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

by JOHN YORVIK

  “244.”

  “Thought so. This came for you. But there’s no name on it just a room number.” He handed me a brown padded envelope.

  “There must be some mistake. No-one knows I’m here.”

  “Okay, sir.” And he tried to take it back from me.

  “Ah, I know what it’ll be,” I said, holding on to it. “When did it arrive?” I continued, forcing a smile.

  “The night clerk received it. Someone left it on the desk during the night.”

  “Really? That was fast. Thank you,” I said.

  “You’re welcome, sir,” he replied, looking unconvinced at my sudden change of heart.

  A hundred yards along the road, I walked into a phone box and pretended to make a call. I ripped open the envelope and looked inside. I turned the envelope upside down so that its contents would fall out onto my open palm. It was a locker key. I reached into my pocket and pulled out the locker key from Euston station. It bore the number 777. The identical one I’d found in the envelope read 778. Someone was following me. But were they setting a trap or offering me an escape route?

  * * *

  As I walked to Euston, I took the number discs off both keys and threw them into the boating lake in Regent’s Park, hiding the keys themselves in my shoe.

  When I got to the station, I found a cafe which was virtually opposite the wall of stainless steel lockers where I’d left the photos. I ordered an Americano and sat down at one of the uneven plastic tables on the makeshift terrace. I got a Metro newspaper and pretended to browse through it, but really I was watching. Watching to see if anyone was watching the lockers or watching me.

  An hour later one guy had caught my eye. He was dressed in a vintage German Army jacket, and kept asking tourists for change as they locked up their luggage for the day. He looked too shifty with his quick movements and tight-faced expressions to be really down and out. Occasionally, he would talk to another guy who passed by every twenty minutes or so. They would greet each other like long-lost friends. I had them down as petty criminals.

  I ordered another Americano and this time loaded it with sugar. It was my third coffee and I was speeding a little. As always with stimulants, I had the impression I could see everything and compute scenarios at lightning speed. That was no doubt a delusion, but watching the two thieves shake hands for the fifth time, I had an idea.

  I walked over to locker 777, slipped off my shoe and took out the two keys. I opened 777 on the second attempt and pulled out the holdall. Then, working inside the locker, I transferred the photos and the rest of the things into my backpack and then put clothing in the holdall so it looked full. Finally, I opened locker 778 and found another padded envelope. I quickly slipped that into the backpack and fastened it firmly onto my back. I then placed the holdall by my feet and fiddled with my mobile phone. As I did so, I felt a tap on my leg. I looked down to see the guy in the vintage jacket squatting on the ground holding a ten-pound note.

  “You dropped this,” he said.

  I knew what was coming next. I leaned over and tried to pick up the tenner, but as I did he grabbed hold of my arm and held me down. At that moment, the other guy ran past and swiped the holdall. Then Vintagejacket pulled me to the ground and fled in the opposite direction to his accomplice. This all happened in the space of a few seconds. Now, I calculated, if anybody was following me, they would have to chase after the guy with my holdall thinking he might have the photos. To carry it off, I would have to pretend he had the photos, too. This was a risky strategy for a wanted man, but I had only seconds to decide.

  “Stop thief!” I yelled.

  I ran after the bag thief waving and shouting. No-one did anything to stop him, but instead got out of his way to let him escape unhindered. I followed him over the barriers and down into the Underground tunnel. That’s when I became aware that I was not alone in the chase. I’d managed to draw out my enemies into the open. Two men wearing suits and ties were on my tail, both similar in size and shape to the ones that had mugged me the night before. What’s more, their suits made it look as though they were model citizens, have-a-go heroes, chasing two criminals, me and the bag thief.

  As I got closer to the bag thief, the men got closer to me. But the last thing I wanted was to catch the thief, so I had to think of a diversion and escape. We reached a T-junction just as a crowd of people fresh off the Northern line flooded the tunnel. The bag thief plunged directly into the middle of the oncoming crowd. I followed after him to angry protests and shoves from commuters. Ignoring the bag thief I fought my way to the wall of the tunnel and then dropped to my hands and knees and doubled back on myself. As I did, I was kneed and kicked and screamed at until I came to a clearing in the forest of legs. Then I got to my feet and ran as if my life depended on it. Forty yards down the tunnel I checked back and saw that I’d managed to lose one of the men in suits, but the tall one was still right behind me.

  At this speed everything, everyone, was a blur. It was like being in a car with no brakes with only seconds to make decisions that would have huge implications on my future. Before I knew what was happening we were on a platform. I was racing along between the people and the edge. I smelt fast-food and coffee and the molten burning of the rails. The fast approaching end of the platform had no adjoining tunnel. I looked back and saw the tall suited man hot on my heels. I stopped and turned to face him. The man in the suit stopped ten yards away from me and smiled. People gathered behind him. The man in the suit shouted:

  “It’s him! The Pentonville Strangler!”

  Others began to crowd round him, looking at me.

  “It is him,” said one.

  “It’s the murderer,” said another.

  “Better come quietly. There’s nowhere to run to,” said the man in the suit.

  I didn’t find any words. I looked around for another option.

  “There’s only one way out of this,” said the man in the suit in an Eastern European accent. “C’mon, I protect you. First, throw me the bag,” and he beckoned with his right hand.

  Then someone else screamed “He’s jumped!”

  Unaccountably, I’d jumped. Staying to the right of the rails, I ran a sprint into the darkness, hoping to reach the next station before the train did. Soon after I heard another theatrical scream and sure enough the man in the suit had jumped too, the sound of his staccato footsteps rebounded off the walls, as he got closer.

  My lungs felt raw. I couldn’t keep up the pace for much longer. I would have to jump him in the dark and bash his brains out on the rails. ‘Go primitive’ as Marty had said before the fight in Old Street. But even if I got the better of him, how would I escape the crowd on the platform who were already crying murderer?

  I jumped up onto the thin ramp that bordered the tunnel and clung to the wall, ready to pounce. But then like a crack of thunder, a train breached the entrance of the tunnel. I edged along the ramp feeling for any kind of recess or hook that would save my life. I heard the man cry out in Polish and jump up onto the ledge beside me as the train got closer. He made a grab for me but I managed to shrink back out of his way. As I edged further along to escape him, my right hand was suddenly left holding onto nothing. The wall had disappeared and the shock and imbalance nearly threw me onto the rails. I righted myself and with all the force one finds when faced with an oncoming train, flung myself into the newly discovered hole just in time to hear the train shoot past me.

  * * *

  Only tall enough and wide enough for one man, a stooping one at that, I scurried along the ancient railwayman tunnels, my way lit intermittently by the low flame of a Zippo lighter. The rest of the time I used an exploratory hand stuck out in front to warn me of sudden deviations in the route.

  Ten minutes into the labyrinth, I stopped to catch my breath. As far as I could tell, the train had taken care of the man in the suit. Now I expected the police to take up the chase. But listening carefully for signs of human activity, I heard nothing, save the distant m
eowing of a cat, which gave me hope of finding a way out.

  I needed to rest so I propped my back up against the wall and sat for a while with my legs forming an archway through which a rat scuttled, squeaking like a child’s doll. I flinched. A cornered rat, that was what I was. Stuck in a tunnel, the police and the Polish waiting at the exits for me to scurry out.

  I imagined being arrested carrying photos of the murder scene. I would have no possible defence but the truth. And the truth in this case was as implausible and hard to prove in court as the wildest of conspiracy theories. I imagined the police van transporting me to the courtroom and wearing a coat over my head as they smuggled me in, the watching crowd baying for blood. A guilty verdict guaranteed. But instead of despair, I began to feel a perverse sense of liberation. All my problems had suddenly been replaced by one big one. And as is the case with the consolidation of minor debts by a dodgy loan company, things hadn’t necessarily got a whole lot better, but they’d certainly got simpler. The passage of another rat, brought my mental meanderings to a halt. Strength was returning to my legs, so I stood up and carried on into the darkness.

  It was about an hour later that I saw the light. A bright shaft crossing my way twenty yards ahead. When I got there, I could see there was a narrow vent at chest height. It was about five-foot long and led to a grate through which the light was shining. It was the entrance to an office of some kind.

  I stripped off my jacket and shoved it in my backpack. I fastened the backpack to my foot, so I could drag it through the hole after me. Then I slid my arms into the vent and used my feet against the tunnel wall to propel me forward. Once inside, I immediately felt my shoulders contorted by the pressure of the bricks, the vent walls scraping against my sides as I tried to manoeuvre.

  When I managed to get hold of the grate with both hands, I gave it a push. Old and rusted, it creaked under the strain but didn’t move. I felt trapped and fought to catch my breath. My feet, still outside the vent, found the tunnel wall again and pushed me towards the grate. But this only served to wedge me further into the grip of the vent. I was in a cold panic so, like a parasite trying to fight its way out of a stone dead host, I pushed and thrashed and wrenched until the old grate couldn’t contain me any longer and fell to the ground with a loud clank.

  I waited for a minute until the aftershock of the noise had died down and then poked my head out. It was some kind of public washroom with strip-lights and white enamel sinks. I looked down and saw that I was directly above a toilet cubicle.

  I wriggled and pushed and did everything I could to get out of that vent. But as I slid out, the bag attached to my foot somehow wedged in the hole and I was stuck half hanging out and upside down. I caught hold of the toilet fitting and pulled and yanked at my foot until the bag was freed and I promptly dropped three feet to the ground, landing on my head. After letting out a string of curses. I picked myself up, sat on the toilet seat and closed the door.

  I unfastened the backpack from my right foot and opened it up. I pulled out the padded envelope that had been in locker 778 and ripped it open. I delved into it and pulled out a gorilla mask. I put my hand back into the envelope hoping to find a letter of explanation but instead felt something cold and metallic. I took it between my fingers and pulled it out. It was another key. What was it with all the keys? Why not just tell me what’s going on?

  The door to the washrooms opened and I heard two female voices deep in conversation. They occupied the two cubicles next to mine:

  “He’s still on the loose.”

  “He killed that Polish girl. Murdered her in her own bed.”

  “That’s two people he’s killed. Do you think he’s the Pentonville Strangler?”

  “PC Sanderson says they don’t know who he is. Just what he looks like. Some kids saw him. He said not to approach him.”

  “They say he disappeared into thin air.”

  “I reckon they’ll find his body mixed in with the other guy when they clean the tracks.”

  “Oh don’t, Jules.”

  I had to get out of there before they finished and noticed the occupied cubicle with men’s shoes in it. I pulled the gorilla mask on over my head. Then I flushed the toilet and left the cubicle. On the sink, next to a handbag, there was a luminous vest belonging to one of the women. I put it on.

  I looked in the mirror and saw a railwayman with a gorilla’s head. I pulled off the mask and smoothed down my hair. The toilet flushed and a hand slid the bolt. I ran out of the washrooms and found myself in a nondescript carpeted corridor. I followed the exit signs which led me through a string of deserted offices to an entrance hall where people in hi-viz tabards were queuing to get through the turnstile. I smiled as I walked past the security guard. He wished me a good evening as I left the building, but I didn’t reply. I was out in the open, safe in the knowledge that the police didn’t know who I was. And if the Polish didn’t know where I lived, maybe it was safe to go home.

  * * *

  When I got back to my building, I knocked on Kate’s door and she told me that she’d given the key to my Welsh friend a few days earlier. I knocked on the door of my own flat. Dani answered with a smile and gave me a long, warm Dani hug.

  “I came on the off-chance,” she said, breaking off and allowing me to walk in.

  “Dani, I was only trying to protect you, given your...”

  “No need to explain. But you must understand, I only wanted to help you. I know the risks and I’m still here for you, Lishman.”

  “Dani, I...”

  Suddenly the day’s events caught up with me and I felt myself spinning. Dani ran over to catch me before I fell and helped me to the sofa. It was like that footage of 1920s marathon runners who would almost collapse in sight of the finishing line and be helped on by the crowd the thirty yards or so they were short.

  Dani rushed to the kitchen and came back and handed me a glass of water. I drank half and then emptied the rest over the back of my neck. That worked. I felt myself return to the land of the living.

  “What happened?” exclaimed Dani. “Why are you in such a state? You really need to let me help you.”

  I lit a cigarette and thought about it. That day I had arguably just added a Polish man to my death count. I’d also taken part in a manhunt. And not in a good way. And even though the police had no leads, there was a chance they had video surveillance footage of me at Euston station, which they could broadcast nationwide. I had no alibi. The police hadn’t disclosed the time of death so getting an alibi was impossible. I had no evidence that would clear my name in my pockets. No matchbook with the name of a hotel on it.

  I was about to start explaining my story to Dani when I noticed something awry.

  “Dani, what have you done to the place?”

  The floor was several inches high in papers, ripped up books, torn upholstery and broken glass.

  “They, whoever they are, have been here looking for it, whatever it is. The thing you’ve been hiding from them I suppose.”

  I motioned towards my bag. She passed it over. I rifled inside and pulled out the envelope containing the photos and handed them to her.

  “I don’t suppose they left some brandy,” I said, getting up and leaving Dani to discover the corpse photos by herself.

  “I brought you some, and some cigarettes. They’re in a bag in the kitchen. There’s beer in the fridge.”

  “How did you know I would be coming back here,” I said, standing at the door to the living room and feeling another wave of doubt and paranoia subsume me.

  “I’ve been coming here every day since you left. I knew you’d come home eventually.”

  “And when did the break in happen?”

  “It was like this on Wednesday night.”

  “Weren’t you scared to come here after that?”

  “Petrified.”

  “But you came anyway.”

  She nodded. I went into the kitchen to get a beer and left her to look at the photos. The crea
king of the fridge door alerted the cat, which came padding out of its hiding place and rubbed its moustachioed snout against my leg, meowing for food.

  “Oh Jesus,” I heard Dani exclaim from the living room. “It’s her.”

  “Commit those photos to memory, Dani. ‘Cos tomorrow I’m going to post them.”

  “Who to?”

  “To someone who will never ever see them,” I said, taking a deep drag on a cigarette.

  “How did you get hold of these?” said Dani.

  “They were pushed under my door on Bank Holiday Monday and you brought them to me after you came here on Tuesday. Someone, I’m not sure who, also made sure I got this key.” I held up the key so that Dani could see. “And this mask. Still want to help me?”

  She nodded as if she were unable to form words. I went into the kitchen and poured out two brandies. I handed one to Dani and told her to drink up.

  “Here’s what we’ll do...” I said, and explained my plan.

  Chapter Eight

  I stood smoking in the shadows, thinking about that old detective story cliché: the murderer always returns to the scene of the crime. There was no doubt, if I was caught, I’d have Natasha Rok’s murder hung round my neck before you could say Patsy Cline.

  I checked my watch. It was nine pm. If everything was going according to plan, then Dani would be turning up at the tower block armed with her camera and press card. Her job was to distract the street raptors with promise of broadsheet glorification, giving me enough time to enter the tower block unseen.

  At five past nine I set off, there was no-one at the entrance. I could see the pale yellow light shining out from the lobby. I entered the building and walked straight through to the fire stairs. Then I walked up fourteen flights to the top floor. Reaching the top, I felt older than my 30 years – the ravages of fighting, drinking and smoking. My ribs and back ached and I had developed a slight wheeze. There was a sheen of unhealthy sweat on my brow.

  I entered the landing. The first thing I saw was Natasha’s door, covered in crime-scene tape. I took out my Stanley knife and sliced through it. Then I took out the key that was delivered with the gorilla mask and tried it in the lock. It fit perfectly, I turned the key and pushed open the door.