The Tale of the Wolf (The Kenino Wolf Series)

by Cyrus Chainey

  I dashed into the street.

  ‘Taxi!’ I wailed as one went hurtling past me; it was empty as well, the bastard. I was panicking. I couldn’t wait for another free one so I dashed into the oncoming path of an approaching one. The driver was swearing like a fish wife as he screeched to a halt a foot and a half away from me.

  I didn’t take any notice and just told him that there was a pregnant woman who needed getting to the hospital and he was taking her. I pulled open the back door and jumped in. Two Japanese tourists were sitting in the back.

  ‘Over there!’ I shouted pointing to Leon and Kelly who were now outside the club with Boom-Boom and Muzzi. The taxi driver screeched to a halt next to them.

  Kelly climbed into the back next to the tourists.

  ‘Not in the back.’ I yelled at Leon as he tried to climb in with her.

  ‘What?’

  ‘You’ve got six feet of fucking hair. You and it can’t both fit in.’

  ‘But I can’t take it off. It’s pinned.’

  ‘Sit in the front and stick your head out the window.’

  Leon jumped in the front and I jumped into the back and we sped off down the road. To say this was an odd looking taxi was quite possibly an understatement.

  We had ‘Superfly’, a pregnant woman, two Japanese tourists, snapping incessantly with their cameras — they had no idea what was going on but thought the whole lot worth recording for posterity — a drag queen with a three-foot blonde wig shoved out a window, and a taxi driver who must have thought he’d entered the Twilight Zone.

  ‘Hold on, I know a short cut.’ The taxi driver shouted, cutting through a back alley and jumping a set of lights. We raced through Soho.

  ‘We’ll be there in a bit. Hold on.’ The taxi driver was fretting.

  ‘Don’t worry! My baby is not being born in a cab,’ Kelly replied through gritted teeth.

  ‘We’re almost there.’ He returned.

  We took a hard left on to Westminster Bridge. The taxi’s tyres squealed as we took the bend at full blast and swung into the hospital with more screeching of tyres.

  The taxi skidded to a stop and Leon and I jumped out. Leon screamed in pain; his hair had caught in the door and he almost scalped himself trying to dash away. Freeing himself, the pair of us burst in.

  ‘She’s having a baby,’ we wailed simultaneously. Two orderlies came running up to Leon looking utterly bewildered.

  ‘Not him! She’s outside!’ Looking relieved, they grabbed a trolley and we all rushed back out. The tourists had got out of the taxi along with Kelly. They were still taking pictures, which, in fairness, wouldn’t you? Kelly got on to the gurney and we all sped back in.

  The doctors and the nurses took over from then on, only pausing briefly to find out who was the father. Leon wanted to go into the delivery room, to be there at the birth, but the doctor said his hair was unhygienic and they didn’t have a cap big enough to fit it.

  Kelly was in labour for three hours, during which time I paid the taxi driver, whose name was Nathan. He was a bit of an old softy, and stayed the entire time, as did the tourists, Senji and Keizo. They were an extremely nice couple who spoke excellent English and pledged to make lots of copies of the photos for Kelly and Leon.

  Over the course of the labour, the wounded and the curious from the club turned up in abundance; some under their own steam, others in ambulances. All those that had been injured survived, including Colin, who had a graze to his shoulder; a flesh wound really, barely a scratch.

  Kelly was wheeled out into the waiting room her little boy clasped tenderly in her arms. She and Leon glowed with joy.

  It was a joyous moment for all of us; we’d almost lost our lives and seen a new one born. Although I don’t think the other patients were too happy. One person who’d been under sedation, screamed wildly about being dead when she saw Elvis; it was only Colin but the woman was blasted and didn’t know any better.

  The drag queens broke into a rendition of ‘Baby Love’, which actually sounded quite good for a change. I was going to stay and enjoy the happiness, but the police had turned up. Gunshot wounds tend to bring them out of hiding, so I thought it best to beat a hasty retreat, although not before telling Leon I’d sort out the stock that was damaged. While Muzzi, pledged to fix up the bar.

  Leaving Muzzi and Boom-Boom to explain what had happened to the police — which probably didn’t take that long as none of us had any idea — I trundled off into the night. If Bosley wanted me, he’d have to come and get me. There was no way I was going to be found at the scene of another situation.

  It was only when I reached home that I realised the Russians were looking for Longy. I can be a bit slow sometimes and it had taken me a while to remember that his real name was Nikos. I now had more questions than answers. What did the Russians want with Longy? And what was that Tom Jones action figure about? I only hoped Patrice Laussant would be able to shed some light on it all.

  Saturday 3:00 p.m.

  Patrice Laussant had a small antiques shop in Dawes Road near Fulham. The outside was weather beaten and the windows were dirty. I turned up there later than I intended. I’d wanted to get there earlier but I’d overslept; after the previous night’s adventures I needed the rest.

  I pushed open the door to the shop. A bell rang as I entered. It was packed to the rafters with mostly furniture. The gear was better than second-hand but not quite antique; High quality bric-a-brac was probably a fair description. A cup of tea was sitting on the counter. It had gone cold. Nobody had responded to my entrance, so I shouted out.

  ‘Hello?’ No response.

  ‘Hello?’ I tried again. I ventured over to the beaded curtain and stuck my head through into an office. A single desk, a chair, filing cabinet and calendar with a circled date; today. Papers were scattered all over the floor and a dead man lay slumped on the desk, together with a tipped-over glass, a bottle of whisky and an empty pill bottle.

  The man was in his mid-forties; white in a scruffy, moth-eaten brown suit. A note rested in his hand. I plucked it from his fingers. It read:

  The world has condemned me to a cruel and heartless life. My business is gone and with it my only hope and desire to continue. I take this route because I see no other way. I see no reason in prolonging my own anguish.

  Goodbye.

  Patrice Laussant

  The penmanship was exquisite; a delicate refined script, not wild like my own. As I was admiring his calligraphy, I noticed his hands, which were perfectly manicured; the nails and cuticles immaculate. His face was similarly well groomed. I could smell his aftershave. He smelled better dead than some people I knew did alive.

  I didn’t feel sad or morose about his death. I’d never known him and now never would. I was slightly annoyed though. I still had no idea what the Tom Jones madness was about.

  Finding dead bodies was starting to become a habit … a habit I needed to break.

  I pulled out the phone and called the police, preparing myself for another encounter with Bosley

  I looked at Patrice Laussant. He’d been the second person I’d gone to see who’d ended up dead. But just as Longy had been inappropriately dressed, so was this guy.

  I couldn’t understand how a man who so obviously took such good care of himself could dress in such shabby clothes. His hair had been recently cut and his nails looked recently done too. He had a fancy looking ring on each finger bar the thumb, and was shaved and balmed.

  I took a quick look round his office, through his filing cabinet and the papers on the floor. They were mostly invoices and business-related work. He had a note pad on his desk, the kind with the rings running across the top. Some pages had been torn away; the remnants still hanging from them. I took a pen from my pocket and ran it lightly across the paper. I’d seen it in a movie; rubbing a pen across to reveal the indentation of previously written notes.

  I watched as the letters appeared, first a ‘k’ then an ‘e’, then an ‘n’, then ‘ino’.
I kept rubbing till my name was fully revealed. I ripped out several pages and a few extra as well. If I could reveal the indent so could the police. Where the original had gone I had no idea. It was just one of the many mysteries hanging around the death of Patrice Laussant.

  There was a big curtain hanging on the back wall of his office. I moved the curtain to reveal a door. It was unlocked. Someone had already broken it open. I stepped in and turned on the light. It was a small cubby hole, a workshop really. Shelves lined every wall and in the centre was a workbench with tools.

  I understood instantly why Tommy had sent me. The majority of the shelves were filled with numerous bits of celebrity memorabilia, from all sorts of eras and genres. Patrice Laussant was a counterfeiter. The antique stuff in the front of his shop was just a smokescreen. His main business was done in his little workshop, faking celebrity knick-knacks. The Tom Jones figure Longy had left was obviously one of his creations. Who for? And why? They were two questions he wasn’t going to be much help answering.

  As I pondered these questions, Bosley walked in. I heard the bell go. When I’d called the police I’d told them to tell Bosley that Kenino Wolf had found a dead body and that he’d better get round here. I wanted to get the statement business out of the way quickly. I had no desire to spend any more time with Bosley than necessary.

  His eyes shimmered with pleasure, a smile plastered across his face, and he had a joyful gait that I'd never seen before.

  ‘Mr Wolf,’ he said as three uniformed officers and a moronic looking detective walked in with him. ‘I think somebody up there really likes me.’

  ‘They obviously haven’t met you.’

  ‘Very amusing.’ Bosley wasn’t going to let anything I said faze him, he was revelling in his moment.

  ‘So where’s the deceased?’ he asked, although it sounded more like ‘Who did you kill this time?’

  ‘In there,’ I replied trying to behave innocent and upstanding, but failing on both counts.

  ‘Looks like suicide,’ said the moron after seeing the note.

  ‘Or someone trying to make it look like suicide,’ Bosley looked straight at me. He must’ve thought it was Christmas. He’d found two dead bodies and I was at the scene of both. The look in his eyes revealed that he thought his deepest desire was coming to fruition.

  I suppose some would ask why I didn’t just scarper when I found Laussant, but that would’ve been very stupid. I'd touched too many things already, so my fingerprints were everywhere. I’d have been in a right pile of it, if Bosley, however many days or weeks later, had turned up to question me about it. I couldn’t claim fright because I’d stayed at Longy’s and that had been a lot more horrific than this. So I’d just had to stay and hope for the best. My only saving grace was that I actually was innocent.

  ‘So what happened?’ Bosley asked, implying that everything I said would be disbelieved and used to prove that I was guilty.

  ‘I was in the area and I just popped into have a look at some chairs. I’m thinking about decorating.’

  ‘Really? And you just happened to pop into the only shop in London with a dead body in it?’ You could cut the scepticism with a chainsaw.

  ‘I’m sure it’s not the only shop.’

  ‘It’s the only shop you’re in.’

  ‘It’s still early. I haven’t reached Hammersmith yet.’

  ‘I doubt you’re going to,’ he sneered.

  ‘Why would that be then?’

  ‘I think you’re going to be busy today.’

  ‘I’m busy everyday.’

  ‘Yes and we both know doing what.’

  ‘Being honest and upstanding.’

  ‘Not exactly how I’d describe it.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘No.’ Bosley stepped up closer to me, putting his face inches from mine.

  He smiled viciously, then rasped, ‘I’m going to get you. Do you understand me, you smarmy little shit? I’m going to get you, and I’m going to enjoy doing it.’

  ‘Well, that’s lovely. Do you intend to breathe on me all day or can I go?’

  ‘You can go with Detective Morrow and give your statement at the station.’ The gormless one awoke from his daydream and turned to face me.

  ‘Lovely. Just what I wanted … an afternoon with the crayons.’

  ‘Goodbye, Mr Wolf.’ With that Detective Morrow escorted me to the station, in his car, a lovely Astra with ‘Police’ written all over the side.

  Once more, I spent more hours than I wanted in the company of Bosley’s colleagues. I got the solicitor in this time though. Bosley was playing games, so a little defence was in order. It still took an age, but then that’s what happens when you play games. I gave my statement, which consisted of ‘I went in a shop and found a body’ … which was the truth. Or as near to the truth as they were getting, and as that was all they could prove, the truth it was.

  I left after seven and jumped on the bus. Betsy was still in Dawes Road and I wasn’t going home without her. The police had put that nice plastic tape across the front of Laussant’s shop. My one lead was dead and I was back to square one.

  I gave Tommy a call and told him about Laussant’s demise. He was shocked, but he confirmed my suspicions. The clothes were definitely wrong. Laussant was a Flash Harry; glamour and girls.

  I’d half suspected he was a less than reputable character before I’d even seen him. The fact that he knew Tommy meant there was a good chance he wasn’t exactly saintly. Add to that, the fact that I hadn’t been able to see him straightaway meant the shop clearly wasn’t his main source of income. Include the designer haircut, manicure and fingers full of rings and it was obvious Laussant had something on the side.

  That was why Bosley was so excited. He knew it too; probably had a big old file full of Laussant’s misdemeanours. I was tempted to ask Tommy for another lead but as everybody I visited ended up dead, I thought I’d go see Colin, the whiny butler, instead.

  Sunday 12:00 p.m.

  Colin was still in Guys. I didn’t trust him and I certainly didn’t like him, but he had a business proposition that he’d linked Tabatha to, and I was anxious to find out the details, see if his scheme was real. I’m not going to lie and pretend that I didn’t want it to be real. A million quid was a million quid, but I didn’t want to get my hopes up.

  Which is why I was seeing him alone; Tabatha would’ve been a distraction. She was doing it no matter what. All I wanted to know was what it was exactly, and whether Tabatha’s ravenous money hunger was clouding her judgement.

  Colin was sitting up in bed reading The Telegraph when I walked on to the ward. A sling hung across his left arm and he was in a standard NHS blue smock. He saw me approaching and lowered his paper.

  ‘How you doing? How’s the arm?’ I said with as much sincerity as I could muster.

  ‘Stings a bit, but the doctor said I’ll make a full recovery. Just a flesh wound really, nothing too serious.’ He was taking being shot rather well; far better than I would've expected. His voice grated more than it had the night before, probably because I was sober.

  ‘Good to hear,’ I lied. ‘So how long you stuck here?’

  ‘Three days. Lucky I’m on holiday from work. This might have complicated matters,’ he said pointing at his sling. He must have been reading my mind.

  ‘Very lucky. That wound could have scuppered everything… So you’re not expected back?’ I continued.

  ‘Not till next week.’ He smiled. I couldn’t get a proper handle on him. He’d set my hackles off from the beginning and it felt like he was playing with me. Did he know I didn’t want to do it, or did he just think I was distrustful? Either way he wasn’t going to give me an easy exit.

  ‘Bit of a bummer that you’re in here for your holiday.’

  ‘It’s worth it if it all goes to plan.’

  We were skating around each other. We were still on the ward; too many ears. The nurses and orderlies were floating about all over the place.

&nb
sp; ‘Fancy a ciggie?’ I said. It was time to get to the nitty gritty. Playtime was over.

  ‘Would love one.’ It was the first genuine statement I’d felt he’d made.

  ‘You need a chair or can you walk?’ I said signalling a wheelchair.

  ‘I can walk just fine. It’s only my arm.’

  ‘Good ’cos I didn’t want to push ya.’ We were never going to be friends, but that didn’t mean we couldn’t make money together though. Some of my best clients were people I disliked. Kept it simple, kept it business.

  We said nothing to each other till we were outside well out of earshot.

  ‘So let’s hear it.’ I said handing him a Benson.

  ‘Didn’t Miss Lane tell you?’ Even the formal version of her name sounded wrong as he uttered it. I didn’t like him, didn’t trust him. He knew it, just as I knew the feeling was mutual.

  ‘She told me her story. I’d rather hear yours.’

  ‘As you wish.’

  He repeated what Tabatha had told me. He was the butler for some rich tycoon who lived out in the country in some stately home. This tycoon kept £4 million in uncut diamonds in a safe in his house. He told me he was sick of the drudgery and abuse, tired of the slavery and lack of respect he received for his efforts, and wanted to punish his boss for the mistreatment he’d suffered in over ten years of faithful service.

  I listened in silence as he spoke, watched every word he uttered, scanning him for even a flicker of a lie. He was doing well; extremely convincing. Hate’s a hard emotion to fake and he had it in spades. I still wasn’t sure, still didn’t trust him, but some bits he had me believing. He was definitely an underling. He definitely hated his boss. Every statement concerning his employer was tinged with bile, laced with grievance. Hatred and wrath bubbled behind his piercing blue eyes.

  ‘You understand it has to be cut four ways?’ I said, cutting him off in another boss rant.

  ‘I understand. I want revenge. I want her to be punished.’ Venom spewed from his every utterance.