DM for Murder

by Matt Bendoris

  ‘And back home in Scotland, Lacey Lanning also called Bryce’s phone,’ Connor said. ‘She too hung up when she heard the captain’s voice. So she got onto Patricia Tolan demanding answers too. That’s when Pasty and her psycho mum took over. Told her to shut up or they would make her shut up. But Lacey still had some fight in her. She did the interview with good ole April Lavender – as a warning shot, to show that she was prepared to talk to the press. So mental mum Edwina made sure she’d never talk again by cutting her tongue out.’

  ‘But the crucial piece of evidence was when my “driver” checked out the CCTV footage from the hotel,’ Sorrell said. ‘O’Neill turned up to ask the duty manager if there were any of Bryce’s personal effects the police hadn’t taken away that could be returned to the family. It was a total bullshit excuse, of course. He’d have known forensics would have lifted everything from room 1410. It was a fishing exercise. He was doing a clean sweep, making sure he hadn’t left any loose ends. But O’Neill then bumped into the old porter, Cliff Walker, who said something like, “Nice to see you again, sir.” Cliff was known for never forgetting a face. And he was right. He had seen Tom O’Neill before Bryce Horrigan died. It was O’Neill who had approached him about some female company and old Cliff did what he always did and called Coops. But then their little scheme with room 1410 all blew up in their faces when Horrigan ended up dead. Coops warned Lindy and Cliff not to say a thing as he would handle everything.’

  Sorrell paused, downing the last of his Guinness. ‘Unfortunately for old Cliff, he didn’t put two and two together straight away: that the ‘hat man’, who asked him for a girl, was the same guy in a suit he saw coming out of his manager’s office a few days later. It was probably the hat that threw him. O’Neill wasn’t wearing one for his return visit, of course. O’Neill would have been worried that the old boy would wake up at five in the morning and suddenly remember that he was ‘hat man’. So he sat in the Starbucks across the street and waited until he saw Cliff walk home after his shift. He shot him with the same gun he used to kill Bryce with, just as Colin Cooper had predicted,’ Sorrell concluded, ordering another round.

  ‘You know what, cap’n? Coops was a good detective, as you said. He was just a bad motherfucker,’ Haye said philosophically.

  ‘Ironic. Tom O’Neill was a good reporter,’ Connor said. ‘Who’d have thought he could have been a triple murderer. And for what? Because he hated his boss? Just move jobs. Tell me this though, captain: when did you know the case was connected to Scotland? When I told you about Lacey and Pasty’s scarring?’ Connor was now thinking more about his book than any newspaper articles.

  ‘Well, that confirmed it. But I knew there was some sort of connection when Baby Angel was being racist to me in a tweet and she wrote “colour” in the British way – with a “u” – instead of the American spelling. It was a small point, but it made me think I was corresponding with a Brit. When you told me about the other women’s injuries it all clicked into place,’ Sorrell explained.

  ‘Poor Pasty. They reckon her mother is too insane to stand trial so Pasty will be the only one in the dock for this whole sorry mess. The thing is, I could understand Pasty’s bitterness towards Bryce, but the mum was a bigger psychopath than the lot of them. What makes people like that? What turns them into killers?’ Connor pondered.

  ‘That’s the million dollar question,’ Sorrell replied. ‘And it’ll drive you crazy trying to work it out. All I know is people do bad shit. End of.’

  ‘One more for the road, cap’n?’ Haye offered.

  ‘Yeah, but you better lay off. You are my designated driver, after all.’

  Lieutenant Haye didn’t mind. It was the first time he’d seen his captain so relaxed and happy in years.

  97 #TheBaltimoreBlues

  A bleary-eyed, jet-lagged and slightly hungover Connor Presley sat in the Peccadillo Café opposite his perpetually cheery colleague.

  ‘Look at you, you’re never happier than when you’re eating,’ he remarked.

  ‘You’re very astute,’ April replied, sending flecks of food in his direction. ‘I do love my food.’

  ‘You’re amazing. Truly. No matter what happens to you, you just bounce back. Nearly stabbed to death by two insane bitches? Water off a duck’s back to April Lavender,’ Connor remarked.

  April sensed he was feeling down. ‘What’s up? You look tired.’

  ‘I’ll tell you what’s up. I’ve been shot at. I’ve had about eight hours sleep in the last few days. And what have I got to show for it? I’m sitting here again with you stuffing your face as usual.’

  ‘Don’t take your jet-lag foul mood out on me,’ April protested.

  ‘Don’t you see?’ Connor continued. ‘Nothing changes. Not even working the biggest story of my career. It’s still just back to the grindstone. I haven’t moved on. All I do is work. Run. Drink. Get my leg over, every blue moon, and that’s it,’ he said, earning a sly glance from the waitress, Martel.

  ‘Uch, yer arse. I think you’ve just got too big for your boots, now you’re an international superstar,’ April suggested.

  ‘Well, this “international superstar” is about to turn forty next week,’ he replied gloomily.

  ‘Ah, finally, the crux of the matter. You know it’s only a number. Age is just how old you feel,’ April said reassuringly.

  ‘That’s fine when you’re an ancient relic like yourself. But I’m forty feeling sixty. And that’s not the point. Who really cares that I’ve reached this landmark?’ Connor moaned.

  ‘I care. I’m sure Martel cares. Anyway, the big Four-Oh is not all it’s cracked up to be. Do you know what I got for my fortieth birthday?’

  ‘A gramophone?’ Connor retorted.

  ‘No. Nothing. I told my third husband not to get me anything so that’s exactly what he got me. Nothing at all.’

  Connor loved the way April never referred to her husbands by their names, but only as One, Two and Three. ‘Well, you told him you wanted nothing and got nothing. What’s the problem?’

  ‘I’ll tell you what the problem was: it was my fortieth and I got nothing. I was absolutely furious. That was the end of us, let me tell you.’

  ‘Did you file for divorce on account of him being unreasonable?’ Connor smiled.

  ‘Yes, I did actually. Nothing for my fortieth, just what was he thinking?’

  ‘That’ll be more than I get,’ Connor said.

  ‘Oh, snap out of it. The problem with getting older is you start to think of your own mortality. Well, I say to hell with growing old. To hell with birthdays. And to hell with technology. Do you know all that matters? Being able to put words together in roughly the right order. So let’s write our book. And stop thinking so much – it works for me,’ April said with a flash of her gold incisor.

  Connor smiled back. ‘I love the way you put everything into perspective. How could I ever get too big for my boots, sitting here being lightly speckled with particles of your breakfast and looking at your big moon face with food stuck between your teeth?’

  ‘Anyway, with your big book advance, you can buy me a decent wedding present,’ April said, a huge smile all over her face.

  It was Connor’s turn to spit out his food. ‘Luigi? You haven’t said yes, have you?’

  April flamboyantly displayed her diamond-encrusted engagement ring.

  ‘Why, Miss Lavender, I do believe you are blushing.’

  ‘I haven’t actually said yes yet, but he told me to wear the ring until I make up my mind,’ April explained. ‘I think I could get used to it. Will you give me away?’

  ‘Gladly.’

  They left the Peccadillo with Connor singing a jaunty little tune. ‘Here comes the bride – hips six feet wide.’

  Acknowledgements

  Thanks to David Simon for his book Homicide: A Year on the Killing Streets (originally published b
y Houghton Mifflin in 1991), which gives incredible insight to Baltimore’s detectives. It is a book that today, in this age of Leveson, would probably never be written – so much for a free press?

  The time I spent with my own Maryland detective was invaluable. He is a true gent and a man on the front line, still living everything Simon wrote about in the early Nineties.

  Finally, thanks to Colin for his geeky technical advice, my dear colleague Yvonne, Sara for taking a punt and Craig for his expert editing.

  About the Author

  Matt Bendoris is a senior journalist with the Sun newspaper who is already making waves with his electric style of crime fiction writing. His first novel, Killing With Confidence, attracted fantastic plaudits, and he is already working on his third book. He has also ghost-written two showbiz autobiographies, including The Krankies’ Fan Dabi Dozi (John Blake Publishing, 2004), and Sydney Devine’s Simply Devine (Black and White Publishing, 2005). He lives in Scotland with his wife, Amanda, and their two children, Andrew and Brooke. In his spare time he enjoys running and he’s completed four marathons.

  Contraband

  Contraband is the crime, mystery and thriller imprint from independent publisher Saraband, the inaugural Saltire Society Scottish Publisher of the Year. We offer readers an eclectic range of writing – from pacy detective stories to intriguing psychological thrillers – and give a platform to the most exciting and talented new authors. For more info, please visit www.saraband.net, and connect with us on Twitter: @SarabandBooks or Facebook.

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  Copyright

  Contraband is an imprint of Saraband

  Published by Saraband,

  Suite 202, 98 Woodlands Road,

  Glasgow, G3 6HB, Scotland

  www.saraband.net

  Copyright © Matt Bendoris 2015

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without first obtaining the written permission of the copyright owner.

  ISBN: 9781910192009

  ebook: 9781910192016