“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I’m not at liberty to say.”
Bolger turned toward the rows of bottles behind him. “Since Erik sent you, have one on the house. Even if you’re not used to sinning in broad daylight.”
“I’ll take some juice, if you don’t mind.”
“Ice?”
“No, thanks.”
Bolger found a carton of juice in the refrigerator underneath the bar and filled a glass from the hanging shelf above. “I’m afraid that I’m not all that familiar with the part of the industry you’re after,” he said.
The drink had a tangy sweetness over the orange flavor that Bergenhem couldn’t place.
“Clubs have been sprouting up like weeds in this city over the past few years,” Bolger continued, “and I’m not talking about restaurants either. It’s all happened so fast I’ve pretty much lost count.”
“Illegal clubs?”
“That may be an accurate way to describe them, but most have licenses these days. Which only goes to show that crime pays, right?”
“In what way?”
“You open an illegal club and a week later, bam, you’re holding a license in your grubby little hands.”
“I see.”
“After two weeks, you close the joint down and start all over someplace else. But that’s all old hat to you guys.”
“Some of us, anyway.”
“That’s not exactly the information you were looking for, is it?”
“I’m grateful for anything you can give me.”
“Like what’s going on in the illustrious porn world?”
“For example.”
“What does Erik expect to find out, anyway?”
Bergenhem took another gulp of his juice.
“The industry has grown,” Bolger continued. “It’s a different scene from back when I played a bit part.”
“What’s so different now?”
“It’s a lot more than tits and asses, to put it bluntly.”
“Hardcore?”
Bolger’s teeth gleamed in his dark face and the windowless room. “More like supercore. From the little I’ve seen, what goes in isn’t as important anymore as what comes out. Or both at the same time, if you catch my drift.” He took down a glass, filled it with beer and sipped it once the foam had settled. “I got out of there just in time.”
“Do they have illegal joints too?”
“Illegal strip joints? It depends on how you look at it.”
“I’m not following you.”
“There’s the part that the general public sees—a magazine rack, a few books, sex toys, peep shows and a couple of large screening rooms.”
“Strippers?”
“They’re called exotic dancers.”
“And?”
“What?”
“You said that’s just what the public sees.”
“Now, I’m going strictly by hearsay. But one or two of those places have a room where you can find things that are a little out of the ordinary. Magazines with a special twist, maybe movies.”
“Movies?”
“Movies where the actors engage in unusual acts.”
“Unusual acts?”
“Don’t ask me what they are, but it’s no Sunday school picnic.”
“You know that these movies exist?”
“That’s what they tell me, and also that there are a couple of small, anonymous joints that don’t even pretend to be anything else.”
“Where?”
Bolger threw out his hands.
“Can you look into it?” Bergenhem asked.
“Maybe. It might take a little time, though. I’ve got to watch my step.”
“Who are the customers?”
“You ask as if I knew the answer.”
“What’s your best guess? As opposed to the customers you had, or the ones who look for the ordinary stuff.”
The sunlight from the other room suddenly dimmed, and Bolger put on a pair of metal-frame glasses with thin lenses.
They add character to his face, Bergenhem thought.
“My best guess? I don’t think there’s that much of a difference. Interest breeds interest, like when you start with beer and move on to the harder stuff. Or from smoking grass to shooting up.”
“You develop more of an appetite?”
“Some people just want more and more. It’s hard to say where it all stops. Others are sexually aroused by the fantasy of being strangled or having a limb cut off. Who knows what kind of movies they like to watch?”
“Where can I find them?” Bergenhem asked.
“People who dream about somebody cutting off their leg?”
“All of these sick people. When they’re not at a club, I mean, or at home, or in a hotel room.”
“Since I drive a BMW, I’d say in Volvo’s boardroom. Or in the boardroom of your choice. Or on the county commission. There are crazy people everywhere.”
“Creepy.” Bergenhem got up.
“Be careful out there. I’m not kidding.”
Bergenhem waved from the doorway and walked out into the sunset. The wind swooped down from the rooftops and raised his collar. A glass broke somewhere behind him.
15
MACDONALD DODGED THE OBSCENITIES THAT THE FRUlT STAND vendors screamed at each other across the intersection. He was at the corner of Berwick and Peter streets in Soho. Just look at what they’ve done to our proud fruit market tradition, he thought. Covent Garden closed, everything driven out of downtown.
This was what has become of it: half-drunk men slipping on banana peels, a few pitiful stands for a handful of curious tourists and ten times as many junkies. Soho doesn’t swing anymore, it crawls—at least here, where an empty lot is the most pleasant sight for miles around.
He turned up the collar of his raincoat against the drizzle and stepped over a crushed beefsteak tomato. Walkers Court was so short, unassuming and shoddy that it didn’t even appear in the new edition of a London A-Z street atlas. Maybe they excluded it on purpose, he thought. It’s not the kind of street you feel like bragging about to rosy-cheeked Italian and Scandinavian tourists straight from Heathrow and Gatwick.
Walkers Court was porn without silk sheets or the pink young models who show their pee hole in Hustler, Macdonald thought as he shook his head at a doorman who beckoned him into one of the theaters. It was more for sweaty junkies in rags—low-budget sex for the masses, books, magazines and videos for those who came to see themselves as they might have been in another life.
Maybe they bought the fantasyware in these sophisticated stores. Just what you need in certain situations. Or how about this leash or that noose? This is a free country. We’re all entitled to a personal life. Some people light a cigarette in the privacy of their own home; others like to poop in the faces of strangers.
He passed by the biggest bookstore on the street. It looked out of place with its advertisements featuring the latest in fine literature for the educated middle class: V. S. Naipaul and Jonathan Raban, a new biography of Bruce Chatwin.
Macdonald knew that the owner was a complex character. The ground and upper floors were bright and cheerful, overflowing with novels, poetry, travelogues and cookbooks. The basement, which you got to by descending a stairway on the other side of a curtain, was a different world altogether. Magazines with titles like Over Forty and Life Begins at Fifty fearlessly defied the youth culture. The room was always full of customers. Just like that one, Macdonald thought as a man with a flat brown bag hurried out of the store.
Macdonald promised himself that he would read more as soon as he retired from the police force. He was thirty-seven, and he had served Queen and country since he was twenty-three. Only eleven years left. After that he could be a private detective and chase runaway teenagers from Leeds through the bowels of London. Or work as a security guard at Harrods and keep an eye on the Oyster Bar. Or arrange birthday parties for his grandchildren at his house in Kent, never more than
ten steps from a malt. He’d let them pull on his ponytail as much as they wanted, he thought as he waited for a car to pass on Brewer Street. Crossing the intersection, he followed Rupert Street for a quarter of a block, nodded at a black man in a leather jacket and entered a theater under a flashing neon sign that said PEEP SHOW.
It took him a few seconds to get used to the shadows. Passing the cashier’s booth, he knocked on a door to the left of the main entrance. He stood and listened to the moans that echoed in the darkness. Somebody was screaming, “Yes, yes, YES, YES,” but it didn’t sound very convincing.
The door opened a couple of inches and another black man stared out at him. After the door closed again, Macdonald heard a rattling sound and it was flung wide open.
The man stretched out his hand and nodded for Macdonald to enter. “Welcome, Mr. Investigator.”
“You don’t skimp on security here, do you, Frankie?”
“Not a chance.”
They shook hands and Macdonald stepped into the office. No larger than a hundred square feet, the room was thick with humidity, along with the smell of vinegar and grease from half-eaten fish and chips on the pockmarked desk. A poster celebrating the pleasures of life in Jamaica was taped to the wall above, its bottom right corner curled, as if protesting the romanticism of it all. Next to the plate of leftovers was a notepad, a pen and a keyboard. The computer screen on the right side of the desk flickered more than it should. Cheap crap, Macdonald thought.
“Sorry I couldn’t offer you my lunch,” Frankie said. “But I’d be glad to order some more.”
“Looks like it was pretty tasty.”
“As English as can be. Should I send Johnny Boy to get another?”
“No thanks, the savory smells are enough for me.”
Frankie flicked his shoulder as if he were brushing off a thank-you after having paid for a five-course meal at Wheeler’s. “It’s your call. So what can a hardworking businessman do for the guardians of law and order?” he asked, taking a chair from behind the desk. “Have a seat, I’ll go get another one.”
He returned carrying a big, clunky chair with red imitation leather upholstery and gray stuffing that stuck out through the loose seams.
Frankie followed Macdonald’s eyes. “It might be ugly, but it’s comfortable as hell.” He sat down but popped back up when a young woman walked in with a tray. After putting a stainless steel teapot, two cups and saucers, a little pitcher of milk and a bowl of sugar on the desk, she smiled, bowed her head slightly and left the room. Frankie sat down again and poured a cup for each of them.
“Just what I needed.” Macdonald leaned forward.
Frankie stood up a second time.
“What is it now?”
Frankie walked out and returned with a plate of cookies.
“Are the rituals just about over?”
“Now they are. Jamaicans are crazy about ritual. We come from a different world than you do.”
“What the hell are you talking about? You were born in London.”
“A zebra never changes its spots. Genes, you know.”
“Genes have always fascinated me.”
“Me too.” Frankie picked up a nail file and inspected his left index finger. “But I don’t expect that you came all the way here to talk about genetic code.”
“You haven’t given me much of a chance to explain why I’m here.”
“I’m all ears.”
“You aren’t nervous, are you?”
“Me, nervous? Because I’m not used to such fine company, you mean?”
“Don’t ask me why.”
“Good-looking coat.”
“Hmm.”
“I like your ponytail too, but isn’t it rather passé these days?”
“It’s mostly to blend in here.”
“Everybody’s welcome in south London. We don’t discriminate.” Frankie filed away at the offending nail.
The computer beeped.
“An e-mail from the other world?” Macdonald asked.
“Didn’t you know that there are more computers per capita in Jamaica than anywhere else in the Caribbean?” He read the message, which appeared to be quite short.
“Wrong,” Macdonald said.
“What?”
“Brixton may officially be a suburb of London, but it has more computers per capita.”
“Very funny, but this e-mail actually comes from your bailiwick.” He quickly reread the message and closed the program.
“Since when did it stop being yours?”
Frankie’s smile flashed in the semidarkness of the room. He picked up the file and moved on to another finger.
“Brixton,” Macdonald repeated.
“Right, the e-mail is a confirmation that my subsidiary has just received a new shipment of top-quality magazines and videos.”
“A new shipment?”
“That’s what I said.”
“Where from?”
“Is this an interrogation, Steve?” A jewel glittered in one of Frankie’s front teeth.
Macdonald tried to remember what those gems were called, but couldn’t. “You know me better than that, Frankie.”
“I’m not sure twenty-five years is long enough, Paleface.”
“Come on, now.”
“We’re from two separate worlds.”
“Okay, you win. But that shipment you mentioned is what interests me at the moment. You’ve read about the murder in Clapham, haven’t you? The kid who was cut up?”
“I saw something about it on television. But that was quite a while ago. Norwegian or Swiss, wasn’t he?”
“Swedish.”
“Oh.”
“Crimewatch is going to do a reenactment of it any day now.”
“It must be a big deal, then.”
“It’s a little different, that’s for sure.”
“Different? You can say that again. A white guy gets knocked off for once.”
Macdonald sipped his tea.
“When’s the last time Crimewatch did a show on a black victim?” Frankie continued.
“You know how it is.”
“I know exactly how it is. When black people get murdered, nobody gives a shit.” He put down his nail file. “How many murders did you say you had in southeast London a couple of years ago?”
“Forty-two or forty-three, I think.”
“And how many of the victims were black?”
“Something like . . .”
“Hell, Steve, stop pretending like you’re even trying to remember. I know that at least thirty-five of them were black. You don’t have to be a mathematician to figure that out. And I also know that those murders have as much of a chance of appearing on Crimewatch as I do of being admitted to a gentlemen’s club on the Mall.”
“We’re doing everything we can.”
“To get me into a club?”
“To attract the attention of the press.”
“I’m not blaming you for it. You can’t help it if you’re white.” Frankie went at it with the file again.
“I’m looking for any clues I can get,” Macdonald said.
“And so you come knocking on the gates of my kingdom.”
“Right.”
“What the hell for? What does this goddam murder have to do with my business?” Frankie put the file back down.
“Nothing in particular, but certain things happened while the crime was being committed that we’re anxious to find out more about. Have you heard about the two kids from London who were murdered in Sweden recently? In Gothenburg?”
“No, that’s news to me.”
“One of them is from Tulse Hill, where your aunt lives.”
“White boys.”
“Yes.”
“My heart bleeds for them.”
“Not as much as theirs.”
“Sorry, Steve.”
“All three murders have certain things in common, and it’s possible that one or more videotapes are lying around somewhere with a blow-by-
blow account of exactly what happened. This is something that only the police have any inkling of, and you know what that means.”
“I won’t say a word.”
“You understand why I’m telling you all this?”
“Murders on film. What makes you think something like that?”
“I can’t give you the details, but certain indications point in that direction.”
“You really think that’s a possibility?”
“Yes.”
“Not in my worst nightmares . . . It’s the most disgusting thing I’ve ever heard.”
Macdonald nodded.
“You’ve got your work cut out for you, Steve.”
Macdonald raised his cup to his lips, but the tea was cold.
“This isn’t your typical murderer on crack who waits patiently for the police to arrive,” Frankie said. He stood up, rubbing his forehead with his fist. “And you think I can help you find your snuff movie?”
“I’m just trying to get a little information. Like how much of this crap is actually around.”
“I stay away from that sort of thing.” Frankie glanced at the poster. “I swear by the spirit of my Caribbean ancestors.”
“If I had any reason to think otherwise, we would have taken our tea down at the Eltham police station.”
“I assume you want me to make some discreet inquiries.”
“As discreet as possible.”
“That goes without saying.”
“Do you know anyone who has an inner room that’s closed to the general public?”
“Sure.”
Macdonald got up.
“But not where they show snuff movies. Not as far as I know, anyway. It’s revolting enough, shit that makes the stuff I show here look like family day at the beach, but not the kind of thing you’ve had the bad taste to talk about.”
“See what you can find out,” Macdonald said.
“You can always ask your usual gossipmongers, can’t you? Like that pimp on Old Compton Street.”
“I’ll take care of that part, don’t worry.”
“Fine.”
“Call me in a couple of days, no matter what turns up. And watch your step.”
“Snuff movies . . .” Frankie shook his head.
“Give me a break. This can’t be the first time you’ve heard about a murder being filmed.”
“No, but you’ll never see any of this in the stores, Steve. These movies are marketed through special distribution channels that run high above our smutty little lives.”
Death Angels Page 9
