The Business Of Dying

by Simon Kernick

  The shooting incident at the Gallan was frontpage news, as I’d expected. However, at the time of going to press, details were still fairly limited. They’d named the dead police officer as Detective Constable David Carrick, aged twenty-nine, but the man I’d despatched remained anonymous. I wondered if they’d ever find out who he was. The report confirmed that a third man had suffered gunshot wounds at the scene and was now under police guard in hospital, where his condition was described as serious but not life-threatening. For the most part, the story revolved around the drama of the shoot-out, with the inevitable witness reports, but it was clear its authors didn’t have any real idea what it had been all about. There was a quote from one of the Met’s assistant chief constables saying that gun crime, though on the rise, was under control in London, although I don’t suppose many of the readers believed him. The paper’s leader column assumed that drugs had been the motive behind the shooting and claimed that the government was going to have to do something radical to quell demand among the nation’s youth. Which was a sensible enough viewpoint, even if it remained to be seen whether drugs had actually been the motive in this case. Whatever Raymond and his associate, Mehmet Illan, were involved in was still a mystery. The only thing you could say for sure was that it was both illegal and highly profitable. Drugs, I suppose, was as good a guess as any.

  When I’d finished eating and reading, I carried on down the Bayswater Road in the direction of Marble Arch and stopped when I found a phone box just off the main thoroughfare. I wasn’t sure how Malik would react to my call – badly, probably – but he was in a better position than me to do something about the Miriam Fox case.

  He answered his mobile after one ring. ‘DS Malik.’

  ‘Asif, it’s me. Can you talk?’

  There was a short silence.

  ‘About my call last night—’

  ‘Look, what the hell’s going on, Sarge? The word is you’re involved in a lot of very bad stuff, that you had something to do with the shooting last night. A police officer got killed—’

  ‘I won’t piss you about, Asif. I’ve had some problems. I’ve got into bed with a few of the wrong people—’

  ‘Oh shit, Sarge. You of all people. Why the fuck did it have to be you?’ He sounded genuinely hurt.

  ‘It’s not what you think.’

  ‘Isn’t it? They told us this morning that you’re a strong suspect in the Traveller’s Rest killings. Is that why you were so interested in how the investigation was going?’

  ‘Oh, for Christ’s sake, Asif. It’s me you’re talking to. The man you’ve worked with for four years. Do you really believe I’m a triple murderer?’ I was conscious that there were probably people listening in to this call and they would be trying to trace its source urgently.

  ‘So what were you doing up there that night? They said you were stopped at a roadblock near the scene.’

  ‘I was stopped, but I was on the way back from Clavering. I’ve got a woman up there, someone I see occasionally.’

  ‘You’ve never told me about her.’

  ‘She’s married. You wouldn’t have approved. But that’s not what I’m phoning about. Believe what you want to believe, there’s nothing I can do about that. But I want you to investigate Carla Graham. She’s definitely involved in the Miriam Fox killing and maybe those other disappearances I was telling you about as well.’

  ‘How do you know?’ He was trying to keep me talking, there was no doubt about that.

  ‘I just do. She knew things only someone involved could know, and that’s definite. All I’m asking is that you put some tabs on her, check her background. Maybe even lean on Wells some more.’

  ‘We can’t. He’s been charged.’

  I exhaled loudly. ‘Just look into her background. That’s all I’m asking.’

  ‘All right, I’ll see what I can do.’ There was a short pause. ‘What were those men after you for last night?’

  ‘Because I made a mistake. I got involved in something I shouldn’t have, and now they want to make me pay the price.’

  ‘I never took you to be corrupt, Sarge . . . Dennis. What the hell made you think you could get away with it?’

  I ignored the question. ‘I’m sorry. I truly am.’ I wanted to say something else, but I didn’t know what, and I didn’t have the time anyway. He started to repeat the question but I hung up, sad that now even he was against me. But not really that surprised.

  I jogged across the road and into Hyde Park, feeling like a pariah. I didn’t think they’d had time to get a trace on me, but there was no point hanging around to get proved wrong, so I made my way slowly back to Bayswater, figuring that my next move was to buy some clothes and a toothbrush.

  32

  As the day wore on, I couldn’t help thinking that Carla Graham was going to get away with her role in the murder of Miriam Fox. Malik hadn’t seemed overly interested in what I had to say; even if he did believe me, there was no way Knox or Capper or anyone else was going to act on it. In the end, what was there to act on? Just the word of a disgraced police officer who was now on the run.

  It bothered me that justice wouldn’t be done. I suppose you could say that justice is rarely done in this world and that the vast majority of people don’t get the fate they deserve, but that would be missing the point. I knew Carla Graham had done wrong and I wanted her to be called to account for it. I also wanted to find out whether she could shed any light on what had happened to Molly Hagger and Anne Taylor. I was pretty certain by now that Molly was dead and it was important to me to find out why and how. And who it was who’d killed her. It would, I thought, be a chance to atone for my many sins. Even if no one ever realized that I’d solved the case and punished the perpetrators, at least I would have the satisfaction of having redeemed myself in my own eyes. Which was a lot better than nothing.

  It wasn’t going to be easy to get Carla to talk voluntarily, I knew that. Knowing her, she’d already have some story concocted as to how she’d found out about the manner of Miriam Fox’s death – she was obviously pretty creative in that department – and would be fully aware that one verbal slip-up on her part to a man who’d just resigned from the police force was not exactly going to do a great deal to build a criminal case against her. But get her to talk I would. Carla Graham was a tough cookie who’d be able to withstand some pretty rigorous questioning, but this time it wouldn’t do her any good. I would be visiting her in a very unofficial capacity. And with nothing to lose.

  * * *

  By four o’clock that afternoon, I’d decided on my strategy. At ten past, I found a callbox in Kensington, phoned the North London Echo, asking to speak to Roy Shelley. I went on hold to the sound of Marvin Gaye’s ‘Heard it Through the Grapevine’, and it was about a minute before he finally came on the line.

  ‘Dennis Milne. Fuck me, I haven’t heard from you in a while. What do you want? Renew your subscription?’

  ‘No, I might have something for you. Something that’ll sell a lot of papers.’

  ‘Oh yeah?’

  ‘But I need something from you first.’

  ‘You’re not pissing me about, are you, Dennis? No disrespect, but I don’t want to waste my time here. There’s talk of redundancies at this place at the moment and I don’t want to be first in the queue.’

  ‘You’ll be last in the queue if you run this story, Roy. It’s big stuff, I promise you. The sort of stuff the nationals love.’

  I could almost hear his interest cranking up at the other end. I’d known Roy Shelley a long time. He was what you’d call an old-school reporter. A pisshead who could sniff out information faster than any copper I knew.

  ‘Can you give us a little snifter?’ he asked. ‘Just so I’ve got some sort of idea what to expect.’

  ‘Not yet, but I promise you it’ll be one hell of a lot better than you can imagine. It might even turn out to be the story of your career. But, like I said, I need something from you first.’

  ‘What
?’ His tone was suspicious.

  ‘Does the name Mehmet Illan mean anything to you?’

  He thought about it for a moment. ‘No. Should it?’

  ‘I don’t know. But can you do me a favour and find out anything you can about him? He’s Turkish, I think.’

  ‘Well, he would be with a name like that.’

  ‘I would imagine he’s based somewhere in North London, and he’s definitely involved in a lot of dodgy dealing.’

  ‘What kind of dodgy dealing?’

  ‘I’m not a hundred per cent sure, but I think, if you ask around enough, you’ll find people who know him. But try to be discreet.’

  ‘And is this guy part of the story you’ve got?’

  ‘He’s a part of it, yes. But just a part. There’s a lot more besides. How soon can you get me the info on him?’

  ‘It could take a day or two.’

  ‘Too long, Roy. I need it fast. The sooner I get it, the sooner you get your story.’

  ‘Dennis, I don’t even know who the bloke is.’

  ‘Yeah, but you can find out. That’s why I called you. I’m uncontactable at the moment, but I’ll call you back at ten a.m. tomorrow. If you can get me the gen by then, I’d appreciate it.’

  ‘This’d better be a good story, Dennis.’

  ‘It is. I promise you. And something else too.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Whatever you do, don’t tell anyone I called. And don’t make any attempt to get hold of me either. I can’t explain why at the moment, but all will be revealed very shortly.’

  ‘Christ Almighty, you’re sounding like a fucking Robert Ludlum book. At least give me a sniff of what’s going on.’

  ‘Roy, if I could, I would. But I can’t. Not for a day or two anyway. Just be patient. It’ll be worth it.’

  He started to ask another question, but I said my goodbyes and hung up.

  After that, I made another phone call, but the person I was after wasn’t in. No matter. It could wait.

  I stepped out of the phone box and hailed a passing black cab. I got him to drop me off halfway up Upper Street, paid him his money, and went to pick up my car, which was parked on an adjoining street a couple of hundred yards up from my flat. I knew they’d be looking out for me on the off chance that I was stupid enough to return home, but they’d only have a couple of people watching the place, and my car was parked far enough away to avoid getting spotted. I was relieved to see that it was exactly where I’d left it more than a week earlier, which for London is pretty good going. It started first time, too. Maybe my luck was changing.

  My first port of call was Camden Town. After hunting around for what seemed like a long time, I found a free meter on a residential street and then made my way over to Camden High Street to get my bearings before heading in the direction of Coleman House. I passed the pub where I’d first had a drink with Carla only a week earlier and, after hesitating for a moment, went inside. At this time in the afternoon it was still quiet, with only a sprinkling of students, old codgers, and the unemployable dotted about the place. That would all change in half an hour when the after-work crowd started to pour in.

  I ordered a pint of Pride from the bar and asked the barman where the payphone was. He told me it was in the corridor leading to the toilets. There was no one around when I walked in, so I dialled Coleman House reception.

  ‘Carla Graham, please,’ I asked in as official a voice as I could muster.

  ‘She’s not here at the moment,’ said the voice at the other end, a woman whose tones I didn’t recognize. ‘Can I ask who’s calling, please?’

  ‘Frank Black. Black’s Office Supplies. I’m actually returning her call. She was interested in some prices.’

  ‘Can I put you through to her assistant, Sara?’

  ‘Well, it’s actually Miss Graham I need to speak to. Do you know when she’s back?’

  ‘I’m afraid she won’t be in until tomorrow now. She’s at a seminar this afternoon.’

  I said I’d phone back, and hung up. After that, I tried Len Runnion’s number again, but there was still no answer.

  I went back into the bar, took a stool facing the wall near the door, and drank my drink. A mirror stretched right around the wall at head height, and my reflection stared back at me mournfully. I looked a mess, mainly because I hadn’t shaved that day, which was deliberate. I was growing a beard now, in keeping with my passport photo. I was also going to have to fatten up a bit. I’d been at least half a stone heavier in the photo, and to be on the safe side I wanted to add another half stone on top of that. I’d had a McDonald’s for lunch, which had been a good start, but I was going to have to have a similarly fatty supper for it to have any effect. From now on I was on a diet of greasy, bad food in large quantities until further notice. And I’d probably be one of the first people in the world to actually benefit from it.

  I felt like I needed Dutch courage for what I was about to do, so I ordered another pint and drank that with a couple of cigarettes and a bag of cheese and onion crisps I didn’t want but felt sure I ought to have. By the time I’d finished it, the predicted after-work crowd had materialized and the bar was three deep with loud, suited individuals and young secretaries out for a good time. The clock above the bar told me it was twenty past five.

  Outside, darkness had long since fallen and the streets were crowded with commuters and early Christmas shoppers. The day after tomorrow would be the first of December. The year had gone fast, as they always seem to do. This time, however, I’d be glad when it had been and gone. Memorable it might turn out to be, but for all the wrong reasons.

  By the time I got back to the car it had started raining. I jumped in and fought my way through the crawling rush-hour traffic, hoping that I got to Carla’s flat before she did. My plan was to wait outside until she arrived, then apprehend her at the door. I’d try to get inside through charm alone – I didn’t want to cause a scene – but if she didn’t want to play ball, I’d pull the gun I’d taken ownership of the previous night. I didn’t think she’d argue with that. After that, I’d play it by ear.

  But the traffic was a lot worse than I’d expected and I wasn’t totally sure of my bearings, so it was well gone six when I pulled into Carla’s cul-de-sac. I managed to squeeze into a parking space about twenty yards down from her building and cut the engine. I could make out her flat through the outstretched skeletal branches of a beech tree.

  There were several lights on. So she was home.

  I cursed silently. I should have got there earlier rather than dawdled over my pints. Now it was going to be difficult to get inside. I lit a cigarette and weighed up my options. I didn’t think she’d let me in if I rang on her buzzer. We’d hardly parted on the best of terms, and she had no reason to talk to me. What was I going to say? That I wanted to come up and accuse her of murder for a second time? Breaking in was another option, but I remembered the building’s security system being fairly elaborate. The door had been new and the lock was a five-bar. I didn’t think my housebreaking skills stretched to that, not without equipment.

  Which meant waiting for an opportunity to present itself. I finished the cigarette, took a swig from a bottle of Coke I’d brought with me, and lit another cigarette, wondering what I was going to do when and if she admitted her part in the whole thing. I could hardly make a citizen’s arrest, not in my position, and I didn’t think I had the stomach to kill her in cold blood. Which kind of cut down my options. Yet somehow I still felt that I was doing the right thing by coming here. That I had to get to the bottom of this before I could continue with my life.

  I think I’d been there about ten minutes, maybe a bit less, when a car drove into the cul-de-sac looking for a parking space. I slid down in my seat, not wanting to draw attention to myself, and the car continued past. When it got to the end it made a torturously slow U-turn in the limited space available and drove back out again. About a minute later, I saw the driver, a middle-aged businessman, walk past on
Carla’s side of the road. He stopped when he came to Carla’s building and fished about in his coat pocket for his keys.

  I stepped out of the car and crossed the street as casually as possible, coming up behind him as he was mounting the steps. He heard my footfalls and whirled round, his face etched with the automatic fear city dwellers always experience when someone approaches them from behind at night. His expression eased a bit when he saw it was a man in a shirt and tie, but remained suspicious nevertheless.

  ‘Yes. Can I help you?’

  I pulled out my warrant card and showed it to him. ‘I’m here to see Miss Carla Graham,’ I said authoritatively, looking him right in the eye. ‘I understand she lives on the top floor.’

  He put his key in the door. ‘That’s right. Well, you’d better buzz her—’

  ‘I’d rather she didn’t know who it was, sir. You see, I’m not one hundred per cent sure she’ll want to speak to us.’

  He looked at me curiously but decided in the end that I was probably who I said I was, and turned the key in the lock. ‘I assume you know where to go,’ he said, as I followed him inside.

  ‘Yes, I do. Thanks.’

  ‘Sorry to seem suspicious, but you know what it’s like.’

  ‘Dead right. You can never be too careful these days.’

  He moved off down the hall and I made my way up the stairs, remembering back to that night just three days ago when I’d walked up them the first time. A lot had changed since then.

  When I got up to the third floor, I stopped outside her door and listened carefully. The television was on with the volume turned up high. It sounded as though it was switched to the news. I pressed my ear against the door and tried to pick out any other sounds, but couldn’t hear anything.

  I reached down and tried the handle, but it wouldn’t give. The door was locked, so I leaned down and checked the lock itself. It was an easy one. Reaching into my pocket, I pulled a credit card from my wallet and manoeuvred it into the tiny gap between the door and skirting. The lock gave without resistance, and slowly I turned the handle.