A Good Day To Die

by Simon Kernick

  14

  The Ben Crouch Tavern was a big pub with a black wooden frontage about fifty yards east of Oxford Street. A chalkboard sign outside the door said that they served Monster Burgers, and a plaque pinned to the wall above it said ‘Prepare to sample the eerie atmosphere of Ben Crouch’, whoever he was. Scary.

  Inside, it was dimly lit, and all the furnishings, including the wooden floor, the array of beams and pillars and the steps leading up to the open-plan balcony above my head were painted the same black as the frontage. A bar on the opposite wall ran the whole length of the pub, and there were a few stone gargoyles up amongst the bottles of spirits, but this was about as eerie as the atmosphere got. The place was crowded, but rather than the legions of the dead, the clientele consisted mainly of large groups of very loud students, and only the occasional refugee from the Rocky Horror Show. The area in front of the bar was packed, which is always a bad sign for the ageing drinker, and the buzz of conversation and clinking of glasses was so noisy that it almost drowned out the music – a song from the Eighties which was either the Mission or the Jesus and Mary Chain.

  I stood near the entrance for a few moments, wondering how the hell I’d find a red-haired girl of thirty-one I’d never seen before, when I felt a tap on the shoulder.

  I turned round and looked into the smiling face of a very attractive young woman with soft, elfin features and a fine head of curly reddish-blond hair that fell down over her shoulders with the casual finesse of a fashion ad. She was quite a lot shorter than me, probably no more than five three, and dressed in an expensive-looking nubuck jacket and jeans, with a dinky red handbag hanging jauntily from one shoulder. She had a cigarette in one hand but no drink that I could see, and I would have put her at twenty-two or twenty-three if it wasn’t for the eyes, a striking mixture of hazel and green, which betrayed a definite maturity. This was a girl who probably wanted you to take her lightly but knew you’d be making a mistake if you did so. Like a lot of journalists, really, and more than one or two coppers.

  ‘Mr Kane?’ she enquired above the noise.

  I put out a hand and she took it. ‘How did you know? Do I really look that out of place?’

  She smiled broadly, showing deep dimples. ‘You want me to answer that?’

  ‘Probably not.’ I gave her one of my old rueful smiles that years ago used to really get to the ladies.

  ‘It’s not that. It’s just you do actually look like you’ve been beaten up. But you didn’t tell me you’d be wearing glasses,’ she added.

  I hadn’t known myself until an hour or so back, but had decided to put them on just to add a little to my disguise. It pays to be careful when you’re in the vicinity of journalists.

  ‘I’ve only started wearing them recently,’ I answered, ‘so I tend to forget. Anyway, I’m pleased to meet you. I thought your articles were very interesting.’

  ‘Do you want to go somewhere else?’ she asked, moving close enough so that I could smell a subtle dab of perfume. ‘There’s no way I can make myself heard in here.’ Which wasn’t strictly true. Her voice, though not loud, was strong and clear, the northern burr less obvious now than the fact that she’d obviously been educated at a school considerably higher up the educational scale than the one I’d spent my youth in.

  To our left, a table full of drunken students were doing an atrocious version of some rugby song, banging away on the wood with open palms in an effort to find a rhythm. It was fair to say they weren’t succeeding.

  I nodded. ‘Sure, lead the way.’

  We stepped outside into the relative quiet of the night and walked across the road to a smaller, less crowded pub on the corner. Emma found a space at the bar, and I asked her what she wanted.

  ‘A bottle of Beck’s’ll be fine, thanks.’

  I got the barman’s attention and ordered her Beck’s plus a pint of Pride for myself, not knowing quite what to expect. It had been three years since I’d drunk English bitter and I wasn’t sure whether it was going to taste like nectar or warm piss.

  ‘So, how come we met in that other pub?’ I asked as we found a spare table in the corner, a good few feet away from the nearest customers. ‘Were you checking me out to see if I was worth talking to?’

  ‘I didn’t know you from Adam,’ she said with a smile. ‘What did you expect?’

  I took a sip from my drink. First impressions were veering towards warm piss. ‘You still don’t know me from Adam.’

  ‘That’s true, but I watched you when you walked in and you seemed genuine enough. I can usually tell, I meet plenty of people who aren’t. If you’d looked too shifty, I’d have just slipped out of there and you’d never have realized.’

  ‘Fair enough,’ I said, thinking if only she knew the truth.

  ‘How did you manage to get beaten up?’ she asked, changing the subject as she slipped a notebook and pen out of her handbag. ‘What did you find out?’

  ‘Well, first off, let me say this. I want you to help me, and I want to help you, but can you do me a favour and keep what we find out of your articles until we’ve got somewhere?’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I’ve got a feeling that the last article you wrote was right – that there’s more to this case than meets the eye. I just want us both to be careful, that’s all.’

  She nodded. ‘OK, but if I turn up something that’s a real scoop, I might have to change my mind. I don’t want to be at the North London Echo all my life.’

  ‘I understand, but please tell me if that’s what you’re going to do, all right? At least so I know.’

  ‘Sure.’ She took a pack of Marlboro Lights and a cheap lighter out of the handbag. ‘Do you smoke?’ she asked, pointing the nearly full pack in my direction. One of the cigarettes had been placed upside-down, with the tobacco end sticking out.

  I told her that I didn’t any more, but didn’t mind if she did. Then I asked if she’d put the cigarette upside-down in the pack intentionally.

  ‘Apparently it brings you luck,’ she said, lighting up. ‘I’ve always done it.’

  I nodded. ‘My first girlfriend always used to do it too. She wouldn’t even accept a cigarette from someone whose pack didn’t have an upside-down fag in it. A lot of people used to do it in those days.’

  ‘And did it bring her luck, your girlfriend?’

  ‘She ended up falling in love with a representative from the Seventh Day Adventist Church who knocked on her door one day when she was a student. She became a born-again Christian, and ran off with him to America. My brother told me that she’s had five kids. I don’t know if you’d class that as luck or not.’

  ‘Not five kids. Not for me, anyway. But I suppose it depends which way you look at it, doesn’t it?’

  ‘Exactly.’

  She puffed lightly on her cigarette, taking care to blow the smoke away from me, and I took the opportunity to look at her more closely. She wasn’t wearing any make-up, and didn’t need it. Her skin was soft and pale and there was a cute smattering of freckles the same colour as her hair running across the top of her nose. But it was the eyes that held my attention. They stood out, not only because of their perfect round shape and unusual colouring, but because they seemed so full of life. Emma Neilson was the sort of girl who could turn heads. I don’t think she was classically beautiful – some of her features, like her nose and cheekbones, weren’t delicate enough for the rest of her face – but she had a real spark about her, and I’d have bet money she could wrap all but the hardiest of men round her little finger.

  ‘You still haven’t told me how you got beaten up,’ she said, taking a sip of her beer.

  ‘I know, and I will, but before I go into details of what’s happened to me, and what I’ve managed to find out, I’d like to get some background on the case from you.’

  ‘How long exactly is it you’ve been working on it?’

  ‘Not very long at all. Since yesterday.’

  ‘And you’ve already managed to get yourself on someb
ody’s wrong side. That’s quite impressive.’

  It was obvious she was sceptical of my story. I’d have been, in her position. It made me wonder whether I should have thought things through a bit more before meeting her.

  ‘I’ll level with you, Miss Neilson—’

  ‘Emma, please. No one calls me Miss Neilson.’

  ‘OK, Emma. Well, I’ve got a lead, something that’ll require some help on your part to develop, but it’s good, I can promise that.’

  ‘What sort of lead?’

  ‘A name.’ She raised her eyebrows, but didn’t say anything. ‘Someone involved, and not necessarily one you know. But first, I want to hear what you’ve got. I want to know if there’s anything I’ve missed out.’

  ‘Where do you want me to start?’

  ‘The background. My understanding is that the police think that Malik’s death is connected to his work, either at the NCS or at SO7. That seems to be your take on it as well, if my reading of your articles is right. You also appear to have a particular individual in mind, one who has a motive but who might also have friends protecting him. Would that be right?’

  She stared at me for a moment, weighing me up with those brown-green eyes, then appeared to make a decision.

  ‘Asif Malik made some enemies in the past among organized-crime figures,’ she said carefully, ‘but the consensus of opinion is that those figures are now finished. However, there was one individual in North London that my sources tell me he was involved in investigating when he was murdered.’

  ‘The one you mentioned in the most recent article but didn’t name?’

  ‘That’s right. But I’m not going to name him now to someone who I’ve only just met. I hope you understand.’

  ‘I do, but what makes you suspect him so strongly?’

  ‘Jason Khan, the man who died in the café with Malik, was a member of this individual’s organization.’

  I raised my eyebrows. This was getting interesting. None of the information I’d gathered on the Internet had mentioned this connection. ‘I heard Khan was a convicted street robber, but not exactly a big player. Not someone with the inside gen to bring down a major criminal enterprise.’

  ‘I can’t say for sure, but he knew something, and it must have been important.’ She paused for a moment. I could tell she had some further information to bolster her case but wasn’t sure she should share it. I didn’t hurry her, but watched as she put out her cigarette and took a sip from her drink.

  Finally, she took a quick look round, then leaned forward over the table. Once again I could smell her perfume. ‘The reason why Khan must have known something important is that four days after he and Malik were murdered, his girlfriend died in very suspicious circumstances.’

  ‘What sort of circumstances?’

  ‘On the face of it, a heroin overdose.’

  ‘Did she have a history of drug abuse?’

  ‘She was a runaway who’d spent most of her teenage years in care, and yes, she did have a history of drug abuse ...’ She paused again. ‘I know what you’re thinking, Mr Kane.’

  ‘Mick, please.’

  ‘I know it’s possible that she could have overdosed when she heard about Jason, but it doesn’t fit. I never knew her, but she was a very strong-willed girl, by all accounts. She’d been through a lot in her life, but she’d recently undergone a course of psychotherapy and, from what I can gather, she seemed to be getting her life back together. According to her friends, she and Jason were no longer using drugs, and Jason had never been involved in heroin anyway.’

  ‘Why didn’t you print your concerns about the girlfriend’s death in the article?’

  ‘It’s coming out in the next edition. Tomorrow’s.’

  I raised my eyebrows for a second time. ‘That ought to stir things up.’

  ‘If it gets the police moving, that’s good enough for me. At the moment, they don’t seem to be doing much about it.’

  ‘You’re going to need to be careful. I’m sure you know how to look after yourself, but we’re dealing with dangerous people here.’ I pulled out my own notebook. ‘What was the girlfriend’s name, by the way?’

  ‘Ann Taylor.’

  I had to work hard to keep my expression impassive. Ann Taylor. A young girl with a spindly child’s body and a big attitude. Once upon a time, I’d rescued her from an abduction while she’d been working the King’s Cross backstreets as a teenage prostitute. It had been during my last days in London, when I’d been investigating the murder of one of her friends and fellow runaways, Miriam Fox. I’d hoped that maybe Ann had turned out all right in the period since. She’d always struck me as someone with a degree of intelligence as well as the street smarts you associate with runaways, but neither of these attributes were any substitute for luck, and in the end it was that which Ann had been lacking.

  But in the short time I’d known her, my impression was that she wasn’t the sort to take her own life. As Emma suggested, Ann had been a tough kid who was used to residing at the shitty end of most people’s quality-of-life index. People like that are statistically far less likely to end their own lives than those from wealthier backgrounds. But then again, there was nothing to suggest that it hadn’t been an accident either. Smack’s an easy drug to OD on without actually wanting to.

  I decided to let it go for now, and asked Emma what Malik’s movements were on the night of the shootings.

  ‘He and his wife, Kaz, were watching the television all evening. The phone rang just after ten p.m. Malik took the call, spoke for several minutes, and then announced that he had to go out. It’s been confirmed that the call came from Jason Khan’s mobile. Malik threw on some clothes, left the house, and the timings suggest that he went directly to the café where he was killed. And that was it. Kaz went to bed, and the next thing she knew she was being woken up by the police knocking on the door, telling her the bad news.’

  ‘Did she say whether he’d told her what the meeting was about? My client, Mr Malik senior, wasn’t sure.’

  She shook her head. ‘Nothing, but apparently that wasn’t unusual for him. He does – did – a lot of very secretive work. From what I remember, she did ask him whether it was really necessary to go out at that time of night, and he said it was. She also mentioned that he looked very agitated. He was generally considered quite a calm man, but she made a point of saying he wasn’t himself after taking the phone call. Whatever made him go to that meeting must have been important.’

  We were both silent for a while. I wondered whether Jason Khan had been used as bait to lure Malik to a meeting so that Billy West could finish him off. If so, the man behind it had evidently had Khan killed at the same time to make sure his mouth stayed shut. Perhaps Khan had said something to his girlfriend about the meeting and they’d found out about it, effectively signing her death warrant.

  At the moment, however, it was all conjecture.

  ‘Now for the quid pro quo,’ said Emma. ‘Your turn to tell me what you know. Who’s this man you’ve been having trouble with?’

  ‘I want your word that it won’t appear in any article until you’ve cleared it with me. We need evidence against him, for a start.’

  ‘I’ve already said I’ll do everything in my power to abide by your wishes.’

  ‘Not good enough. I want your word.’

  ‘It’s nice to meet someone who still believes in that. OK, done.’

  I paused for a moment, then spoke. ‘The guy I’m talking about is called Les Pope.’

  Her eyes widened and she sat back in her seat. ‘You’re joking!’

  That caught me. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You don’t know?’

  ‘Obviously not.’

  She shook her head, clearly concerned about my lack of detective skills.

  ‘Les Pope is – or more accurately, was – Jason Khan’s solicitor.’

  15

  ‘Tell me about Pope,’ Emma demanded, taking a sip from her beer. ‘How did you ge
t onto him in the first place if you didn’t know he was Khan’s brief?’

  I wondered then if I’d overplayed my hand. It’s always risky trying to deceive someone whose job it is to sniff out untruths. It’s even less of a good idea when you’re still a wanted man in the country you’re sitting in, and with a telltale suntan as well. Already she was looking at me over the rim of her beer glass with a healthy and fully justified scepticism, although thankfully without any worrying flicker of recognition. Her eyes reminded me of those of a cat – there was something hypnotic about them – and I got the idea that it would be difficult to hide your secrets from her for too long.

  ‘Let’s just say that over the years I’ve built up contacts with a lot of people who’d never voluntarily talk to the police, but who might be tempted to open their mouths with the promise of money. I heard about Mr Pope from one of those people.’

  ‘How good was his information?’

  ‘Good enough to get me a beating.’ I gave her the cock-and-bull story I’d concocted in my room earlier, about how I’d been asking around about Pope when two of his thugs had accosted me outside my North London office and kicked me around, warning me to stay out of their boss’s business. It was a bit clichéd, I suppose, but not a million miles from the truth.

  Emma seemed to buy it as well. ‘And there’s you telling me to be careful,’ she said drily.

  ‘I speak from bitter experience,’ I told her. ‘That means you should listen doubly hard.’

  She smiled, showing the dimples again, and pulled another cigarette from the pack. I saw her glance at her watch at the same time, and felt a vague twinge of disappointment. I think I’d been overestimating the excitement of my company.

  She asked me where we went from here and I told her I needed an address for Pope.

  ‘And when I get that, I’m going to pay him a visit.’ My tone suggested that when I got hold of him, I wasn’t going to ask my questions with a high degree of politeness and patience. It was in keeping with the image I wanted to project to her: that of a man who was essentially on the side of the good guys, but who wasn’t afraid of trying on the tough stuff. I thought she’d like that because it would mean I was more likely to come up with some answers, which would help with her story.