Kiss of Death

by Paul Finch

  They were where they were, and it was game on.

  He glanced through the rear-view mirror at their informant, who wore the haggard look of a man unable to believe the predicament he’d let himself in for. Gwen Straker had certainly played hardball with him and his legal reps, advising them that simply informing the police where this snuff cinema could be found was nothing like enough assistance to make life easier for him regarding all the other charges he faced, let alone to dismiss him from any potential murder enquiries. Cleghorn hadn’t liked it, but in the end had accepted the reality that the cops could not back down on this as they needed much more from him. They could always have raided the place without him, using a warrant and brute force, but pen drives were nothing if not quickly and easily disposable. By the time they’d battered the doors down, there might not be a shred of evidence left. So, it was imperative that they had someone on the inside to secure it.

  In due course, after several futile attempts to argue otherwise, Cleghorn and his solicitor had accepted that what he was doing today was likely to be his only way out.

  ‘Sounds like you got a result last night, sir,’ Quinnell said, as they hit the traffic.

  Heck glanced into his rear-view mirror, where Reed was busy adjusting his stab vest.

  ‘We mainly got lucky,’ the DI said.

  ‘Lucky … how?’ Heck asked.

  Reed gave it some thought. ‘Hallahan was last seen in High Wycombe, which is not his home patch, but his estranged daughter lives there. He’d been seen a couple of times in the district, trying to buy heroin. One sighting in the area wouldn’t have been worth much, but two sightings two weeks apart suggested he was stopping somewhere close by. In both cases, witnesses said he was long-haired, bearded and dirty. This suggested he was sleeping rough. Possibly in a homeless camp or something, but I didn’t think it was that – there’s a reward out on him, and his face has been plastered all over the newspapers. You couldn’t crash with a bunch of vagrants and expect none of them to grass on you. So, I reasoned he had to be with someone he trusted.’

  Heck was even more disgruntled. Reed’s deductions had been good so far; it didn’t sound as if he’d been lucky at all.

  ‘And his ex-daughter was the best bet?’ Quinnell asked.

  ‘Even an estranged daughter would likely let you sleep under her roof,’ Reed replied. ‘But she might not go out and buy you smack. So, when his dependency got too much for him, he had to do that himself. At least, that was my theory. We got a warrant and searched the daughter’s house. She was compliant, even helpful – but even though there was no sign of him there, I felt there was something a bit fishy about it. Eventually, we had to leave … but this feeling wouldn’t go away. I mean, the beard and long hair told us that, wherever he was, he wasn’t going out much … to a barber’s or whatever. But dirty? If he was stopping in a house, he could at least use the bathroom, the shower. So that’s why, at the last second … before we left the premises, we pulled the floorboards up.’

  Quinnell hooted with laughter. ‘And that’s where he was?’

  ‘Living under her feet, would you believe. With her permission, of course. There was already a crawl space, but they’d actually widened it – made it habitable. If you could call it that.’

  ‘He’d been down there four whole years?’ Quinnell asked, incredulous. ‘I mean … that’s how long he’d been missing, isn’t it?’

  ‘Sure had,’ Reed said. ‘But I think he’d had enough. He came without a fight. Not that I think he’d have been up for that even if he’d wanted one. He was badly strung out and thin as a rake. He’d barely been eating. So, though it’s a certainty he’ll get life for those two murders, I doubt he’ll be around very long.’

  Heck drove on. They were almost at the lying-up point now, which was located in the rear car park of a to-let workshop located two streets from Deercot Road.

  ‘Well, I’m not gonna say “poor bastard”,’ Quinnell declared. ‘Even my Christianity has its limits.’

  ‘You’d better remember that when we get into this place,’ Tim Cleghorn piped up. ‘Soon as they find out you’re a cozzer, them two bouncers’ll come for us … even if it’s just to buy their bosses enough time to get away.’

  ‘We’ll have all the exits covered, Tim,’ Heck replied. ‘They won’t get away.’

  ‘If either of them does, my life won’t be worth living,’ Cleghorn whined. ‘In fact, my life could be on the line anyway. Soon as they find out who this fella is,’ he indicated Quinnell, ‘they’ll go for me.’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Heck said. ‘DC Quinnell has only two jobs for the first minute he’s in there … secure the evidence and protect you. The second minute, the rest of us’ll be in … so then it won’t matter.’

  Cleghorn was still pale with fear. He didn’t look even remotely reassured by what he’d just been told. Which was probably a fair-enough reaction, Heck thought; because they knew so little about this firm that he had no clue what level of resistance they were about to face.

  Though neither, at present, did he care.

  Chapter 25

  Detective Constable Gary Quinnell was a conundrum to those who knew him. Six feet and three inches tall, as brawny as a bear, with thinning red hair, battered but likeable features and a gregarious personality, which, combined with a deep voice and melodious accent, made him an attractive figure straight away. He was also known as a religious guy; when he and his wife had made the move from South Wales to London, nine years ago, so that he could join the National Crime Group, he’d only done so on the condition that there’d be a Nonconformist chapel they could attend.

  For all that, he was no stranger to the rough stuff. Even though he was not officially in the Metropolitan Police, Quinnell played number eight for their Rugby Union team, and if it ever got tasty he’d always be found in the thick of it. By the same token, as an operational police officer, he had a famously no-nonsense approach to law enforcement. Quinnell was only in his mid-thirties, but in some ways quite old-school. He was a rare creature these days: a vocational copper rather than a careerist. He loved being a detective, and he was quite happy to remain a detective constable, because that brought him into close contact with those hoodlums who, as far as he was concerned, made innocent people’s lives such a misery. It enabled him to right wrongs personally, which he also expected to be doing on that evening of August 23, when, wearing ripped jeans, trainers, a T-shirt and a beaten-up leather jacket, he tramped alongside Tim Cleghorn down a shadow-filled entry off Deercot Road.

  As Heck had said, there’d almost certainly be a body search on entry, so he hadn’t been able to take either a radio or any concealed weapon. In fact, his only contact with the outside world was a miniaturised transmitter taped so high on the inside of his upper right thigh that it was snug against his scrotum.

  A door appeared on their left. It was wood rather than steel – less easily defensible perhaps, but less likely to attract casual attention. There was no handle, of course; this door did not open from the outside.

  Cleghorn’s forehead was speckled with sweat. Nervously, he licked his lips.

  ‘Taking me in, bruv, or what?’ Quinnell asked, affecting a nonchalant stance – highly likely they were already being watched and listened to.

  Cleghorn nodded, lifted a fist and gave a coded rap on the wood; three knocks, two knocks, three more, and then one. Half a second later, an invisible intercom crackled to life.

  ‘What can we do for you?’ came a cultured female voice.

  ‘Erm … oh, hi.’ Cleghorn filched his membership ID from the front pocket of his jeans. It was nothing more than an oblong piece of card, neatly printed with his membership number, A956B3, and his photo alongside that, the whole thing then laminated. As an indication of how long Cleghorn had been a member, the plastic coating was slightly opaque and crumpled at the corners. He held it up anyway, so that wherever the hidden camera was located, its operator would have a clear view.

  �
��Who’s that with you?’ the voice asked.

  ‘Oh, erm … a new friend.’

  Silence greeted this. The seconds ticked by.

  ‘He’s a workmate,’ Cleghorn added nervously.

  Quinnell held his breath. From Cleghorn’s body language alone, the proprietors would have to be stupid not to figure there was something wrong here. Rather to his surprise, though, an electric hum followed and a lock on the other side of the door disengaged.

  Mopping the sweat from his brow, Cleghorn pushed forward, Quinnell following. A dim, narrow stairway led downward, so narrow in fact that they could only descend it in single file, Cleghorn leading. At the bottom, a lone bulb burned over the top of another faceless door. This one was made from steel; again, it had no handle. They were still two or three steps up from it when a male figure stepped from a hidden alcove on the right.

  Quinnell immediately clocked him as Alfie Adamson, the one-time unlicensed boxer.

  Adamson was still a professional enforcer, as his shaven head and brutish Neanderthal features clearly attested. He wasn’t a tall man, probably no more than five-eleven, but he packed immense breadth into his smart black dinner jacket and white shirt. The fact that he also wore a dicky bow implied that once he was done here, he’d perhaps go on to work the doors of some other, more legit establishment.

  ‘You’re rather late, A956B3,’ Adamson said, his limpid grey eyes twinkling under his heavy, shelf-like brow. ‘Another five mins and we’d be locking the outer doors.’

  Cleghorn shrugged apologetically. ‘Had to wait for Donny, here. He’s come all the way from Wales.’

  Adamson appraised Quinnell with humour-filled curiosity, which seemed so out of place that it was more than a little unnerving. ‘Thought you said he was a workmate.’

  ‘Oh, erm … yeah, well, I’m a driver. I deliver to a depot in, erm … in …’

  ‘In Gabalfa,’ Quinnell added, picking at random a district in Cardiff, hoping to create the impression that Cleghorn wasn’t confused about which city he regularly drove to, but which part of it.

  ‘That’s right, Gabalfa,’ Cleghorn said.

  Adamson glanced from one to the other, before indicating that both should raise their arms.

  ‘Cursory pat-down,’ he said. ‘We can’t have people bringing cameras in here, or any other recording devices, can we?’

  They complied, and Quinnell was frisked first.

  This had always been a risky moment, given the location of his wire, but they’d banked on the search not being anything like as professional or thorough as it would be were a police officer carrying it out, and they were correct.

  Adamson checked Quinnell’s pockets first, extricating his mobile and his wallet, and switching the former off before laying them both on a table inside the alcove, where sundry other such goods had already been deposited. He advised Quinnell that he’d get his property back at the end of the evening, while patting him down around the body, the arms, the hips, and the upper and lower legs. He didn’t go anywhere near the crotch.

  The doorman stood back. ‘You can’t actually come in here, Taffy,’ he said, ‘unless you’re a full member. We don’t have guests. That means you’ve got to join.’

  Quinnell shrugged. ‘That’s what I was told. Fine.’

  Adamson’s smile broadened into a dead-eyed grin. ‘So … that’s five grand.’

  Quinnell feigned astonishment, which was hardly difficult.

  When Cleghorn had first quoted the costs of membership here, they hadn’t known which to be more astounded by – the fact that Cleghorn himself could afford such sums, or the fact that anyone at all would agree to pay them. The former was explained by an inheritance several years ago, which, by the sounds of it, Cleghorn had spent on absolutely nothing else; the latter, rather more chillingly, by the overwhelming desire of certain members of the public to watch real blood being violently shed.

  ‘Is that on top of the hundred-quid entry fee?’ Quinnell asked, sounding flabbergasted.

  ‘That’s correct,’ Adamson said. ‘But a hundred quid every time you come here isn’t very much, considering what you’re getting, is it? That extra five grand’s a one-off payment. Once you’ve been issued with your membership card, you’ll never have to fork out that much again.’

  ‘Better be bloody worth it,’ Quinnell grumbled.

  ‘Oh, it’s worth it. We offer a form of entertainment here that you won’t get anywhere else.’

  Quinnell extended his hand for his wallet, which was duly given back to him.

  ‘Course, if you can’t afford it,’ Adamson said, ‘you’re in the wrong place, anyway. We only cater to discerning clients.’

  ‘I can afford it, don’t you worry, boyo.’ Quinnell took out a bunch of twenties and fifties, selected the requisite amount, and handed it over.

  Adamson made a quick count. ‘I’ll take the wallet back, but you can keep what money you’ve got left … you’ll need it if you want refreshments.’

  Quinnell twisted the remaining notes into a roll and thrust it into his back pocket. The wallet went back on the table in the alcove.

  ‘Excellent,’ the doorman said. ‘That’s the necessaries taken care of. It’s all easy from here, but first we’ll fix you up with a card.’

  Right on cue, the steel door slid open. Beyond it there was another corridor, this one painted bright red and lit by lurid red lights. As they walked down it, they passed framed photographs depicting the most extreme pornographic images that even Quinnell, as a long-serving copper, had ever seen. Every kink imaginable was on show.

  At the end, they approached a pair of wooden swing-doors – the sort you saw in more regular cinemas – though before they reached them, there was an open door on the left. Beyond this sat a small office packed with high-tech equipment, including several different computer screens. A woman was in there, perched on a high stool.

  Margot Frith was approaching fifty now, but every bit as glamorous as in her porno heyday. Slim but shapely, with golden-brown skin and lustrous, chestnut curls. She wore a sleeveless red evening dress, cinched at the waist, slashed at the thigh and possessed of a plunging neckline, which revealed a tantalising amount of cleavage.

  She beckoned Quinnell in with a long, crimson-lacquered fingernail and bade him stand on an X painted on the concrete floor, where she surprised him with a camera flash.

  ‘Your membership card is not replaceable for free,’ she said brusquely – it was the same voice from the intercom. ‘You won’t get in here without it, no matter how much of a regular you become, so if you lose it, or deface it, you’ll have to pay the full price for another.’

  She took a rectangular cardboard slip from the desktop. A membership number had already been printed on it. She then turned to collect a passport-photo-sized image from a dispenser unit underneath the camera, tore a piece off the back of the image and smoothed it onto the card with her thumb, before running it through a lamination device.

  ‘OK …’ She handed the finished card over, for the first time smiling, showing an expensive array of gleaming white dentistry. ‘You’re good to go.’

  Quinnell went back into the corridor, where Cleghorn, who had now paid his own fee – yet more Operation Sledgehammer cash – and handed over his wallet and phone, was nervously waiting. Adamson stood watching as they strode the remaining distance to the swing-doors.

  ‘How long’s it gonna take your mates to get in here?’ Cleghorn whispered.

  ‘Shut up,’ Quinnell said from the side of his mouth.

  ‘That fucking steel door behind us has just been locked …’

  ‘Shut up, I said. They know what they’re doing.’

  Beyond the swing-doors, they entered the cinema proper.

  Reminiscent of a basement sex-club cinema in the days before the internet, it wasn’t a particularly big room, about sixty feet by sixty, lit by 40-watt bulbs and boasting damp, bare-brick walls. There was no fixed seating. Instead, several rows of what looked like s
chool chairs had been lined up and, as Alfie Adamson had said, most of the club’s clientele were now gathered in them. They were exclusively men, mainly aged from forty up, and for the most part they looked well-dressed, almost refined – this was no doubt due to the prices here. But what was especially interesting to Quinnell was that there were at least a hundred guys here, probably more, and yet there was almost no conversation between them. Perhaps, deep down, they were too embarrassed about what they were doing here to want to get to know any of their fellow snuff addicts.

  At the far end of the room, facing the audience, two additional chairs stood on top of a table, and on top of those was balanced a widescreen TV, at least seventy-eight inches across. Bundles of cables led away from this around the left edge of the seating, every few feet fastened to the carpet with strips of black duct tape. They eventually connected with a recess in the left wall, where the hunky, suntanned shape of Lance Frith sat on a stool and fiddled with a laptop resting on a table in front of him. Alongside this there was an array of different coloured pen drives.

  The porn-star-turned-MC was almost as well turned-out as his wife, wearing pressed beige trousers, a crisp white shirt and yellow silk tie held by a gold tiepin, though all of it was covered by a black, semi-transparent plastic raincoat – as if the twosome would be going on to somewhere more salubrious later and Lance didn’t want to carry any smudges from this odious dungeon with him.

  Close by, leaning casually against the wall, was the tall shape of the other security man, Wade McDougall.

  He was about six-foot-five, his big, spare frame with its long, rangy arms and legs fitted into a neat black suit, though he wore only a black T-shirt beneath that, and despite the dim lighting, a pair of opaque, wraparound shades. Previous mugshots had shown him as a redhead, clean-shaven and wearing a crew cut, but now he sported a thick hipster beard and moustache, which he appeared to have dyed black, while his hair, also newly black, was long and styled in a man-bun. None of these fashionable touches detracted from his face, which was long, lean and curiously pale and had been cut several times in the past; tramlines of old razor slashes ran down from his left eyebrow, connecting with both the left side of his nose and the left side of his mouth, as though whoever had done it had really tried to open him up.