was it. Then the cops came along, and I told them all the same stuff I’ve told you.”
“Was the shop locked when you arrived? Were there signs of forced entry or anything like that?” Tate stared around the room, thinking that the back door could have been used to get in. The sole dead bolt hardly seemed adequate.
Shaw shook his head. “I used my keys. There was no sign anyone had broken in.”
“Checked the back door too, did you?”
“Yeah. It was locked and didn’t look jimmied.”
Over the next half an hour, they managed to verify the information in the report. There was no CCTV because, as Simon said, “Who wants to rob a shop full of stuffed shit?”
Nothing seemed to be amiss, and the story was no different to what had been told to the police. When they finally turned to leave, Tate asked one last question. “Is there anything you felt when you came in that didn’t seem right? Anything out of place, something that you felt awkward about?” Sometimes, it took a bit of time and memory jogging to bring those things to the fore. Often it was the unforgotten bits that made a case.
Shaw sat back and looked down at the desk, deep in thought. His fingers tapped a medley on the smooth surface. From outside, the smell of something spicy and delicious wafted in. He frowned. “Bloody stalls. You want to know the reason I am the size I am? Because of them. Those aromas waft in all day, telling me ‘Buy me, buy me’ and I end up with a curry or a damn stir-fry.”
He resumed his ruminations, then his face brightened. “Actually, come to think of it, something was a bit off when I came in. There was a strong smell in the air. Lady’s perfume I think. Smelt like something I had as a kid, some bubble-gum stuff.” He shrugged. “I don’t think JJ wore anything like that. It was a struggle getting the kid to use deodorant sometimes. Probably the perfume was left over from the customers and nothing to get excited about though?”
“Hmm.” Tate’s eyes met Clay’s. “Might be useful information. Was JJ in the habit of having lady callers here at the shop? It could explain the smell.”
Shaw shrugged. “His girlfriend, sorry, ex-girlfriend, thank God, used to come in after hours sometimes. God knows what they got up to. I didn’t want to know, that’s for sure.” He puffed out his cheeks, resembling a startled blowfish, and Tate tried not to grin at the sight. “JJ had keys for the shop and sometimes he stayed late to finish up a job. Once he got going, he didn’t like to leave it.”
Clay frowned. “You don’t sound as if you like his ex, Ingrid Vos, very much.”
Shaw’s face grew thunderous. “That’s an understatement. She’s a right bitch, she is. A self-important little cow who treated JJ like shit. Couldn’t get it into her head he’d found someone else.”
“Do you know who that might have been?” Tate asked.
Shaw shook his head. “No, he never said. But I know he was happier and that he was pretty crazy about whoever she is.” He scowled. “That ex of his hounded the hell out of him, calling here all the time, wanting to talk to him. He was petrified. Refused to speak with her. She told him loads of times he’d better watch his back because she was going to hurt him. A few times JJ put her on speaker, so I could hear. You want to watch out for that little hellion.”
Tate raised his brows at Clay. There was some serious dislike there and from the sounds of it, some unpleasant history. “We’ll be interviewing her soon enough. Thanks for the warning,” he said smoothly. “If you think of anything else, let us know.”
Shaw nodded. “You find the person who did that to JJ and put them behind bars,” he said fiercely. He stood up, his frame knocking the desk and making it move. “This alley is supposed to be a place people can come and feel safe, not have lunatics running around doing whatever they want to people. Aurelio works hard to keep it that way. This isn’t what we’re about.”
Tate’s respect for the man grew at hearing those words, He might be a rough diamond, but it was evident Simon Shaw held Fetish Alley and Aurelio in high esteem.
Clay shook hands with Shaw, then Tate did the same. “You have our word,” Clay promised Shaw as he walked toward the front of the shop. “We’ll do our best. Thanks for your time.”
Tate nodded his thanks and followed Clay out into the sunlight.
***
Simon Shaw had been right about the aromas in the alley. The enticing scent of curry had led to Clay sidling over to the mobile stall on the other side of the street. He had a weakness for a well-made dish of lamb rogan josh and naan bread. Tate preferred something a little less spicy. Butter chicken was a favourite. They’d found a bench and sat down to have a quick bite. Tate had taken off his jacket to enjoy the afternoon sun on his skin.
He was halfway through demolishing his lunch when his mobile rang. He cursed and set his half-finished meal down next to him. He fumbled in his jeans pocket and drew out his phone.
Unidentified caller.
“Tate Williams.”
“Tate, this is Tomas.” His friend sounded pissed off, but as that was nothing unusual, Tate wasn’t too w
orried.
“Tomas? Have you got a new phone? I don’t recognise this number.”
“It is new phone, yes. Have you seen Aurelio lately?” Underneath the abrupt tone lurked something else. A faint tinge of something akin to panic.
“We saw him this morning. He’s asked us to consult on a murder case. Why?”
“I wished to know he is okay. He has not responded to my messages. That is unlike him.”
“Perhaps because he doesn’t know it’s you because of your new number. A lot of people won’t respond to unknown callers.” The phantom caller who kept ringing Clay and then said nothing sprung to mind.
Clay’s brow furrowed in curiosity as he mouthed, “Who is it?” Tate sighed and switched to speakerphone. “Tomas, you’re on speaker. Clay’s being nosy as usual.”
“That is fine. And Aurelio is the reason I have a new phone. My old one was compromised. But never mind about that. I merely wished to see if he was okay. I must go now. Good-bye.”
The call went dead, and Tate blinked at his phone in confusion. “What the fuck is going on? Tomas is paranoid, but that seemed weird even for him.”
Clay finished up the last morsel of his food and threw the wrapper expertly into a nearby bin. “I agree. Something’s going on. I thought Relio looked a little peaked this morning, and Tomas’s call has confirmed something hinky is happening.” He stood up, his face grim. “I’m going to call Relio, see what the hell he’s dealing with. I think that protection thing might be getting out of hand.” He drew out his mobile and dialled. It rang and Tate clearly heard it go to voice mail.
“Relio, it’s Clay. Give me a call please when you get this message. It’s urgent.” Clay shoved his phone back into his jacket pocket and looked at Tate. “Perhaps we should go back to the club, and ask him face-to-face?”
Tate shook his head. God, his man was such a worrier.
Death By C*ck (Fetish Alley Book 2) Page 4
