by Jessie Keane
‘Daisy looks great in that shot,’ he said at last.
Ruby said nothing. She’d always been aware that Daniel’d had a bit of a crush on Daisy when he was younger.
‘And that . . .’ He was peering closer. ‘That’s someone up on the first floor there, the shooter. The one who killed Rob.’
Ruby gazed at Daniel with sympathy. ‘This is awful for you, for your family. We miss him, but you must miss him far worse.’
Daniel looked up, shrugged. ‘We all miss him, don’t we,’ he said, swallowing hard.
Then he looked at the image on the TV screen. Back at the photo. He frowned.
‘Ruby?’
‘Yeah?’
‘This . . . look at this, will you? Look at the shape of the head. The one who’s in the photo, and the one who’s on the screen? This couldn’t be the same person, could it?’
57
Fats had provided a list, and Kit had started in on the gun clubs. He was going to each one in turn, showing them the shell casing, which they all – without exception, so far – recognized. But further questions drew a blank.
‘You got any rogue shooters here?’ he asked, time after time.
But the answer was invariably, What are you, police? Where’s your ID? At which point he always felt a burning need to rip their heads off and beat them with the wet end. He wanted, he needed, answers.
When he returned, feeling dispirited, to the office behind Sheila’s restaurant, he got a bell from Petey, one of his regular boys, calling him over to the Lewis studio. Petey was there, slouched behind the wheel in his old mineral-blue Ford Escort, thirty yards along the road. He wound down his window when he saw Kit approaching.
‘Boss,’ he said.
‘Something?’ said Kit.
‘Just an update. Studio’s open. A couple of people come in and out. Bloke from a photo lab, van marked Pollack Photographic, went in at twelve and came straight out again. Strikes me as odd though.’
‘What’s odd?’
‘That the studio’s open at all. Husband’s dead. Wouldn’t you think wifey would shut the place up – mark of respect, at least? I mean, isn’t she upset her husband’s dead?’
‘Might be glad to see the back of the fucker.’
‘She’s been down the shops a time or two,’ said Petey. ‘And she went to a lock-up Thursday. Came out with a laundry bag. Moving the old man’s belongings around, I reckon. This is a boring bloody job. Think the police would cover it?’
‘Can’t spare the people,’ said Kit, thinking of DI Romilly Kane telling him that. She was kind of cute, but she looked at him like he was the Antichrist, like she ought to have a crucifix or some damned thing in her hand for protection whenever she was with him. He didn’t like assisting the Bill, but this was to catch Rob’s killer, and he would work with anyone to achieve that.
Lock-ups and laundry bags, he thought.
‘If she goes back to that lock-up again, let me know,’ he said.
Romilly was surprised to come into the station next day and find Ruby Darke waiting for her. She had with her a well-muscled young man, solid as a bull and with treacle-blond hair and greenish eyes.
A minder. Well, she is Kit Miller’s mother, once a model citizen but apparently now as crooked as a dog’s hind leg, and that smooth bastard Miller seems to have minders to spare.
Romilly was simmering with anger at Miller. She had warned him not to get involved in police business, and instead, what did she find? That two gun club stewards had phoned in to the nick, saying there was a man going round asking questions, showing a shell casing, and it seemed odd, was he one of theirs? When they were asked to describe the man, it was obvious it was Kit Miller they were talking about.
Romilly ushered Ruby into the depths of the cop shop, sat her down, offered coffee, which she and her silent escort declined.
‘We were looking at this yesterday,’ said Ruby, pulling out the photo of her and Daisy by the Roller at the church. ‘Daniel – this is Daniel. He’s Rob Hinton’s brother, the man who was shot at the church. The groom. Not the photographer.’ Daniel inclined his head an inch.
‘He spotted it first,’ Ruby went on. ‘The man behind the gun and the one on the CCTV with Crystal Rose. Look at the shape of his head. The long face. The skinny neck. And the thin wrists. We think it could be the same person.’
‘No luck on the gun clubs?’ Fats asked Kit later the same day.
‘None.’
‘Well, we’ve had a bit of good news.’
Jesus, could I use some good news. ‘Go on then. Spit it out.’
‘The scruffy blond bloke from the warehouse hit.’
‘What about him?’
‘One of the boys picked him up in a pub down the Mile End Road, chucking his money about, buying people drinks.’
‘Where is he?’
‘We got him stashed away.’ Fats stood up, pulled on his jacket. ‘Thought you’d want to talk to him yourself.’
‘You got that right,’ said Kit.
58
It was early Wednesday evening, and Daisy was on her own with Daniel on guard. Ruby was at the club, and Kit was out. After turfing a press photographer out of the back garden at about four, Daniel went to sit in the kitchen. He was careful to leave the door into the hall open so he could see what was going on; he didn’t want a repeat of that drugs business. He passed the time watching rubbish telly and the news until six thirty. After that, he made beans on toast and, hearing Daisy coming downstairs, offered her some.
‘No,’ she said, sweeping through the hall and blanking him. She went into the sitting room and closed the door, shutting him firmly out.
Well fuck you too, he thought.
Since the drugs episode last weekend, she’d been ignoring him, cutting him dead at every opportunity. Well, fair enough. Let her stew. He heard the kitchen extension tinkle, meaning Daisy was on the phone in the sitting room. Maybe she was getting hold of herself at last. She’d started phoning the kids a couple of evenings ago and it seemed to be a regular thing now, and that was good. Poor little fuckers must be bewildered, suddenly sent off, after all that happened at the church. He reckoned they could be scarred for life.
When he’d finished eating, he loaded the dirty crocks into the dishwasher, and sat through a soap opera in which it seemed all the women wanted to get married and all the men wanted to beat the crap out of each other. He looked at his watch. Later, when Kit got back, he was planning to visit his mum, see how she was doing. He was worried about her, and he knew she wouldn’t get much sympathy off her supposed ‘partner’. In his opinion, Patrick Dowling was a shit. Trudy and Sarah would see Eunice was all right, but he wanted to check in with her, all the same. Rob’s death had hit her very hard.
The phone extension ‘pinged’, signalling that Daisy’s call to the kids was finished. Then the phone rang. He didn’t pick it up. Daisy was right there, she’d do that. He wasn’t her social fucking secretary, after all. After four rings, it stopped and the call light stayed on. Daisy had answered.
Daniel got back to the soap. One woman was shrieking at another and yanking her hair. He tweaked the volume down, with half an ear listening out for Daisy in the sitting room, wondering who the call was from.
Eventually the light went out on the kitchen phone. End of call. Silence from the sitting room. He put the kettle on for a cup of tea and stood against the worktop waiting for it to boil. Then he heard the sitting room door open. Daisy crossed the hall and came into the kitchen and stood there looking at him with stunned, heartbroken eyes.
‘What?’ he asked, straightening in alarm.
‘That was the police,’ said Daisy. ‘They’re releasing Rob’s body tomorrow. So we can make the funeral arrangements.’
‘Oh shit,’ said Daniel.
Daisy burst into hopeless tears. She flew across the kitchen straight into his arms. With no other option, Daniel grabbed her and held on tight. His sister-in-law, his brother’s wife. The poor bitc
h, what a fucking disaster.
‘I’m sorry, Daniel!’ she sobbed out. ‘I’m sorry I dragged you into that with the drugs. You didn’t deserve it. I think I was out of my mind, I was crazy, I didn’t know what to do.’
‘It’s OK,’ he said, smoothing her hair. ‘It’s fine. You were upset. It’s forgotten.’
‘Christ, I’m sorry. Leon’s right, I’m a complete cow.’
‘Leon’s talking out of his arse. Forget it. It was nothing.’
He patted her back, beginning to feel uncomfortable. Daisy was gorgeous, and as stable as Semtex. One false move and he could find himself in a whole heap of shit with this situation. Firmly, he pushed her back, away from him. He didn’t want to – and that was the danger, right there. What he wanted was to go on holding Daisy, his dead brother’s wife. And that wasn’t on.
‘Let’s go get a brandy, you’ve had a shock,’ he said, reaching for the remote and switching off the telly. ‘I’ll phone Ruby, tell her we’ve had the call.’
And then Ruby would come back here, and he wouldn’t be alone with Daisy any more.
Safety in numbers, he thought.
He led the way into the sitting room, went to the drinks cabinet, and poured them both a Martell. He felt like he needed it too. Daisy sat down, wiped her eyes. The lamp-light fell on her hair, highlighting it to spun gold. She tucked her long legs up underneath her; she had great legs. He thought of the suede boots she’d been wearing on their drugs expedition and quickly yanked his mind off that. He handed her the glass of brandy, picked up the phone and made his calls. Tried not to look at her.
Failed.
He wondered where Kit was. And he wished his boss would come back, right now.
59
Kit was walking around a man who was suspended by a heavy chain, upside-down, from the rafters of a big disused barn way out on the Essex salt marshes. There were covered-up cars, engine parts and wheels stacked up around the interior of the barn, but a space had been cleared for the moment. Kit owned this place, and next week it was going to be bulldozed, turned over, shoved back into the ground.
The lads had been out on the London streets, passing the word, looking for this man, the one witnesses described as part of the gang that robbed the supermarket warehouse. Word spread fast, on the streets. And now they had the small, runty, blond man with wrinkles, bad teeth and a fistful of gold medallions around his neck. They didn’t have the black one. Not yet.
They’d tracked Runty down to an East End pub and the black had been there too, also flashing his money about – but the black had been stronger and quicker and had managed to leg it before they grabbed him. No matter. Him, they’d sort later.
Kit circled the man. There was blood all over the runt’s face and blood on the concrete floor, and his bad teeth wouldn’t be a problem any more because Kit had been laying into him with the baseball bat he held in his red-stained hands.
Kit’s face and his shirt front and his suit had caught spatters of the runt’s blood but he didn’t give a shit. His boys, six of them, stood around, watching. They’d divested the runt of his gold neck ornaments, hauled him up on the massive chain meant for removing car engines. Then Kit had moved in.
‘Who was really behind that warehouse job?’ asked Kit.
The runt gasped down a breath, spat blood. ‘Don’t know what you’re talking about,’ he rasped out. ‘Please . . . I dunno nothing.’
Kit thought of Rob, dead in a hospital morgue. He’d wanted to pulverize someone ever since the shooting, and now he had his chance. He took aim and smashed the baseball bat into the runt’s skull again.
The runt screamed, rocking on his chain.
‘Where’s your mate staying, the black one? You tell me that and you might get out of here.’ The runt was gasping, squirming. Kit drew the bat back again.
‘No!’ yelled the runt. ‘I’ll tell. All right? I’ll tell.’ He did.
‘There. Easy, wasn’t it?’ Kit moved in and patted the man’s sunken cheek. The runt flinched away from his touch. ‘Now the rest. Who set up the warehouse job?’
The blond shook his head again. Kit walked off to the far side of the shed where all the boys waited, watching in silence.
He was simmering with suppressed rage. He wanted to smash something. Bring Rob back to him. But he couldn’t. And knowing that made him furious. He turned to go back and start over, get the answers he needed, but Leon stepped forward first, pulled an army grenade from his jacket pocket. Before Kit could draw breath to stop him, he yanked the pin and lobbed the grenade. It hit the floor, bounced, and landed right underneath the runt.
‘No!’ he screamed.
Everyone scattered out the door.
The grenade exploded.
The runt stopped screaming. His head was gone.
Kit climbed back to his feet, his ears ringing from the blast. He stood there, breathing hard. Then he went back inside. The boys followed. In the shocked silence, blood dripped like a tap. He looked at Leon.
‘You. Fucking. Stupid. Maniac,’ said Kit, each word falling like a hammer blow.
He grabbed Leon and pulled out his gun and in fury shoved it up under Leon’s jaw. Leon was balanced on tiptoe all of a sudden, his eyes wildly staring into Kit’s, which were blazing. ‘You fucking cunt. You jumped-up little son of a bitch! You listen to me.’ Kit shook him, hard. ‘You don’t move until I tell you to.’ He shook him again. ‘You don’t even breathe without my permission.’ And again, harder. ‘Now. Have you got that?’
Leon swallowed, feeling the cold metal crushing his throat.
‘I got it,’ he managed to whisper.
‘You what?’ Kit growled. ‘I didn’t hear you.’
‘I got it!’ Leon choked out.
‘Fucking fool.’
Kit shoved Leon away from him, his face twisted with disgust. He slid the gun back into the shoulder holster. Leon backed away, clutching his throat. Kit turned to the others.
‘Clear this mess away,’ he snapped, and walked out.
60
It was gone two in the morning when Kit got back to Ruby’s place. No press there now, no nothing. All dead quiet. He let himself in and was surprised to find a light on in the sitting room. He went in there, stood in the open doorway.
Ruby was sitting in her dressing gown, nursing a brandy. She looked up and straightened in her chair with a jerk of alarm when she saw his hands, his shirt, his face, all spattered with blood.
‘It’s not mine,’ he said, reading her expression.
Ruby settled back. ‘What happened?’ she asked.
‘Caught up with one of the blokes from the warehouse job.’
‘Did you get anything out of him about it?’
Kit shook his head. ‘Not much. Leon blew it. Finished it off too quick. Stupid little bastard.’
Ruby paused for a beat. ‘Kit. He’s cut up over Rob. Whatever he’s done, you got to make allowances. He’s young and impulsive. Christ, you were like that once. I suppose all he’s trying to do is make a name for himself.’
‘Well he has, and it’s cunt.’ Kit drew a steadying breath. He was still fuming mad at Leon. They’d been that close to getting some answers, and he’d blown it. ‘Anything happening here?’
‘The police phoned earlier. They’re releasing Rob’s body for the funeral.’
‘Fuck.’ Carefully, Kit slipped off his stained jacket and put it aside. He’d burn it later, and the shirt, and the trousers. He glanced down. And the shoes. He sat down opposite Ruby.
‘Here, drink this.’ Ruby passed over her own half-full glass. ‘I couldn’t sleep. Kept thinking about everything. The wedding day. And now the funeral.’ She clutched her head as if it ached. ‘And there was something else I wanted to talk to you about. You know the missing girl, the murdered girl, Crystal Rose? Well, the man in the club buying her drinks and the man in the window firing the gun, it could be the same person.’
Kit sat silently, absorbing this. He gulped down the brandy. The
n he said: ‘The police know?’
Ruby nodded. ‘We went down the cop shop, me and Daniel. The Bill are going to put the club CCTV out on the TV news and appeal for information.’
61
‘You fucking idiot,’ said the man.
The killer was sitting in the house in central London again, the same one where he’d first accepted the job. The man sitting opposite him was literally quivering with fury as they both looked at the TV screen. On the BBC news, they were showing the CCTV from the burlesque club and asking for the public’s help in identifying the man who was now shown walking through the club behind the murdered Crystal Rose.
‘It’s nothing,’ said the killer. ‘Forget it. They’re never going to trace me from that.’
The dogs were at it again, small yappy things running around the room. The killer tucked his feet in so that they couldn’t touch him. Fucking dogs, he hated them. But his uncle seemed to dote on the bloody things.
Although he wouldn’t admit this, the killer didn’t feel quite so sure of himself now. He stared at the screen, at himself, and wished he’d never gone in there, never fucked the little twat, never had to wring her stupid bloody neck.
Women were always trouble.
Why hadn’t he remembered that?
His father had told him so, over and over, after Mother left when he was nine years old, taking her lapdog Kiki with her.
‘She didn’t care about you,’ his father had told him. ‘Or me, come to that. Thought more of that bloody dog of hers. But we’re all right on our own. Just you and me now, son. Just us.’
That dog had loved his mother but despised his father and even snapped at the son, whenever he came near. The killer had grown up an isolated only child, unable to make friends, but as he grew older women were his weakness and he found they were attracted to him. So he had no trouble getting female company. Keeping it? Quite another matter. After a few dates, they’d get tired of his lack of charm – that was something he reserved for first dates only, manufactured to get a woman into bed – and they’d scarper.
