The Sister

by China, Max

  What Kennedy told her was true, Tony was moving in on him. He disconnected from the message, replaced the phone on the worktop and screwing up the plastic bag, put it in his pocket.

  "You know what my love," he said. "I didn't really believe you when you told me, now I'm going to do what I said I'd do. Give him enough rope and then I'll finish him."

  Careful not to touch her, he leaned over and blew a kiss close to her face. She smelled as if she'd had a lozenge. It puzzled him. He'd never known her to eat sweets before, chocolate maybe . . .

  He stood, about to leave. An empty jar. It looked out of place. The same sweet, chemical lozenge smell became stronger as he approached it. He leaned over the counter and sniffed. A residual, head-spinning belt from the odour took his breath away. His senses reeled. What the fuck was she sniffing out here in the kitchen?

  In the morning, the paperboy pushed the paper through the door. It swung open.

  Chapter 92

  When Lynch heard the message on Melissa's phone, he knew for sure what she told him was true. Tony had gone behind his back, trying to steal his girl. That was just the start, now he was after his business as well. Jesus! He punched himself hard in the forehead. He needed time to think . . . Tony called her at 8:30 p.m. A couple of hours later, she was dead. Tony! It was Tony. He told her, to tell him Kennedy said it. It made more sense now; all he needed to do was keep himself in check until he understood why. He would do as he said he would. Give Tony enough rope. All this keeping calm is killing me! He took a deep breath, picked up the telephone and dialled a number.

  "All right, Tony? Anyone seen Billy, he never showed up at the club last night?"

  "No, mate, I haven't. You know what he's like when he's got a few quid . . . Listen, I heard something. I don't know if it's true . . ."

  "Well, spit it out then, I ain't got all day!"

  "It's about Melissa . . ."

  "What about Melissa?" he said holding his breath. How does he know? I ain't told anyone.

  "Oh, fuck, I hope it ain't true . . ."

  "Tell me."

  "I heard she's been murdered by that Gasman."

  Lynch paused. "Are you sure?" he said, adding with suspicion. "Where are you hearing this?"

  "Err; I heard it from someone who lives down the road to her. Old bill is crawling all over her place."

  The doorbell sounded. He glanced at the CCTV monitor; a man stared into the camera. Kennedy! "I'll get back to you," he said as he disconnected. He walked out of his lounge, down the long hallway to the front of the house and opened the door.

  "What can I do for you, Detective?"

  He brushed past without waiting for an invitation to enter. "Shut the door," Kennedy said.

  Lynch closed it and pointed to one of the armchairs forming a horseshoe shaped reception area around a glass-topped coffee table. "Have a seat. What's this about?"

  The detective remained standing. "You don't know? You surprise me."

  "I heard about five minutes ago. What are you doing round my place, Kennedy?"

  "When was the last time you saw Melissa Lake alive?"

  Blowing air in a tuneless whistle, he said, "She came to the club, two, possibly three days ago." He levelled his rival with a stare. "What about you?"

  The DCI returned the stare. "It's not about me, Lynch. It's about you, and you telling me anything you know that might help catch her killer."

  "They know about you and her, do they?" The briefest hesitation allowed him to continue. "Didn't think so, or you'd have come with that side-kick of yours."

  "This isn't helping, Lynch. Wouldn't you like to see us catch the person that did this?"

  "The Gasman?" His expression grew dark. "Do me a favour. Let me catch him before you do, eh? And while I think of it, have you seen Billy Wharton lately?"

  "Why would you ask me that?" Kennedy said, trying to look unperturbed.

  That look just confirmed it. Lynch thought. "Nothing, just wondered, that's all . . ."

  Kennedy turned to leave. Lynch called him as he reached the door. "Kennedy . . . don't you feel anything? She's dead, and it's like you never knew her."

  "I was just thinking the same about you."

  He stepped out through the front door, raised his eyes momentarily to the heavens, and then walked away.

  Chapter 93

  Sunday March 25th

  Kennedy had many unanswered questions. Why would the Gasman kill her and not his other victims? He'd moved on to another one straight after her, and he didn't kill her. Was it an accident? Had he starved her of oxygen just too long? Her safe was open . . . Did she catch him robbing her, regaining consciousness after he'd gassed and raped her, so he'd gassed her again, overdosing her?

  Lynch was wrong about Kennedy. Although he kept outwardly calm, inside he was disconsolate. Because of the nature of his relationship with her, he had to keep it to himself. Apart from losing one of his parents, there wasn't much worse that could happen to him. He sat in the quiet of his office, comparing the loss to the pain he felt, when he first learned of his mother's incurable illness, but this was different. He still had his mother, and anyway, he reasoned, he didn't love Marilyn. She was an infatuation.

  When he'd first found out about his mother's illness, he bought himself a personal mobile phone. Only his parents had the number. He kept it tucked away, set to silent in the inside breast pocket of his jacket, and he carried it everywhere, transferring it from his pocket to the coffee table at home and then to his bedside at night. He tested it to make sure he'd feel it when it rang, hoping he'd not feel that insistent vibration for a long time. He smiled, remembering the day after her diagnosis. His dad had left her to go shopping. She could no longer get about under her own steam for fear of falling over. The phone buzzed urgently in his pocket. He fumbled for it quickly, fearing that this was it - the emergency call.

  It was his mother; he could hear her softly crying.

  "Mum . . . Mum? What is it?"

  "Oh, Jack, I didn't want to bother you, but I can't get back in bed, I've been trying not to be a bother to anyone, but I'm cold and your father's gone shopping, he never said when he was coming back . . ."

  He looked at his watch; it was almost lunchtime, he would, for once, take a break. "I'll be round in a minute."

  By the time Kennedy arrived and let himself in, she'd somehow managed to get herself back into the bed.

  He sat in the armchair looking at her sternly. "I told you I was on my way, didn't I? You could have fallen and hurt yourself." She burst into tears and looked at the floor; he realised she hadn't been out of bed at all. He transferred himself onto the bed next to her and put an arm round her shoulders, shocked by how thin she'd become, and as he held her hand he could feel every bone beneath her parchment-like skin. He pulled her into his chest, resting his chin on her head. "It's all right, Mum," he said, patting her back as if she were a child.

  "I'm sorry, John, I dragged you away from your work and I shouldn't have done . . . I just felt so alone."

  "It's all right, Mum, I'm here now." It felt so strange to be comforting the one who had given him so much comfort, when he felt scared in the middle of the night, awakened from some bad dream, or when he'd been burning up with a red-hot fever . . . She was there, always and now he was here for her. How life turns around.

  The front door opened; a draught blew in briefly.

  "I'm back. Sorry it took so long, is everything all right?" His father closed the door behind him and appeared in her bedroom doorway. "John?" He looked at the two of them. "What's happened . . . is everything all right?" He took in the looks on their faces. The struggle to come to terms with this new phase of her illness etched into them. He moved into the space the other side of her and joined in the circle of three; a trinity of unity.

  Nobody said a word for a long time. Finally, she lifted her head and spoke.

  "I know about your whiskey, John and I know you are ashamed. I know, because you never were any good at keepin
g secrets from me, but I don't mind, not as long as I know you can still look after me, when I need you in the night." She smiled the kind of smile that chases clouds away after the rain.

  "I'll always look after you," he said. Then he grinned. "I love you more than whiskey." He hugged her tighter than before. They embraced for a long time.

  Kennedy didn't think he would ever forget the image of the two of them that afternoon, each holding the other. He smiled wistfully.

  His phone buzzed like an angry bee in his pocket, jolting him from his thoughts, it took him a moment to recognise it was his phone. He fumbled, pulling it out complete with a box of aspirin. He pressed the answer button without looking, as he put the phone to his ear.

  Something had happened. "What is it . . . what's up?" A sense of mild panic inflected his voice.

  "What's the matter, Jack, is the job getting to you? No, don't answer. Don't interrupt. A man was arrested early this morning, and I will have a real problem if he is charged, Jack, and if he is, if he is . . . then you'll have a big problem too."

  He hadn't been able to interject, the hypnotic quality of the voice somehow rendered him speechless. Finally, words came. "Now you listen to me, I know who you are," he bluffed,

  "Stop it, Jack, you're about to make a fool of yourself . . . you don't know who I am at all, nobody does. I could be the guy outside your office pulling wires, or fixing the lift … you wouldn't know, but I know you, Jack, and I mean really know you, so you just shut up and listen to me."

  He laughed down the line. "This is like a scene from a bad movie . . ."

  "Yes, that's exactly what it is . . . a really bad scene. Have you told anyone you were the last person to see Marilyn alive Friday night? No, of course you haven't. Going to be a bit late now, don't you think?" The click of a cigarette lighter was followed by the sound of the caller inhaling deeply. "Maybe, maybe not; look, I don't want any trouble, Jack, I have a proposition for you that keeps us all off the hook . . . I'll call you with the details later."

  Kennedy faced a predicament. If he owned up to his involvement, it would lead to questions. He would come under suspicion, and he couldn't put his parents through that. In their eyes, sleeping with a prostitute would be shame enough, becoming a suspect was not an option he cared to consider.

  He would decide what to do once he'd heard the caller's proposition.

  Chapter 94

  Kennedy jumped, snatching the phone out of his pocket he looked at the display. Private number. . . It was him!

  He answered and held the phone to his ear. The caller was already talking, "Now listen very carefully, Jack. This is what's going to happen. You boys are holding a Billy Wharton in the cells, you'll arrange his release on bail, it shouldn't be too hard when you tell your colleagues what I'm about to tell you. Wharton has a consignment of arms to collect. He'll be getting a call, anytime in the next twenty-four hours. The guns are coming by air via Holland; they will drop them from low level into a remote field somewhere in Essex. I don't have a location yet. Once Wharton's out, you'll have him under surveillance; the rest is up to you. Just think what a feather in your cap it'll be when you and your team close down this nasty little operation."

  "What's in it for you?" he asked.

  "For me? You surprise me, Jack. Here I am, trying to help you keep a consignment of weapons from falling into the hands of gangsters all over the country and you ask what's in it for me? Potentially, you'll be instrumental in saving hundreds of lives from drug and gun related crime. Just be grateful that I chose you, my friend."

  The line clicked, cutting the connection.

  He didn't bother trying to have the call traced; all the others to him and his parents had been from cheap, disposable mobile phones. They'd managed to match the telephone numbers to prepaid SIM cards and then to the outlets that sold them. CCTV footage enabled them to identify a number of the kids he'd recruited from the streets outside the shops. He'd given them ten pounds to go in and buy the SIM's for him.

  None of the descriptions they gave police was the same twice. He was variously dark-haired, clean-shaven, blonde and bearded or shaven headed. The calls were made from different locations and often many miles apart.

  Outmanoeuvred, and trapped in a situation that he couldn't afford to have exposed, Kennedy had a sinking feeling. They would not catch this character unless it was red-handed.

  With Marilyn gone, he had no one to confide in.

  Kennedy wandered down to the cells; he decided he wasn't going to rush into anything until he'd established a few things for himself. He spoke to the custody officer. "Just the one here tonight, Dawson?"

  The officer looked up briefly, before continuing with his paperwork. "Yes, sir, it's really quiet and even he isn't here at the moment. I thought while I have the chance I'd catch up on some admin."

  "So, what's the brief on him, Dawson?"

  "He's been arrested on suspicion of handling stolen goods."

  "Where is he now?"

  "Drug squad's interviewing him, sir."

  "Drug squad?"

  "Yes, sir," and pre-empting the next question, he volunteered. "They searched his car, and they not only found a load of jewellery, but they also found a piece of paper hidden in the boot with a phone number on it, sir. No name, just a phone number and he wouldn't say whose number it was - claims he doesn't know."

  "And?"

  "They did a reverse check; turns out that the phone number was previously used by someone involved in the illegal importation of class A drugs into the country."

  "Really? That's a huge shift from getting picked up for handling stolen goods."

  "And that's not all, sir," Dawson leaned over the counter, lowering his voice. "Some of that jewellery has been linked to the Midnight man break-ins."

  "Jesus, Dawson, this could be the break we've been looking for!" Suddenly, he had a hunch. "I don't suppose you have a record of the telephone number they found on him?"

  "No, sir, I don't. All I know is I overheard a DS guy talking about a Danny Lynch."

  What's Danny Lynch got to do with all this?

  "Let me know when they bring him back down," Kennedy said, and turned slowly on his heels to head back to his office, forehead creased with lines of deep contemplation.

  Chapter 95

  The caller walked into the local branch of Kennedy's bank and made a cash deposit of five thousand pounds. The cashier printed a receipt and handed it to him. Despite the unusually warm weather, she didn't pay any attention to the fact he was wearing black leather gloves.

  The next stage of his plan was almost complete and once outside he couldn't resist grinning. His face lit up, but his lips were stretched painfully tight. Concealed behind his moustache, the scar that ran from under his nose down to his upper lip seemed to anchor the lip in place, allowing them to part just enough to reveal his teeth. The backward slope and inwardly slanted arrangement was reminiscent of those of a shark without the sharp tips, but he looked as if he might bite, and that if he did, he might not let go. Mostly he kept them concealed. They were not for smiling with. His teeth worked best when they menaced people. His top lip stretched tighter. All you have to do now is plant the receipt.

  Kennedy paced across the front of the assembled group, addressing them in a loud voice. "We received a tip off over the weekend. There's to be a shipment of firearms into the country over the next few days," he said, and even though he held his hands together, a slight tremble remained evident. "According to our sources, it's a major consignment of semi-automatic weapons, dozens of them; destined for London initially, for onward distribution - Manchester, Bristol, Nottingham . . . you know the score." He eyed each one of the officers in turn. "Following on from the same tip off, we apprehended a man named Billy Wharton. A search of his car, revealed him to be in possession of a quantity of stolen jewellery, along with a telephone number used by a major criminal linked to the importation of drugs and arms into the country. Wharton denied knowing anything about t
he arms, the jewellery or the telephone number. Sound familiar?" he said, attracting a ripple of laughter. "We're currently in the process of trying to trace or match the jewellery to recent burglaries. Some items have already been linked to the so-called Midnight man robberies. We think the organisation responsible is recycling the proceeds of these crimes into the drugs and arms trade; laundering the cash through pubs and clubs.

  "As most of you are aware, we held the suspect in custody for approximately twenty-four hours. We released him without charge yesterday. He's under surveillance, and as we've already been informed of the whereabouts of the rendezvous, arrangements are in hand to stake out the premises. To that end, we've secured the unit next door, and we'll have an armed response unit in attendance. We're told Wharton isn't due to make contact with the arms gang until tomorrow, and we're confident that the meeting will lead us to the location of the consignment. The intention is to pick them off as discretely as possible, to avoid alerting anyone further up the chain." Shifting his balance from one foot to the other, he continued. "Intelligence suggests that it's the first of a number of planned drops from planes coming into the remote coastal areas of North Essex and elsewhere. If we can plug this, we have a real chance of disrupting organised crime in the city and giving them a bloody nose. If we can take the ringleaders out, it'll be a feather in our caps, gentlemen. I'm sure I don't have to remind you, we can't afford any mistakes." He stopped by the desk at the front and picking up a glass of water took a sip from it. His gaze swept across the assembled team. "We need to be ready the minute the call comes in. I'm sure I don't have to remind you how important it is we get a result here. Any questions?"