PRETTY GIRLS MAKE GRAVES: a gripping crime thriller (Camden Noir Crime Thrillers Trilogy Book 1)

by JOHN YORVIK

  Chapter Six

  I finished shaving and rinsed the foam off my chin. I placed a new plaster over the scratches. Then I angled the beanie hat carefully to conceal as much as possible. I was already getting used to being at large. It had liberated me from the banality of everyday life. I smiled at how insane but true that last thought was.

  Before leaving the hotel room, I wired myself up with a Walkman and pressed play. This time it was a Brazilian mix. I walked out onto the landing, closed the door to my room and called the lift.

  An hour later I’d reached the luggage desk at King’s Cross. I handed over my token to the same South American woman as the day before. She disappeared into the back room. A few minutes later she came back and told me she couldn’t find anything for the ticket 19. I insisted that it must be there, but she shook her head. I heard her talking in Spanish to her colleague. He was looking over at me. Then the woman’s colleague took the ticket off her, turned it upside down and returned it. She said nothing and walked off into the back room returning with my holdall with the no. 61 ticket attached to its handle.

  I took the holdall back to the hotel room. Sitting on the bed, I delved into it and pulled out the manila envelope. First of all I studied the envelope itself, writing down my observations in a small spiral notebook. There was a name and address electronically printed onto a white sticker in the centre of the envelope but no stamp or postmark. Nothing else seemed remarkable about the envelope.

  There were twenty-eight photos in total, on A5 matt paper. Nobody would have taken these negatives to a shop. Either they were developed in a dark room or printed using specialist software.

  It was the photos of the bathroom that I wanted to see again. I laid them out side by side. There was the photo of the broken-in door. There was one with the torn shower curtain covering the base of the bath. There was another one showing the bath without the shower curtain. On that one you could see the swastika scratched into the base of the bath. Why were there swastikas carved in such an out of the way place? I wondered. Surely neo-Nazis would have daubed the entire flat with swastikas. And someone trying to scapegoat the Nazis would have done the same, but this was someone unprepared. Perhaps, Natasha herself trying to leave a message for the police.

  I was getting nowhere so I skipped forward to find the photo of Natasha’s body lying in bed. The face contorted with terror. There was no sign of blood on her body or in any of the photos. I thought again about the horrific flashbacks I’d had outside Hampstead Underground.

  “AmizFire,” I said to myself.

  Diane Thompson’s murder installation had implanted those false memories, giving my paranoia material to substitute the lack of a real memory of the murder. Looking at Natasha’s terrified face again, I decided I’d seen enough for one day and stashed the photos back in the holdall.

  * * *

  This time I left the bag in a locker at Euston station. There were no people to deal with, only coins and keys. As I rode the Central line, I thought about the photos. The swastikas and the greasy handprint on the wall could be all the evidence needed to rule me out of the equation. But without forensics work, I wouldn’t know if the handprint matched the prints on Natasha’s body. Leaving a greasy handprint wasn’t the act of an experienced killer. It suggested a crime of passion or even a drunken crime. But the swastikas in the bathroom had my mind racing.

  I got off the train at Shoreditch High Street and walked the mile or so back to the hotel. Then I picked up my gear and went up to the gym. After a long work out, I went back to my room and collapsed onto the bed.

  * * *

  I awoke bathed in sweat. I checked the time. It was only 12.30 am. I went to the bathroom and washed my face. Drinking a glass of tap water I gazed out the window. Drunks and prostitutes walked the pavements. Traffic raced past, headlights distorted like the eyes of cartoon demons.

  I sat on the bed, reached for my rucksack and pulled out the Evening Standard. On the second page was a picture of Natasha and the photofit. The article was a repeat of the day before with the added news that Natasha’s parents were being flown over from Poland.

  I put the battery in my mobile and turned it on. There was a message sent at 12.15: ‘37 Curtain Rd. ASAP.’

  That was all it said. I didn’t recognise the number, but it had to be Marty using a burner because I hadn’t called anyone else with my new phone. I looked in my A–Z. Curtain Road was walking distance. I got ready. I shoved the Swiss Army knife down my sock but it didn’t feel secure so I zipped it into my jacket pocket with the locker key.

  * * *

  On Curtain Road, I walked past a large graffitied rabbit sprayed onto the side of a metallic lock-up door. It was on its haunches, about to bolt. A red line of energy decorated its black insides. The street was quiet until I heard the lawn-mower buzz of a scooter coming from behind me. It drew level with me and slowed down. When I looked over at it, it sped away into the distance. Its handlebars were decorated with a tree of Mod mirrors. The driver wore a green coat with an RAF target on the back and a vintage white peaked helmet.

  I reached number 37. It was a kebab house. No-one was there so I waited around outside. After five minutes I decided to go in and order something. The man behind the counter waved me through to a back room. I walked down a corridor until I came to a badly scuffed yellow door. I wondered if I’d received the text by mistake and behind the door a group of cocaine dealers, armed to the teeth, were waiting to make a connection. It was deathly quiet. I turned the handle and pushed.

  I stood in a state of shock.

  “Can I get you anything?” said a Lebanese waiter wearing a white shirt and dicky bow, with black trousers, white socks and trainers.

  “Get me a beer and a whisky chaser.”

  I was in a large hall full of pine breakfast tables where rockers in leather jackets were rolling joints, students played drinking games, beer heads ate falafels with hot sauce and waiters hurried from table to table delivering goods and taking money.

  Centre stage stood a man with an acoustic guitar and an exaggerated quiff. He was singing Elvis songs to cheers from the crowd. A small contingent of dancers twisted and jived in the few square yards between the tables. I sat down, lit a cigarette and looked around for Marty.

  By the time I’d downed the second beer, there was still no sign of Marty. And I found myself sinking into the music:

  We’re caught in a trap

  I can’t walk out

  Because I love you too much baby

  Why can’t you see

  What you’re doing to me

  When you don’t believe a word I say?

  So, if an old friend I know

  Stops by to say hello

  Would I still see suspicion in your eyes?

  Lighting another cigarette, I began to think it through, discounting paranoia and false memory and looking for the most probable explanation. Marty could have been lying low because of something unrelated to my situation: a business deal, a stomach bug. Now, knowing nothing about my troubles, he wanted to meet up. But wait a minute, how did he even know this was my number? I hadn’t done anything but call his phone with my pay-as-you-go. I left no messages and sent no texts.

  Don’t you know I’m caught in a trap

  I can’t walk out

  Because I love you too much baby

  Just then, the yellow door swung open again, and three students walked into the room. One of them was wearing a gorilla mask. Another was carrying a large camera. What was this? Halloween? I didn’t like it. I pulled my hat down lower on my head and turned to face the couple that were sitting at the other end of my table. I glanced back and saw the masked man aping around, provoking hysterics from the crowd as his friend took photos. Finally he sat down with his back to me, hoisted his mask up onto his head so he could drink. I couldn’t see his face.

  After another twenty minutes, I decided to check out the ape man’s face. I drank up and walked over to their table. Standing behin
d him, I tapped him on the shoulder. But before turning around, he pulled down his mask. Then he stood in front of me, beat his chest and started to dance. He took me by the hands and tried to waltz with me but I shook him away.

  “Take off your mask,” I shouted.

  “If you take off yours,” he replied, as if alluding to some profound truth.

  Just a student, I concluded. And made to leave as the singer was finishing Blue Suede Shoes.

  “Ou-Where are you go-ing?” the singer asked, mock-offended, in a heavy French accent.

  “Home. Got work tomorrow.”

  “Sit down, I play you a song. C’mon! De night is just star-ting,” he implored.

  “Listen to French Elvis. Sit down,” came a shout from a table of students.

  “Screw work,” shouted someone else.

  “Drink, drink, drink,” a chorus began.

  I shook my head and turned to see the gorilla mask looking at me across a crowd of dancers, waving me over. But I’d had enough. I hurried out of the kebab house to boos and jeers.

  Out on the street a tall athletic-looking man, also wearing a blue beanie hat, asked me for a light. I shrugged and told him I didn’t smoke. He punched me in the stomach and forced my arm behind my back, pushing me into an alleyway. I was gasping for air, trying to free myself from the man’s grip, when out of the darkness came his accomplice who began searching me. The first man pushed my arm further up my back, so I stopped struggling worried he’d break my arm. The second man felt my knife as he patted my side. He had started unzipping my pocket when I saw out of the corner of my eye the gorilla mask walking towards us.

  “You’d better fuck right off now,” said the guy holding my arm, in an accent I was beginning to recognise as Polish. His accomplice pulled a knife and held it to my throat. The cold blade against my throat made me gulp repeatedly. The word Zabeej came back to me from that night on Old Street. I tried to say it, but could make no sound. I was muted by fear. The man in the gorilla mask didn’t speak, but folded his arms as if he was prepared to wait it out. I waited, too, immobilised by the blade. My senses were heightened. My primitive brain had taken over and I was hit by the putrid smell of the back-alley bins, the tobacco on beanie-hat’s breath, the beery sweat of the gorilla and my own smell of fear. I heard the grit move under beanie-hat’s trainers as he began to press the blade harder to my throat. Just then a siren howled as a police car pulled up at the end of the alley. In the melee that followed beanie-hat’s accomplice kneed me in the balls and left me in a heap on the ground. A male officer got out of the car and ran off in pursuit. Then a female officer got out of the car and asked me if I was okay. I managed to sit up and nod, reeling momentarily from the sharp, incapacitating pain.

  When the pain began to dull a little I answered the officer, “A little shaken, but they didn’t get anything.”

  I had to tread carefully here. Even if they didn’t recognise me, police could be tricky customers, always trying to trip people up. As I got my breath back, I heard the scooter pass by the top of the alleyway. The gorilla man was nowhere to be seen.

  “Are you sure you’re okay?” said the officer, taking out her radio and asking her colleague for his location.

  I could hear the crackle of police radio coming towards us from the darkness. The male officer walked back and stood next to us out of breath. He shook his head at his colleague. Then he studied me carefully. Finally he asked if I’d got a good look at them.

  “I saw nothing. It was a blur.”

  “Well, nothing we can do then. Can we give you a lift anywhere?”

  I thought about the muggers waiting round the corner. But getting into the police car would give them a good chance to see my face. Chances are they had CCTV hooked up in the back. Still it was best not to act like a fugitive, I reminded myself, thinking of my Hampstead Underground mistake.

  “Anywhere on Whitechapel would be great,” I said.

  “No problem. Hop in,” said the officer, so I got into the back seat. The car started and we drove away up the street.

  “I think I recognise you from somewhere,” said the male officer.

  “Everyone says that.”

  “No, I mean it. I know you from somewhere.”

  My mind went blank. Saying as little as possible would be best. Less to incriminate myself with. Although, police knew that liars tend to either talk too much or say too little.

  “I think he’s in shock,” said the WPC.

  “Really I’m okay.” I tried to look sheepish, holding my hand over the plaster as if through nerves.

  “There’s no shame in it,” she said, passing me a card. “Here’s a number. Call if you need to talk to someone.”

  When we got to Whitechapel, the police officer parked the car and turned round in his seat. He looked puzzled, as if he was still trying to place me. I thanked them both and got out. They turned the car around and pulled up in front of me. The male officer lent out of the window and said: “I think I know where I know you from. Do you ever get in the King’s Head in Clerkenwell? It’s my brother-in-law’s pub.”

  Maybe it was a line he was throwing me. See if I would bite. Was there even a King’s Head in Clerkenwell?

  “Not as far as I can remember,” I answered.

  He seemed satisfied with that and with a quick “Mind how you go” they drove off. When I saw the police car had turned a corner, I sprinted back towards the hotel. I crept past the night clerk who was asleep with his head resting on a book and took the lift up to my room.

  ‘I turned up. Where were you?’ I texted to whoever it was who had texted me the address.

  Later, I dreamt of the scooter coming towards me across the salt lakes of Utah. A mirage getting closer and closer, the noise growing louder until it finally reached me, but I couldn’t see anything, only hear the noise of the engine, rasping in a cloud of light and dust. I woke up thrashing around. It was only five o’clock.

  Chapter Seven

  My father was a Norwegian sailor, but sometimes I remembered him as Finnish or Danish. Anyway, nationality aside, he went missing at sea when I was only four years old. That day, we’d gone down to Craster to wave him off. My mother always stressed that it had been sunny, not a cloud in the sky. No way of knowing that a storm was brewing.

  “Do you remember?” she would say. “We walked down that street where all the buildings were painted white. There was that rank smell of dead fish and washed up seaweed cooking in the sun.”

  “Yes, I remember,” I’d say, imagining the smell of dead fish and seaweed. Her best stories were always full of detail.

  Still a young couple, they’d watched on from a bench, kissing and cuddling as I drew with a stick in the sand of the small harbour beach. It was the last time we were together as a family. My mother said she should have guessed something bad was going to happen, because when she stood up, she’d seen that I’d drawn a boat in the sand. And above the boat, I’d drawn a long wavy line, which she said represented the sea.

  I had nightmares about that line.

  I woke up from that nightmare and entered another one, which came back to me piece by piece as my brain slowly rebooted. It was eight o’clock on a bright spring morning. As I lay there, I tried to separate the certainties from what might be merely paranoia. Someone out there had delivered photos of Natasha Rok’s body to my flat on Monday morning. The police had issued a photofit of the murderer that closely resembled me. That made sense because I was seen with Natasha Rok on Thursday night. Last night, someone with a number I didn’t recognise sent a message to my new mobile to meet them at a speakeasy at the back of a kebab shop. Unless, someone had got hold of Marty’s phone and found my new number, it was Marty using a burner.

  Presuming Marty had sent the message. Why would he be so cryptic? Was he involved with the Natasha Rok murder or was he involved in troubles of his own? Maybe the attack in the Old Street pub wasn’t as random as I’d supposed. And say Marty had turned up at the speakeasy but
someone had followed him, maybe he decided it wasn’t safe to talk to me. But who was following him? Were the muggers following Marty? After all, there was one thing that linked Natasha Rok, the speakeasy muggers and the Old Street attack and that was the heavily accented English. That in itself wasn’t unusual in London, but the fact that they all sounded Polish was significant.

  Was Marty mixed up with a Polish gang? Or was it Natasha that was important to the gang? A relative? Were they trying to find out who killed Natasha and avenge her death before the police could make an arrest? If that was the case, I was in terrible danger and it might be safer to turn myself in to the police. The photos of swastikas came back to mind. Presuming it was Natasha who had scratched and painted those signs, what was she trying to tell us? Were neo-Nazis involved in her death?

  After another ten minutes of mulling over unanswerable questions, I decided to proceed with the assumption that a Polish gang was on my trail and it was probably only a matter of time before the police named me and the manhunt got serious. As far as I could see, I was caught between the law and the lawless. I didn’t know who my friends were and if they could be trusted. It wasn’t looking good.

  I got up and took a long hot shower. Then I got ready and packed all my things into my rucksack. I turned on my mobile to see if there was a message. Nothing. I turned it off again and set up my Walkman, pressed play, and left the room for the last time.

  * * *

  As I was leaving through the lobby, I put my key on the desk. Seconds later I felt the reception clerk tap me on the shoulder. He asked me something. I signalled for him to wait and pulled the wires out of my ears and clicked stop on the Walkman.

  “What room were you in, sir?” he said.