Sean nodded. There was a shop that sold T-shirts of him on Portobello Road, a grumpy-looking, old bald guy, with pentagrams drawn around his head.
“Good,” Noj carried on. “Well, Gray took that to mean something that it didn’t. The ironic thing was I don’t believe Gray was a bad man. But because he had colleagues who he’d told about this book, and because of how Corrine and her friends dressed themselves, two-and-two made six-six-six …”
“But I’ve seen the crime-scene photos,” Sean interrupted. “There was a pentagram drawn on the floor, in the victim’s blood. You’re not trying to tell me Rivett made that up?”
Noj drew herself up, like a cobra about to strike. “You have no idea what that man is capable of,” she said. “How he can invert anything to suit his own purposes.”
It was Sean’s turn to laugh now. “Oh dear,” he said, putting his mug down, “I’m sorry, but you’re going to have to come up with something better than that if you want me to believe a word you say. All you’ve offered me so far is tangential stuff that could have come straight out of the papers.”
Noj looked down at her hands, spread her fingers out like a fan across the tabletop.
“Don’t mock me, Sean Ward,” she said quietly. “You are very alone in this town, remember. You need all the friends you can get.”
“Well then,” said Sean, equally softly, “you tell me something I can use.”
Noj closed her eyes. “I will do my best to help you,” she said. “Your concern for wayward teenage boys has touched my heart, truly. But you have to remember; I live here. I don’t know if I can cash in all my insurance policies for you yet.”
Her eyes opened, rested on the watercolour on the far wall. They had lost their earlier spark and so had she. At last she seemed to look her age.
“You know that Rivett’s retired, don’t you?” said Sean.
She shook her head. “No,” she said. “Sharks never stop. If they did, it would kill them. I’ve set some bait for him though. You just see if he doesn’t bite.”
“What do you mean?” said Sean, rubbing his temples.
Noj shrugged. “Why don’t you drop by again tomorrow, after you’ve made a few more enquiries? You might believe me by then.” She waved her hand, a dismissive gesture. “And now, you can see yourself out.”
He left her, still staring at the picture on her wall. The moment he stepped into the square, his mobile started up. It was Francesca. “Hello,” she said, “where are you?”
Sean smiled, thankful for someone relatively sane to talk to. “Not far from your office, if that’s where you are.”
“Hanging around Captain Swing’s, are you?” she guessed. “Dig anything up there?”
“I’m not sure,” said Sean.
“Well,” she said. “I’ve found something and I think it’s pretty good. Wanna come up and see me?” she affected a Mae West drawl.
“I’ll be right there.”
18
Sex (The Black Angel)
February 1984
“Gentlemen,” said Rivett, “I got a special little job I’d like you to do for me.”
Alone out of the corkboard cubicles that divided the incident room up into work stations, Rivett had his own sealed office, with plexiglass windows on all sides so he could see out, soundproofed on the inside so no one else could lug in. Above his big mahogany desk, with its overflowing in-trays, was a picture of Mrs Rivett and their two young daughters, neither of which appeared to have taken after her. Big, chunky girls they were, with little eyes and flushed red cheeks, slightly older than Gray’s kids, but still only junior-school age. Their mother was a slight, mousy wisp by comparison.
“If I may have the fullness of your attention for a moment,” said Rivett, his eyes travelling around the assembly of night-shift officers, pausing for a moment to twinkle on his favoured detective sergeants, Jason Blackburn and Andrew Kidd. “As we are all aware,” he said, “keeping perverts off our streets is an onerous task. But one that I know that you,” he turned his gaze on Gray, “are particularly keen to respond to. Because of the diligence of officers of your calibre, I know my own precious little Charlotte and Thomasina can sleep safely in their beds at night.”
Gray glanced down at his shoes. When he looked back up, Rivett was still studying him.
“What’s also come to my attention during the course of your duties,” he moved around to his desk, reached out a photograph, “is that you might have come across this woman.”
He held up the mugshot. Even caught in the flash of a police arrest shot, she radiated insolent beauty.
“Janine Bernice Woodrow,” said Rivett. “Or Gina, as she like to be known. Moved down here from Norwich about a year ago now, intent on making a name for herself. Quite a looker, in’t she?”
“Until she open her mouth,” said Gray, recalling their last encounter.
“Quite so, detective,” Rivett nodded. “Now, I been having a word with the Harbour Master about a certain vessel making regular trips here from Holland. You know what them sailors are like, prone to making all kinds of bad company when they stop off in a port for a while. We got one of them under obs,” he tossed Gina Woodrow’s mugshot down on the table, lifted up a file from the top of his in-tray and took out another. “A certain Nicholas Knobel.” A thin, angular face with high cheekbones and extremely pale eyes stared back at them. “Who is only gonna win the prize,” Rivett went on, “of being the dirtiest bastard aboard the good ship Sealander when you apprehend him tonight.”
“Oh?” Gray scratched his head. “What for?”
“Smack,” said Rivett. “This here is the source of our latest epidemic in recreational suicide. And our friend Gina is his bag lady, the contact point for them bikers what have been doshing it all about. Fortunately for us, she couldn’t keep her foul mouth shut about that. A little bird tell me,” Rivett consulted his wristwatch, “she’s got a date with him tonight, when he go on shore leave, which is round about now. By the time he make his way up to our favourite Market Row tavern, you lot’ll be coming through the door to nick the pair of them, and bring ’em home to me. They will be carrying, I assure you.”
He reached in his pocket. “I’ve signed you out a van,” he said, tossing the keys across to Gray. “Pub backs on to a car park, so you won’t have to drag her far.”
* * *
Gray got into the driver’s seat, Blackburn and Kidd riding shotgun beside him, another couple of younger lads in the back.
“This is a laugh,” said Kidd, “five of us to take down a tart and a Dutchman. Len must think we’re a right bunch of poofs.”
“You in’t met Gina then?” said Gray, putting his keys in the ignition.
Kidd rubbed his crotch. “No, I in’t had that pleasure yet. Or should I say, she in’t.”
“Mmmm,” Blackburn rubbed his palm up and down his truncheon and they traded dirty sniggers. Gray steered out of the car park, trying his best to ignore their innuendo.
“That’ll be because of the bikers,” Gray said. “She’s in with them, she’ll have plenty of back-up, won’t she? You’ll most probably be needing that,” he glanced sideways at Blackburn, still fondling his cosh, and accelerated down the road.
“Wee-hee!” Blackburn affected a good ol’ boy accent. “Looks like we gotta gunfight at the OK Corral on our hands, d’you hear that, boys?” He glanced at the youngsters behind them. Gray turned left and then left again onto George Street.
“Wooo-weee!” shouted another comedian from the back. “Let’s go git them injuns!”
Gray pulled into the pub car park, the van’s headlight illuminating a row of customised Triumphs and Nortons.
“I’ll go in the front,” he said, “you lot can bring up the rear. Like usual.”
Gray entered the door nearest to the Market Row end of the pub, stooping as he did so. At the time this had been built, none of the patrons had been much over five feet tall.
His back filling up the doorframe, he too
k in the dimly lit room. The ceiling had low, black beams running across it up to the half-timbered, copper-topped bar; beyond that were partitions of wooden alcoves. A jolly roger was draped above the optics, and between the two rows, a mirror with the Confederate flag etched across it reflected the face of a whiskery barman raising a glass and pouring a measure of bourbon. Two men leant across the counter, their backs towards Gray, wearing black leather jackets with patched denims over the top of them, covered in the flags and regalia of their outlaw clans – skulls, wings, dominoes, dice, rearing cobras and naked women. All covered in a fine layer of dirt, the proof that they were no newcomers to the scene. Both had open-face motorcycle helmets at their feet.
The alcoves to his left and right took up much of the rest of the space and he had to walk forwards into the room to see who was seated inside them, which he did slowly, keeping his head low, a hand across his brow. The first was empty. The second contained a collection of lads from the local art college, Gray could tell from their long, ’50s-style overcoats and quiffed hairdos, the packets of rolling tobacco on the table in front of them. In the midst of an earnest conversation about last night’s John Peel show, none of the four young men even looked up as he passed.
From the room beyond, a pool ball ricocheted into a pocket and someone cheered. One of the bikers at the bar looked up, caught Gray’s reflection in the mirror and started to turn his head, as “Radar Love” by Golden Earring came thumping out of the jukebox.
She was seated in the most concealed part of the room, the last alcove nearest the wall. He saw the Dutch sailor first, his pinched face instantly recognisable from the mug shot. He was bent forwards, his arms hidden beneath the table. As Gray grew closer, a black head came into view, the shiny, luxuriant tresses snaking across leather-clad shoulders. He looked down and saw her draw her left arm up beside her, stow something between her seat and the wall. Then she turned her head, a smile dying on her lips.
“What you got there then, love?” Gray said, positioning his body so that neither of them could easily get past, and flashing up his warrant card in the palm of his hand.
“Who do you think you’re talking to?” her black eyes sparked incredulous.
“What is this?” the Dutchman’s head snapped up.
Gray heard a whoosh at the side of his head and ducked instinctively. Two bodies barrelled into him, knocking him so that he had to reach out his hands and grab the side of the partition to avoid being pitched into Gina Woodrow’s lap. In the split second that it happened, he saw her push the packet out from beside her and kick it backwards under her seat. She had the deft movements of a snake.
“Police,” shouted Kidd from behind him. “Stay exactly where you are.”
Then there was a mighty crash, as the biker whose arm Kidd had twisted behind his back seconds before he’d tried to brain Gray with his motorbike helmet, toppled into the table of art students, sending glasses and ashtrays flying. The air became thick with shouting.
Gray hauled himself upright as the sailor stood up, knocking his barstool over, and launched himself away. He didn’t have time to think. As Knobel tried to veer past him, Gray threw his entire weight down on him, pitching them both onto the floor at the same moment a barstool and several glasses went flying over their heads and smashed against the wall, sending splinters of wood, glass and foaming beer down on them.
The Dutchman opened his mouth but no sound came out; Gray had knocked all the wind out of him. He wilted beneath the detective and, satisfied he could offer no further resistance, Gray shifted himself upright, swivelling his head to see what had become of Gina Woodrow. But all he could make out was a mess of legs.
Kidd had a biker pinned down over the table, his knee in his back, yanking his arms backwards to cuff him while the art students staggered out of their alcove, wiping beer from their clothes and grinding broken glass into the carpet. Blackburn had another one in an armlock, but this one wasn’t going down easy, he was spinning around in a circle, taking Blackburn with him, knocking into one of the younger PCs who tried to come to his aid and pitching him over a table. Whoops, hollers and curses rent through the air, building to the crunching crescendo from the jukebox.
Bloody hell, thought Gray, it really is like a Wild West saloon. He got to his feet, another glass whizzing past his ear, and saw her, in the midst of the students, weaving her way towards the door. He took one more look at the prostrate Dutchman and made after her. On the threshold of the exit, he caught hold of her arm and swung her back round.
She used the impetus of the motion to land a punch with her free arm, boxing his left ear so hard he almost let go of her.
“You don’t know who you’re dealing with!” she said, and spat into his eyes.
Gray tightened his grip, dragging her back into the room.
“That in’t me who want to see you, girl,” he said. “It’s the boss requested a special audience. You know, DCI Rivett.”
Her expression of outrage relayed her disbelief at this statement and her mouth opened to protest. But then, as if drawn by magnets, her eyes rolled past Gray’s head towards the shape that had filled the open doorway.
“Oh dear, Gina,” said Rivett, “you have been a naughty girl.”
As the DCI stepped forwards into the room, all the noises seemed to stop. Tongues were stilled; the song on the jukebox gurgled to a conclusion and there was a final tinkling of breaking glass before silence descended. Rivett looked down at the Dutchman and shot Gray an approving glance.
“Good work, detective. I knew you were the right man for this job.”
Then he turned to Kidd, who had by now got cuffs on his own assailant.
“What’s that, then?” he said, eyeballing the biker like he was staring at a reptile in the zoo. The biker returned the compliment with his own venomous gaze, spitting on the carpet that separated them. “Ah, don’t tell me,” Rivett smiled. “That’s Rat, in’t it? Known to your old Ma as Raymond Runton.”
“He was trying to obstruct an officer from carrying out his duties,” said Kidd, “with a motorbike helmet.” He toed the offending article so that it rolled across the floor.
“Tsk, tsk,” Rivett shook his head, then turned back towards Gina, who had gone completely still in Gray’s grasp. “Where is it?” he said.
She stared back at him with blazing eyes.
“Where’s what?” she said.
“If you’ll allow me,” Gray ducked underneath the alcove, found a plastic bag wrapped around a package stuck between the partition where she had kicked it.
“I think you mean this,” he said, passing it to the DCI.
Gina’s face twisted into an incredulous frown. “Never saw that before in my whole life,” she said. “You just planted it. You all saw him!” she turned to scream at the room.
“All right,” Rivett addressed the young PCs, “take down the names and addresses of everybody present, will you, lads?” He slapped his hand down on Gina Woodrow’s shoulder. “And as for you and your gentlemen friends, I think it’s time we moved this party down to the office. We can all get more cosy there.”
* * *
“What the fuck was all that in aid of?” Gina demanded, once they were in the interview room. She was rubbing her right shoulder. Underneath the leather, the imprints of Rivett’s fingers would soon be showing through her white skin like a purple bouquet.
“Your little Dutch boy,” said Rivett, “has caused me a spot of bother, as if you din’t notice. Two dead junkies in the park, found by a young mother out walking her pram last Wednesday morning. Turned bright fucking blue they had, poor cow’ll probably never get over the sight of it. And then another one,” he leant across the table, “Friday night, who had the temerity to do himself in right in the middle of the Victoria Arcade. That in’t the sort of image the Lord Mayor of Ernemouth want to project, now, is it?”
Gina stared back at him but said nothing. The tape machine had not been turned on, after all, and there was no one els
e here. The door had been locked from the inside.
“You see, Gina,” said Rivett, “what your toerag friends do in the privacy of their own council homes is no concern of mine. They want to kill themselves with this shit, that’s fine – so long as they do it out of my sight. But they cross a line, like these sorry bastards have just done, and I’m afraid I find myself duty-bound to investigate, don’t I? And, as you should know by now, Gina, it don’t take me long to suss anything out. Thought you’d been back here long enough to start pulling the wool over, did you? Go freelance?” Rivett got to his feet, started to walk around the table. “A bit on the side that I wouldn’t hear about. In my town …”
Gina stood up, knocking her own chair over, backed away slowly across the room.
“Trouble is,” he said, mirroring her steps, his cigar breath in her face, “that gear your clog-wearing friend’s now touting – it’s a little bit too good, too pure for the Ernemouth palette. Them stupid skagheads didn’t mean to kill themselves. They just didn’t realise they were taking three times as much as they normally get.”
Gina felt the coldness of the wall behind her. She did her best not to look scared as the DCI loomed over her, but her pupils were dilating as her heartbeat quickened, Rivett’s huge hands splayed flat against the wall, one on each side of her head.
“So, if you think you’re gonna walk away from this one,” he said, “I’m gonna need something special, very special indeed. Turn around, Gina.”
* * *
Gray stood in the car park in the first grey light of dawn, gingerly touching his ear. It had come up like a cauliflower; he’d need to sleep with a packet of frozen peas on it now.
He took a last drag and then dropped his cigarette, toeing it out on the concrete, the events of the night before replaying in his mind as he walked to his black Vauxhall Astra. Knobel began squealing almost as soon as they had him in the interview room, naming Raymond Runton as his connection. The biker, also held in custody for attempted assault on a police officer, vehemently denied it. He claimed he had merely been coming to the rescue of what he believed to be a damsel in distress.
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