Bad Girl

by Roberta Kray

  As Yvonne unlocked the door and opened it, Helen sped down to the next landing. She leaned over again so she could see the policeman standing there. He was a tall guy in a grey suit, a man with mean eyes and a smug expression on his face.

  ‘Mrs Quinn?’

  ‘That’s me. What do you want?’

  He flashed his badge at her. ‘DI Leach. Your husband’s been arrested, Mrs Quinn.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘For the murder of Joe Quinn.’

  Helen’s eyes widened as she felt the shock run through her bones. Her knees began to shake and the hairs on the back of her neck stood on end. Joe was dead? Murdered? And Tommy… No, it couldn’t be true. It was crazy, ridiculous, wrong.

  Yvonne stumbled back, steadying herself on the table by the door. ‘Joe’s… Joe’s dead? He can’t be. I mean…’ She emitted a short, hysterical laugh. ‘And you’ve arrested Tommy? You must be out of your mind.’

  The copper flapped a piece of paper in her face. ‘We’ve a warrant to search the place.’

  ‘A warrant? What the fuck for? There’s nothing here. You can’t just—’

  But the rest of Yvonne’s objection was lost as the uniformed officers behind the detective rushed into the hallway like an invading army, some dashing into the bar, others swarming up the stairs to take possession of the first floor.

  Helen stood frozen with panic, her hands gripping the banisters. One of the coppers stopped and spoke to her. ‘You okay, love? Maybe you should wait in the living room.’ But she didn’t move. She couldn’t. She was still standing there when Yvonne came upstairs, her face white as a sheet.

  ‘It’s not true,’ Helen said. ‘It can’t be.’

  By now Karen and Debs, woken by the noise, had joined them on the landing. They were probably less shocked by this invasion than Helen was. It wasn’t the first time that their home had been invaded by the law, and they had learned long ago to take it in their stride. But what they hadn’t heard yet was exactly what the coppers were doing here. It was the only occasion when Helen had ever felt sorry for Yvonne. Having to break the news to your kids that their dad had been arrested for the murder of their grandfather was a truly unenviable task.

  ‘What’s going on, Mum?’ Karen asked. ‘Where’s Dad?’

  Yvonne shook her head. ‘Come on, we can’t stay here.’ She marched through to the living room, which was already in a state of disarray. The cushions had been thrown off the sofas, the contents of the dresser strewn across the floor. ‘Look at the state of this bloody place!’

  ‘Mum?’ Karen asked again.

  ‘In a minute,’ Yvonne snapped back. Then she turned, put her arm around her daughter and gave her a hug. ‘Sorry, hun. Just sit down, yeah, and I’ll make us all a hot drink.’

  ‘I’ll do it,’ Helen said. She needed to be doing something, anything, to keep herself occupied. And she didn’t want to be there when Yvonne broke the news to the girls. She couldn’t bear to hear those words again, couldn’t bear to see their faces when they found out what was happening.

  In the kitchen, three young officers were rooting through the kitchen cabinets and searching under the sink. Helen put the kettle on and then went to the fridge and took out a pint of milk. She felt like she was on automatic pilot, her hands working without her brain really thinking about it. Everything had assumed an odd, dream-like quality, and she felt – or at least hoped – that she would suddenly wake up and discover it had all been a nightmare. Tommy arrested for murder. It didn’t make sense. Something must have happened at St George’s Court. A row, a fight that had turned into… but no, it just wasn’t possible to accept. Not Tommy. He’d put up with Joe all these years. Why would he suddenly do such a thing?

  The kettle boiled and she made a pot of tea. All the time she was aware of the presence of the police officers, their fingers delving into every nook and cranny of the kitchen, their eyes constantly flicking towards her, as if her purpose in the kitchen might involve something more sinister than the mere act of making a brew. What were they looking for?

  Helen put the mugs on a tray, along with spoons and a bag of sugar – weren’t you supposed to drink hot, sweet tea for shock? – and took it through to the living room. The cushions had been put back on the sofa, and Yvonne was sitting in the middle with her girls either side.

  ‘There’s been a mistake,’ she was saying while she puffed hard on a cigarette. ‘They’ve fucked up. They’ve got the wrong man. Your dad would never do a thing like that. You see, it’ll all be sorted out by the morning.’

  Karen and Debs were leaning heavily against their mother, looking more like children than teenagers. Their faces were pale and drawn. Helen couldn’t grieve for Joe Quinn – she had always hated him – but she understood how it felt to lose someone you loved. And murder, with its cold brutality, was even harder to deal with.

  As she put the tray down on the coffee table, Helen could hear footsteps overhead and realised with a start that the police were going into every room. A wave of anger and resentment rolled over her. She could imagine them rummaging through the drawers of the dressing table, their gloved hands pushing aside her pants and bras, their fingers quickly discovering the shell-covered box with the precious mementoes inside. Would they open it?

  Of course they would. She hated them for that. It felt like a violation. No one touched that box but her. It was the one thing that she truly owned in a world where everything else seemed on loan.

  DI Leach came to the door of the living room. ‘Mrs Quinn?’

  Yvonne turned to look at him, her eyes full of loathing. ‘What?’

  ‘Do you have the keys for the cellar?’

  ‘No,’ she snapped.

  ‘Are you sure? Only if that’s the case, we’ll have no other choice but to break the door down.’

  Helen watched as Yvonne tried to balance out her reluctance to do anything to help the law against the unnecessary damage they would cause if she didn’t. Eventually, realising that it was pointless to withhold the keys, she jerked a thumb towards the kitchen. ‘In there. There’s a spare set in the cutlery drawer.’

  ‘Ta,’ DI Leach said sarcastically. ‘That’s very helpful of you.’

  Yvonne gave a snort and stubbed out her cigarette with a series of hard jabbing motions. She glared at the man as he went through to the kitchen and retrieved the keys. In return, he made a show of jangling them in his hand as he crossed the living room again.

  ‘Bastard!’ Yvonne hissed as soon as he was out of earshot.

  Helen passed round the mugs of tea and the four of them sat quietly for a while. The girls, she was certain, were still hanging on to the slim threads of hope that their mother had offered: there had been a mistake, the police had got it wrong, Tommy would be coming home in the morning. She noticed Karen’s gaze sliding over and over towards the armchair that Joe had always occupied when he was living here. Well, there was no mistake about Joe Quinn. He was dead and gone and would never be coming back.

  The police had abandoned the first and second floors now and had gathered in the bar. With no sign of the search uncovering anything incriminating, Helen’s hopes were beginning to rise too. But then, just as there appeared to be one tiny light on the horizon, there was a sudden commotion downstairs, a series of shouts, a thump and scuffle of heavy boots against the wooden floor. Yvonne visibly jumped, her head jerking round to stare out at the empty landing.

  Debs clutched hold of her mother’s arm. ‘What is it, Mum? What’s happening?’

  ‘I’m not sure, love.’ Yvonne went to stand up, but then as quickly slumped back down again. There was nothing she could do, and she knew it.

  It was another five minutes before DI Leach appeared at the door. ‘Mrs Quinn? Would you mind coming downstairs with me?’

  Helen saw Yvonne take a deep breath before she slowly rose to her feet. The girls clung on to her arms until she gently shook them free. ‘I won’t be long,’ she said. ‘You stay here, eh? I’ll be right back.
’

  Karen and Debs, obeying their mother’s request, remained on the sofa. But Helen had no intention of staying put. She hurried out on to the landing, waited until Yvonne and the inspector had reached the bottom of the stairs and then followed them down. A cool rush of air greeted her in the hallway. The back door was open and she could see into the car park, where the cops had set up a dazzling set of lights. Men in white overalls were crouched on the ground, carefully examining a stretch of concrete outside the cellar.

  Helen absorbed all this in a matter of seconds before sidling up to the entrance to the bar. She was just in time to see DI Leach lift a large transparent plastic bag and dangle it in front of Yvonne. Helen’s heart missed a beat. Inside the bag was a baseball bat, the wide end clearly bloodied, the handle decorated with red and blue twine.

  ‘Have you seen this bat before, Mrs Quinn?’

  Yvonne stared hard at it before shaking her head. ‘No.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  Yvonne didn’t hesitate this time. ‘Yeah, I’m sure.’

  ‘We’ll be checking it for prints, so if there is anything you’d like to tell us…’

  ‘I’ve said, haven’t I?’ Yvonne folded her arms defensively across her chest. ‘Now can I get back upstairs? I’ve got two frightened kids who’ve just lost their grandad and had their father arrested and their home turned upside down.’

  Two kids, Helen noted, rather than three. Even at this desperate time, she still felt the pain of rejection. It was as if she was invisible. She didn’t matter, didn’t even exist. Her gaze flicked quickly from the bat to the rows of tables littered with glasses and ashtrays and scrunched-up empty crisp packets. She wished now that she had stayed to tidy up. She might have heard something, seen something that would cast a light on the killing of Joe Quinn.

  DI Leach, becoming aware of Helen’s presence, lifted the bag a couple of inches higher and fixed her with his cold copper eyes. ‘You ever seen this before, love?’

  Yvonne looked over her shoulder and threw her a warning glance, but it wasn’t needed. Helen knew enough to keep her mouth shut. She quickly shook her head before retreating and fleeing back upstairs. The image of Connor swinging the bat towards Joe flashed into her mind, and her stomach turned over. She knew with a terrifying certainty that Tommy would not be coming home tomorrow. Perhaps he would never be coming home.

  35

  Tommy sat in the hard plastic chair, leaning forward with his elbows on the table. He’d been interviewed briefly last night before being banged up here at Cowan Road. Had he got any sleep? He didn’t think so. Every time he’d come close to dozing off, that nightmare picture would spring into his head again – his father curled up in the boot of the Jag, his dead glassy eyes gazing blindly up at him. The shock of it remained, as did the lingering taste of vomit in his mouth.

  He picked up the cup of coffee and took a few fast gulps, hoping to raise his caffeine level to the point where his brain might finally kick into gear. His solicitor, David Montgomery, sat beside him, shuffling papers. The news he’d brought, over an hour ago now, wasn’t good. The missing baseball bat had been found hidden in the cellar of the Fox, and Connor’s prints were all over it.

  Tommy still couldn’t quite believe that Joe Quinn was dead. Despite his father’s violent lifestyle, there had always been something invincible about him. He was the type of man who would stay alive just to spite the Devil. But he wasn’t alive. Not any more. He was laid out on a cold slab with his skull caved in.

  DI Leach watched him slyly from across the table. ‘Come on, Tommy. Give it up. We all know that Connor did it. You really want to go down for murder too?’

  Tommy didn’t reply.

  ‘This is how I see it,’ Leach said. ‘Connor has a fight with your old man on the way to the Fox. It gets out of hand. He kills him in the car park, panics, dumps the body in the boot of the Jag and then walks into the pub. When did he tell you, Tommy? When he arrived, or later, when he’d got a few bevvies inside him?’

  ‘No comment,’ said Tommy.

  Leach gave a dry laugh before reaching down to pick up the plastic bag. He dumped it on the table, jabbing an index finger in the direction of the contents. ‘You recognise this bat, Tommy?’

  ‘No comment.’

  ‘Sure you do. Isn’t it the bat you used to keep under the bar?’

  Tommy wondered how the copper had found out about that. Who had he been talking to? Or had Connor told him? No, Connor wouldn’t be saying anything. He’d be keeping shtum, like he always did. Tommy’s gaze settled on the bat, with its dark stain. His dad’s blood. He felt a shifting in his guts.

  ‘And it’s not the first time that your brother’s attacked him, is it? Wasn’t there an incident in the Fox a few months back?’

  ‘No comment.’

  ‘We’ve got witnesses who say Connor threatened your father, that he came into the Fox with this very same bat and… Well, you were there, weren’t you?’

  Tommy gave a shrug. He thought about last night, trying to recreate the moment when Connor had arrived at the pub. Had there been anything different about him? But what the hell did different mean? His brother had never been what you could describe as normal. Still, surely there would have been some telltale sign that he’d just committed murder?

  ‘So, what was the plan?’ Leach continued. ‘To drop Connor off at the flat – he was too pissed to be of any use by closing time – and then drive somewhere quiet to dump the body? Was that the idea?’

  Tommy stared silently back at him. He didn’t know the exact time his father had been killed. The post-mortem was probably being carried out even as they spoke, but it could be hours before he heard the result. He thought about Connor sitting in the corner with Fat Pete, Terry and the rest. He thought about Connor coming to the bar and getting the drinks. Put it on the old man’s tab.

  The other copper, DS Penn, smiled at him from across the table. He was younger than Leach, with a round moon face and overly pink lips. There was something almost childlike about his features. ‘It’s okay, Tommy,’ he said gently. ‘We get it. Connor’s your brother. He put you in a difficult position, an impossible position. You didn’t know what to do, yeah? We understand that.’

  Tommy gave him a thin smile back. The whole good cop/bad cop routine didn’t wash with him. He’d heard it all before.

  ‘You must have been in shock,’ Penn continued in his soft, wheedling voice. ‘Who wouldn’t be? Something like that – well, it’s hard to take in. And if Connor didn’t mean to kill him… Maybe it was an accident, huh? He just meant to threaten him with the bat, but he lost control, hid the body and then came running to you for help.’

  Tommy figured that Penn didn’t know much about his brother if he thought he’d go running to anyone. But then the cop was just fishing, trying to get him to take the bait. Once he admitted that he knew about the killing, they’d have all the evidence they needed to charge both him and Connor.

  ‘Or maybe you were in on it all along,’ Leach said, coming back on the attack. ‘Maybe you and Connor planned it together. He does the murder and you dispose of the body? Is that how it was, Tommy?’

  Tommy took another slurp of coffee. Outwardly, he was doing a pretty good job of keeping his cool, but inside, a sharp, jagged feeling of panic was starting to take hold. He could see how it looked, how it would look to a jury. Who was going to believe his story? Even his own brief thought he was lying. He had seen it in Montgomery’s eyes, in the way he’d pursed his lips. His only hope was if Connor came clean, admitted to murder and swore that Tommy had known nothing about the body in the boot. But what were the chances of that?

  36

  Terry Street strolled along Baker Street, took the Clarence Gate entrance to Regent’s Park and made his way to the boating lake. It was a warm spring morning and already the paths were beginning to fill with people. He lit a fag as he walked, eyeing the girls in their flimsy dresses. He was looking forward to summer, when, God wil
ling, even more flesh would be on show.

  There were a couple of empty benches, and Terry sat down on one. He glanced at his watch. He was early – it was only a quarter to eleven – but then he’d been up since the crack of dawn. He’d had a restless night, a part of him constantly alert for that knock on the door. But it hadn’t come. And now he knew it never would.

  Already Terry had started to blank out the murder of Joe Quinn. He thought instead about what he’d done afterwards – the concealing of the baseball bat in the cellar, the smashing of the rear light on the Jag and then his casual appearance in the Fox. Yeah, he’d carried it off pretty well, he thought, chatting to Fat Pete and Vinnie, expressing the right amount of surprise at Joe’s failure to show. At closing time, he’d left shortly before the others, driving away in the van and setting fire to it on a patch of waste ground over Clapton way. Although there had been little chance of anyone associating the van with Joe’s murder, he couldn’t afford to take the risk.

  A breeze rippled the surface of the water, making the tethered boats rock back and forth. A couple of teenage boys were out on the lake, rowing haphazardly, their laughter floating through the air. It wasn’t that long, Terry thought, since he’d been that age too – carefree and guilty of nothing more heinous than underage drinking and lusting after girls. But he had made his choice, and nothing would bring back his innocence now. The deed was done and he would learn to live with it.

  Another ten minutes passed before DI Tony Lazenby sat down beside him. ‘Terry.’

  Terry gave a nod. The inspector, he noticed, was looking even more pleased with himself than usual. ‘You got news, I take it?’

  ‘Yeah, they charged Connor Quinn this morning. Murder. He’s going down for a fucking long stretch.’

  ‘Good,’ said Terry. Although he had never had much doubt that this would be the outcome, he was still relieved to hear it. He gazed out across the lake, pausing before he asked the question. ‘And the other two?’