The Business Of Dying

by Simon Kernick

  No blame was ever officially attached to me over the killing of thirty-three-year-old Darren John Reid (who, it turned out, had a grand total of twenty-nine convictions, including eleven for violence, four of which related to his missus), but it might as well have been. I was taken off any further firearms duties (and have been to this day); banned from keeping guns privately; and my path up the career ladder slowed down one hell of a lot over the next few years. Crime, it seems, only pays when you’re a criminal.

  I’m not a bad man, whatever those who like to sit in judgement may think. When I started out I really did believe I could make a difference. My sole motivation was to take the bad guys off the street and bring them to account for the crimes they’d committed. After the Reid shooting, I slowly stopped caring. I suppose I finally realized what all defence lawyers know: however well intentioned its designers may have been, the law in practice only serves to help the criminal, hinder the police, and ignore the victim.

  Having got to a point when I was as cynical as that, it was only a matter of time before I fell in with the wrong company. The wrong company being, in my case, about as wrong as you can get, although when I first started doing business with Raymond Keen, one of North London’s more colourful entrepreneurs, I wasn’t to know quite how far it would go.

  I’ve had a business relationship with Raymond for about seven years now. At first it wasn’t too serious; nothing like that ever is. Just a few tips here and there, a helpful advance warning of impending police action, a sale of the odd bit of dope that went missing from police custody. Small things, but like cancerous lumps, small things that inevitably grow bigger. I wasn’t even that surprised when two years ago he asked me to kill a bent businessman who was refusing point blank to pay him the twenty-two grand he owed him. The businessman was a nasty piece of work. One of his sidelines was importing kiddie porn. Raymond offered me ten grand to get rid of him. ‘It’ll strike a blow for creditors everywhere,’ he’d said, although I wasn’t quite sure how many creditors would follow his example and write off their debts with that degree of permanence. But ten grand’s a lot of money, especially when you’re on a copper’s wage and, once again, he wasn’t the sort of bloke anyone was going to miss. So one night I waited for him outside the lock-up he used. When he came out and walked over to his car, I emerged from the shadows and followed. As he opened the door, I pushed the silencer against the back of his hairless head and pulled the trigger. One shot was all it needed, but I added a second for good measure. Pop pop. All over. And I was ten grand richer. It was very easy.

  But three men dead in one go? Danny was right; there was going to be a lot of heat over this one, although Raymond, who was the instigator of the whole thing, didn’t appear too worried that any of it would get back to him. But then Raymond wasn’t really the worrying type – which, I suppose, in his line of business, is something of a plus.

  It was getting late. I drained my wine, drank a glass of water from the tap so that I didn’t dehydrate myself, and made my way to bed. Looking back now, I already had a bad feeling about the whole thing but I was trying hard not to admit it to myself. Raymond Keen had paid me forty grand for killing those men. It was a lot of money, even after Danny had got his 20 per cent cut. Enough to justify a lot of things.

  But nothing like enough to justify what was to follow.

  3

  Things started going downhill at exactly ten past eight the next morning. I’d been up for about twenty minutes and was in the kitchen making myself some toast for breakfast when the landline rang. It was Danny, which was a bit of a surprise. I hadn’t expected to hear from him today. He sounded agitated.

  ‘Dennis, what the fuck’s going on?’

  ‘What the fuck’s going on, what?’

  ‘Have you not seen the news this morning?’

  I experienced the first stirrings of fear in my gut. ‘No. No, I haven’t. What’s the problem?’

  ‘The targets, that’s the problem.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘They weren’t who you said they were, Dennis. Just switch the TV on and you’ll find out.’

  I paused for a moment, trying to collect my thoughts. This wasn’t what I wanted to hear. The most important thing, though, was not to say too much over the phone. ‘All right, listen. Sit tight; don’t worry about anything. I’ll check things out and call you back later.’

  ‘This is bad, Dennis. Very bad.’

  ‘I’ll call you back later, OK? Just stay calm and carry on as normal.’

  I rang off and immediately looked around for my cigarettes. I needed to think things through, to try to locate what the fuck had gone wrong.

  When I’d found them, I lit one, went through to the sitting room and flicked on the TV. I didn’t hang about, I went straight to the news channel, but they were already on to something else. So I flicked on Ceefax, unable to suppress the feeling of dread at what I was going to see. I knew it was going to be bad; it was just a case of how bad.

  It was the top story. Unlike the other stories, the headline was in bold block capitals, telling even the most shortsighted viewer that this was big news.

  I had committed these three murders for Raymond Keen. Raymond had told me that the men were drug dealers, violent drug dealers, who were causing some associates of his serious trouble. But the headline staring back at me wasn’t saying that at all. It was saying, TWO CUSTOMS OFFICERS AND ONE CIVILIAN GUNNED DOWN OUTSIDE HOTEL.

  For a couple of seconds, I had this irrational idea that I’d opened fire on the occupants of the wrong Cherokee, but a couple of seconds was all I needed to scupper that particular one. I’d shot the people I was meant to shoot all right, but the fact was he’d set me up. For whatever reason, he’d wanted these men out of the way and had duped me into killing them. He knew that if he told me they were violent criminals whose business was supplying the masses with hard drugs, I’d have no problem pulling the trigger.

  I sighed loudly and sat back on the sofa, willing myself to calm down. A serious mistake had been made, there was no denying that. But it had been Raymond who had orchestrated it. What mattered now was that I kept my nerve. There’d be a far bigger police operation to find the killers of two hard-working customs officers than there would have been to find the people who’d put away three low-level gangsters, which meant I was going to have to be extremely careful. I needed to know what it was these customs officers were doing, and who the hell the civilian was who was with them. Armed with that knowledge I could at least work out how likely it was that the police could get on to Raymond. The whole thing was odd because I didn’t think Raymond would ever get himself involved in the type of situation that put him and his business empire at risk. You don’t get to his position and stay there by executing representatives of the forces of law and order.

  I possess a mobile phone that’s registered in the name of a man I’ve never met before, and that man always pays the bills. Whenever I need to make contact with Raymond I use that phone, and I used it now.

  Unfortunately, it was Luke who answered. Luke is Raymond’s personal assistant and bodyguard. He’s the strong, silent type who tends to look at you as if you’ve just patted his bottom and blown him a kiss; all simmering rage and barely suppressed violence. Legend has it he once broke a love rival’s legs with his bare hands, and he’s supposedly an expert at some highfalutin martial art whose name I forget. Useful to have around in bar-room brawls, but that’s about it.

  ‘Yeah,’ he grunted, by way of a greeting.

  ‘It’s Dennis, I need to speak to Raymond.’

  ‘Mr Keen’s not available.’

  ‘When’s he going to be available?’

  ‘I can’t tell you that.’

  Conversations with Luke can be frustrating. He always acts like he’s the heavy in a very cheap gangster flick.

  ‘Give him a message. Tell him I need to speak to him urgently. Very urgently. He’ll know what it’s about.’

  ‘I’ll let h
im know you called.’

  ‘Do that. And if I don’t hear from him by the end of the morning, then I’ll come looking for him.’

  ‘Mr Keen doesn’t like threats.’

  ‘I’m not threatening him. I’m just telling you what’ll happen if I don’t hear from him.’

  He started to say something else but I didn’t bother waiting around to find out what it was. I rang off and put the phone in the pocket of my dressing gown. What a start to the fucking day.

  I’m not a panicker by nature. I can sometimes be thrown off course by a shock, especially a big one, but I can generally pull myself together without too much difficulty. This, though, was different. Not only had I jeopardized my livelihood and freedom, I’d broken every moral rule I’ve ever made. I’d killed men who, on the surface of it at least, didn’t deserve it.

  I went back into the sitting room, located another cigarette and lit it, coughing violently as the smoke charged down my throat. I switched off the Ceefax and aimlessly flicked through the channels.

  The phone rang again. The landline, not the mobile. I let it ring. It wouldn’t be Raymond, and if it was Danny, I didn’t want to talk to him for a while. Not until I had a better idea of what I was going to do. After five rings the answerphone kicked in. My bored voice told the caller I wasn’t in but if he left a message with a number and the reason why he was calling me, I’d get back to him. Or her, I suppose. If my luck was in.

  The beep went, then my immediate boss’s voice came on the line. I nearly jumped out of the seat. What the fuck did he want? Surely the trap hadn’t closed that quickly?

  ‘Dennis, it’s Karl.’ His voice sounded weary. ‘I need you in now.’ There was a short pause before he continued. ‘I’m down at the canal just behind All Saints Street. It’s eight twenty-five a.m. and we’ve got a body down here. If you get this message within the next two hours, make your way over. Otherwise just get down to the station. Cheers.’

  He hung up.

  As if I didn’t have enough work on my plate without a murder to add to it. I was already investigating two rapes, an armed robbery, a missing housewife, a motiveless stabbing, and Christ knows how many muggings. All of which had occurred in the last month. In the last seven days I’d put in a grand total of fifty-nine hours’ work on the job, as well as organizing last night’s little foray, and I was exhausted. The problem these days was twofold: one, we didn’t have anything like the manpower we used to have, or that our colleagues have abroad, because no one wants to be a copper any more; and two, we have far more crime, especially crimes of violence. I suppose the one is caused by the other, at least in part. There’s something about criminals these days too – and I’m not counting myself here: they tend to use violence a lot more casually. They take more pleasure in it too. Hurting or killing someone is no longer simply a by-product of committing a crime. To a lot of people it’s part and parcel of the buzz they get out of it. At least when I’d put people down, I thought I was doing the world a favour. I might have made mistakes, but they were mistakes made in good faith.

  I continued smoking the cigarette until it was down to the butt, then I used it to light another one. When that one was halfway down, I knew I could hold back no longer. The thing is, I can never sit still when there’s a new investigation starting, particularly a murder. I get a kick out of catching killers – maybe for the wrong reasons, I don’t know, but it makes me feel good letting them know it’s me who put them down, fucked up their whole lives.

  And, if nothing else, getting involved in this one would at least stop me mulling over matters I could do nothing about.

  So I stubbed out the cigarette in the already overflowing ashtray and headed down to Regent’s Canal, the grimy scene of many a heinous crime.

  4

  It was twenty to ten and raining when I arrived at the murder site. A uniformed officer stood at the entrance to the towpath talking to a guy in a trench-coat who looked like a journalist. It’s amazing how quick these people sniff out a story; it’s like they’ve got an extra sense that can detect a fresh kill from miles away. I pushed my way past the journo, who gave me a dirty look but thought better of saying anything, and nodded to the uniform. I recognized him from the station, although I couldn’t put a name to him, and he evidently recognized me because he stepped aside and let me through.

  This part of the canal was fairly well looked after. The old warehouses had been knocked down to be replaced by office blocks that were built a few yards further back from the water’s edge. A well-trimmed lawn had been laid down in the extra space with a couple of benches to add to the park-like feel.

  The painstaking, monotonous hunt for clues was already in full flow. There were about two dozen people widely scattered across the scene as they picked, probed and photographed every patch of earth. At the canal’s edge stood four police divers, fully kitted up, ready to enter the treacle-like water. One of them was talking to DCI Knox, my boss’s boss. He would be the senior investigating officer on a case like this, responsible for making sure that the investigation ran smoothly and nothing was missed. Almost certainly the key to a conviction lay in these few square yards.

  A tent had been erected at the entrance to a narrow gap between two of the buildings. This was where the body would be and where it would remain until it had been examined and photographed in minute detail. I could see my boss standing next to the tent, talking to one of the forensic team. I made my way over, nodding to two CID men I recognized: Hunsdon and Smith. They were standing by one of the benches taking a statement from an old guy who had a Jack Russell on a lead. I guessed the old guy had discovered the body. His face was pale and troubled, and he kept shaking his head, as if he couldn’t believe what he’d seen, which he probably couldn’t. It’s always difficult for people when they come into contact with the handiwork of murderers for the first time.

  My boss turned round and nodded a curt greeting as I approached. It was a cold day, but DI Karl Welland was sweating. I thought he didn’t look well. This was nothing new. He was overweight, red in the face, highly stressed, and, if my memory served me right, the wrong side of fifty. Hardly a candidate for a ripe old age. He looked worse today than usual, though, and his pale skin was covered in vivid red blotches. I felt like telling him he needed a holiday, but I didn’t. It’s not my business to offer lifestyle advice to my superiors.

  He excused himself from the conversation he was having and led me into the tent. ‘It never gets easier, you know,’ he said.

  ‘The dead’ll always keep dying, sir,’ I told him.

  ‘Perhaps, but do they have to die like this?’

  I stopped and looked where he was facing. The girl couldn’t have been more than eighteen. She was lying on her back in the paved alleyway between the two buildings, legs and arms splayed open in a rough star shape. Her throat had been cut so deeply that the wound had come close to severing her head, which was tilted at an odd angle to the rest of her; thick dried blood had splattered across her face and formed in irregular pools on either side of the body. Her black cocktail dress had been ripped badly around the chest area, exposing a small pointed breast. It had also been pulled up round her waist. She hadn’t been wearing any underwear, or, if she had, she wasn’t any longer.

  There was also a lot of congealed blood around the vaginal area, suggesting that her killer had stabbed her there as well, although I thought immediately that this would have been done after death as there didn’t appear to be any defensive wounds on her hands or lower arms. She had died quite quickly, I was sure of that. Her face was screwed up in pain and her dark eyes bulged out, but there was no fear in them. Surprise maybe, shock even, but no fear. She was still wearing one of her shoes, a black stiletto. The other lay on its side a few feet away.

  ‘She must have been freezing dressed like that,’ I said, noting that she wasn’t wearing any stockings or tights, nor were there any in the vicinity of the body.

  ‘Looks that way,’ said Welland. ‘She w
as partially covered with an old rug when we found her. It’s already gone off to the lab.’

  ‘What do we know so far?’ I asked, still looking down at the corpse.

  ‘Not a lot. She was found just before eight o’clock this morning by a bloke walking his dog. There hasn’t been a great deal of effort to conceal her, and it doesn’t look like she’s been here that long.’

  ‘I’d say by the way she was dressed, she was a tom.’

  ‘I think that’s probably a fair assumption.’

  ‘Goes off with a punter to a nice secluded spot, he pulls the knife out, puts a hand over her mouth, and the rest is history.’

  ‘Looks that way, but we can’t tell for sure. A lot of girls go out scantily clad these days. Even in weather like this. The first thing we need to do is identify her. You’re on the squad for this one, Dennis. DC Malik’ll be working alongside you, and you’ll be reporting to me. DCI Knox is the SIO.’

  ‘I’ve got a lot on at the moment, sir.’

  ‘You’re going to have a busy week, then. I’m sorry, Dennis, but we’re short on bodies, if you’ll excuse the pun. Very short. And it seems the world’s lowlifes are all busy at the moment. What can I do?’

  What could he do? He was right, of course. We were snowed under, and in those circumstances it’s a case of all hands to the pumps. I was already losing my initial enthusiasm, though. It just didn’t look at first glance like it was going to be an easy case. If this girl was a prostitute, it was highly likely we had a sex killer on our hands. If he’d been a clever boy and had worn gloves and avoided leaving any liquid evidence at the scene of the crime, then finding him was going to be an uphill battle. Whichever way you looked at it there was going to be a lot of legwork.