Die Twice

by Simon Kernick

  ‘I understand you’ve been told the news,’ he said, making only a cursory attempt to contain his pleasure.

  ‘That’s right. Congratulations.’

  He swung round slowly in Welland’s mock leather seat. ‘Thank you. Now, I want us to work together, Dennis. I know we haven’t always seen eye to eye in the past, had our ups and downs, but it’s important we all pull in the same direction.’

  ‘I agree,’ I said, avoiding calling him sir.

  ‘How did it go this afternoon at the newsagent’s? Do we know who did it?’

  ‘I can’t say for sure, but I think the one with the knife’s Jamie Delly.’

  Delly was the fourth and youngest boy in a family of petty criminals, all of whom possessed a nasty streak. He’d first been nicked at the age of eight for trying to set his school on fire; ten years earlier his mum had assaulted me with a frozen leg of New Zealand lamb when I’d tried to arrest her for shoplifting.

  ‘That little toe-rag. Bit out of his league, isn’t it?’

  ‘Well, he’s growing up now. Time to move on from nicking kids’ dinner money and shoplifting.’

  ‘Didn’t his mother—?’

  ‘Yeah, yeah. Leg of lamb…’

  ‘You’re lucky you didn’t get the chop.’ Capper grinned at his wit, showing an unruly set of stained teeth. I would have grinned too if I hadn’t heard the joke at least a hundred times before. ‘Can we get him for this?’ he asked, becoming serious again.

  ‘I should think so, if the proprietor’s missus can pick him out in an ID.’

  ‘Get one organized, will you?’ he said in a tone that almost begged him to round off the sentence with a ‘there’s a good lad’. I nodded, and said that I would, keen not to rise to the bait, although wondering how long I was going to be able to put up with this man as my boss. ‘Another thing, Dennis, before you go. I understand you were trying to take over Hunsdon’s end of the Fox inquiry, telling him you’d chase up the information on the phone records. Is that right?’

  ‘I thought there might be something in there somewhere that could be of use.’

  ‘And you didn’t think DC Hunsdon was capable of finding it?’ He eyed me closely.

  ‘I was just interested in seeing what I could find. Hunsdon had to make a couple of phone calls, I offered to make them for him.’

  ‘We’ve charged someone, Dennis, all right? That’s it, end of story. I can’t have officers of mine going over old ground. We haven’t got time. And if for some reason you’re not busy enough, I can always assign you some more cases. Because we’ve got plenty of them.’

  ‘OK, point taken.’

  ‘Have you chased up these records?’

  Instinctively I decided not to tell him. ‘No. No, I haven’t.’

  ‘Good. Don’t bother. Concentrate on the stuff that’s assigned to you, OK? And if there’s anything I can do to help, let me know. Like I say, I want us to work together.’

  I asked him if that was all. He said it was.

  ‘I’ll get back to work, then,’ I said, but I didn’t. I got my coat, told

  Malik I’d see him in the morning, and headed out of there.

  16

  I stopped at the Roving Wolf for a quick pint, then caught the bus home through the rush-hour traffic. It was half past six when I walked in the door, and I rang Danny’s home number as soon as I’d shut it behind me.

  He answered after three rings. ‘Right,’ I said, without preamble. ‘Do as I say. Go to the nearest phone box, get its number, then phone me with it. Stay where you are and I’ll phone you back.’ He started to ask what it was all about, but I cut him off.

  Five minutes later he called back and gave me the number. I wrote it down, then called it using Raymond’s mobile.

  ‘Christ, what the hell’s this all about?’ he asked, picking up the phone. ‘What’s all this cloak-and-dagger stuff?’

  ‘I wanted to be able to speak freely,’ I said. ‘I got a call this morning, Danny. From your sister.’

  ‘Oh, shit.’

  ‘Yeah, that’s what I thought. Now, tell me something. What the fuck are you phoning her for? I told you to just keep calm and let everything blow over.’

  ‘I know, I know. It’s just that it’s fucking difficult, Dennis. You know, I can’t stop thinking about what happened. I’m even dreaming about it. I was in the pub last night and there was even talk that it had something to do with the Adamses. Do you know anything about that?’

  The Adamses, for those who’ve not heard of them, are the shadowy North London crime family few people tend to know anything about, but whose name is usually linked to any so-called gangland crime where there are no immediate suspects. I’d have bet my life that Raymond had never even met one of the Adams family, let alone agreed to commit murder for them.

  ‘Don’t be fucking daft, Danny,’ I told him. ‘Do you really think I’d get involved with people like that? And do you genuinely believe that people like the Adamses sub out this sort of thing to blokes they don’t even know. They’ve got plenty of resources of their own. So, who was saying all this shit, then?’

  ‘There was a bloke called Steve Fairley in there. He was saying it. I wouldn’t have taken much notice if it had been anyone else, but he’s a bit of a player. Knows about these things. That’s what worried me.’

  I knew Steve Fairley. Tomboy had told me about him. If he was a player, then he was very much Vauxhall Conference. ‘And you reckon the Adamses decided to tell him all about it, do you? You know, make sure as many people know about it as possible?’

  ‘Look, I know it sounds stupid—’

  ‘You’re right. It does.’

  He sighed. ‘It’s just getting to me, that’s all.’

  ‘But telling your sister, Danny, of all people. I mean, what the hell’s she going to do to help you out of your predicament? Give you a character reference? Now she’s been on to me saying she thinks you’re in trouble, and can I go and visit you and find out what’s wrong, and then get back to her. I don’t need this, Danny.’

  ‘I’m sorry, I really am. It won’t happen again.’

  ‘It better not.’ I almost told him it was that sort of talk that could get us all killed, but held back. There was no point making him even more jittery than he already was.

  ‘I didn’t tell her anything important, I promise.’

  ‘You told her you’d saved up some money, that got her suspicions going straight away.’

  ‘Yeah, but there’s no way she can link that to anything that’s happened.’

  ‘No, that’s right, but if you start pouring out your heart every time you’ve had a few drinks then sooner or later something might slip out, something that could incriminate you and me, and that’d be a truly fucking stupid way to get caught. Now, let me tell you something. Every day that passes means they’re less likely to catch us. The trail gets that little bit colder. Like I’ve said all along, all you need to do is keep calm and everything’ll be fine. If it’s any consolation, the only person who’s got any idea of your involvement is me, and I’m not going to say a word to anyone. So you’re OK, understand?’

  ‘Yeah, yeah, I understand. I’ll make sure I keep shtum. It was just one of those things.’

  ‘Look, now you’ve got some money, why don’t you take a little holiday? Get away for a few weeks. It’s got to be better than sitting around trying to think of all the things that could possibly go wrong.’

  ‘Yeah, maybe you’re right.’

  ‘When was the last time you had a holiday?’

  ‘Shit, I don’t know. Ages ago.’

  ‘Well, fuck it. Treat yourself. It’s dogshit weather. You’re not going to be missing much. And by the time you come back all this will have died down and everyone’ll be talking about some other heinous crime.’

  ‘You’ve got a point. Maybe I will.’ There was a long pause. Eventually he spoke again. ‘I’m sorry, Dennis. I really am. I won’t fuck up like that again.’

  ‘I
know you won’t,’ I told him. ‘I know you’re not that fucking stupid.’

  ‘What are you going to tell Jean?’

  I thought about it for a minute. ‘I’ll tell her I talked to you and that you’ve turned over a new leaf. Rather than aid and abet criminals in their criminal ways, you now try to put them behind bars where they belong. I’ll tell her you’re a police informant and that’s how you’ve made some money, but that it’s all very hush hush and she can’t talk about it to anyone for fear of blowing your cover. Hopefully that way she’ll leave you alone. What do you think?’

  ‘I think you’re a cunning bastard, Dennis.’

  ‘Take that holiday, Danny. OK?’

  ‘Yeah. Yeah, I think I will.’

  ‘I’ll talk to you soon.’

  I hung up and walked into the lounge, sitting down on the sofa with my cigarette. Had I managed to calm him down enough to cross him off my list of worries? It was a good question. What I’d said was eminently sensible, if not altogether true. I wasn’t the only person who knew of his involvement in the killings. I’d been forced to give some details about him to Raymond before he’d allowed me to take him on the Traveller’s Rest job. Armed with those details, if Raymond really wanted to find Danny, he’d probably be able to. There was no point telling Danny that, though. Hopefully, he would take my advice and leave the country for a while. It would certainly make my life easier. If the truth be told, he was rapidly becoming a thorn in my side. For the first time I thought maybe it would be better for everyone involved if I simply took him out, and quietened his fears for ever. Not that I seriously thought I could ever pull the trigger on Danny. I’d known the little bastard too long. But if I’d been a more ruthless man maybe I’d have done more than let the thought rumble through my mind. That was a measure of how concerned I was.

  I finished the cigarette and stubbed it out in the overflowing ashtray, remembering the mail John Claire was meant to have sent me. I got up, went through to the bedroom, and switched the PC on. While it booted up I went and got myself a beer from the fridge, feeling pleased that I was home for the night and cocooned for a few hours at least from the problems of the world.

  Claire’s email had arrived at 5.31, so at least he’d been true to his word. I opened up the attachment and saw that what he’d sent was a copy of the original document but with a third column tagged on containing the names of those to whom each individual number was registered.

  I didn’t recognize the first name on the list. It was a man, most likely a punter. The second name was a man’s as well, again one I didn’t recognise. The next number wasn’t registered to a particular individual, which probably meant it was a pay-as-you-go mobile. Maybe it belonged to Molly Hagger. I thought maybe it would be a good idea to phone it and find out. The third name was Coleman House, which stood to reason.

  I didn’t read the fourth name. Or the fifth.

  I was too busy looking at the sixth.

  And wondering why Carla Graham had lied to me when she said she hadn’t known Miriam.

  17

  I really didn’t know what to expect as I turned the car into the short gravel driveway that led up to the Fox residence. The house itself was an attractive and spacious two-storey building constructed in an L-shape with a thatched roof and lattice windows, set in enclosed gardens. It was on the edge of a small village a few miles west of Oxford towards the Gloucestershire border, so a fair drive for Malik and me. It had taken us about two and a quarter hours through the usual heavy traffic, and it was now just after eleven.

  ‘Just in time for a nice cup of tea,’ I said, pulling up in front of the house.

  Malik looked a little nervous. I guess he too didn’t know what to expect from this sort of visit. It was never going to be easy. These people had found out only four days ago that their daughter had been murdered. They may not have seen her for close on three years, but they were still going to be in a state of shock. It would take years for their lives to return to normal, if they ever did.

  To be honest, my mind was elsewhere. I wanted to know why Miriam Fox had phoned Carla Graham three times during the last fortnight of her life, twice to Carla’s mobile, and why Carla herself had made two calls to Miriam’s number, the last of them just four days before she was murdered. That many calls was no accident. Those two had known each other, and the only conceivable reason why Carla hadn’t said anything to us about their relationship was that she had something to hide, although what that something could be I had no idea. I’d phoned Coleman House straight away, ostensibly to let her know that we’d charged Mark Wells, but also to arrange another meeting so I could ask her about it, but she’d left for the night. I’d tried her again before we’d left this morning but she was in a meeting. I hadn’t bothered to leave a message. There was no point alerting her to the fact that I was trying to track her down. For the moment it could wait.

  I straightened my tie and banged on the huge brass doorknocker.

  The door was opened almost immediately by a largish middle-aged lady in a sweater and long skirt. Although she looked tired, with large bags under her eyes, she appeared to be bearing up reasonably well. She had a light covering of make-up on and she even managed a smile of greeting. ‘Detective Milne?’

  ‘Mrs Fox.’ We shook hands. ‘This is my colleague, Detective Constable Malik.’

  They shook hands as well, and then she stood aside for us. ‘Please, come in.’

  We followed her through the hallway and into a large, very dark sitting room. A fire blazed in the grate, and sitting in one of the seats facing it was a shortish bearded man with glasses. He stood up slowly on seeing us and introduced himself as Martin Fox. If Mrs Fox appeared to be bearing up well, then Mr Fox was the exact opposite. His whole body appeared slumped as if the guts had been knocked out of him, and even his speech was slow and forced. The gloom seemed to spread from him like an infectious cloud. I got depressed just being within five feet of the bloke.

  We sat down on the sofa and Mrs Fox asked us if we’d like anything to drink. We both opted for tea, and she went off to make a pot.

  While she was gone, Malik told Fox that he was very sorry about his loss. He sounded like he truly meant it as well.

  Fox sat back with his head against the seat, not looking at us. ‘Did she suffer?’ he asked, speaking slowly as if carefully choosing his words. ‘When she died, did she suffer? Please be honest with me.’

  Malik looked at me for a bit of help on this one.

  ‘She would have died very quickly, Mr Fox,’ I said. ‘She didn’t suffer. I can assure you of that.’

  ‘The newspapers said only that she was stabbed.’

  ‘That’s the only details we released to the media,’ I said. ‘They don’t need to know anything more than that.’

  ‘Was she stabbed many times?’ he asked.

  ‘She died from a single wound,’ I said, not mentioning anything about the mutilation.

  ‘Why?’ The question hung in the air for what seemed like a long time. ‘Do they know, these people who commit these terrible crimes? Do they know the hurt they cause? To the ones who are left behind?’

  I ached for a cigarette but knew without asking that this would be a non-smoking household. ‘I think,’ I said, ‘that most really don’t have a clue of the suffering they inflict. If they did, I’m sure a lot of them would think twice before doing what they do.’

  ‘And do you think that this man … the one who killed my Miriam … do you think he knew what he was doing?’

  I thought suddenly about the families of the customs officers and the accountant. I knew what I’d been doing. Had always known. ‘I’m not sure, Mr Fox. It could well have been a spur-of-the-moment thing.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter. People like that should be put down. Like dogs.’ Maybe he had a point. ‘I never believed in the death penalty. I thought it was barbaric for a society to put to death its citizens, whatever their crimes. But now … now…’ His face, still only visibl
e in profile, was contorted with a terrible frustration. ‘I’d pull the trigger myself. I really would.’

  Before I could give him my standard police spiel that these feelings were understandable but ultimately counter-productive, Mrs Fox thankfully returned with the tea. Fox slipped into a sullen silence. Doubtless he’d been venting his spleen to her in similar vein all week. She sat down at the opposite end of the room to her husband so that we were between them, and poured the tea from a china teapot.

  ‘The reason we’re here,’ I said, thinking that I really didn’t have a clue what it was, ‘is to update you on what’s happening with the inquiry, and let you know what’ll happen now that we’ve arrested someone.’

  ‘Who is the man who’s been charged?’ asked Mrs Fox.

  I told her who he was and what his relationship was to their daughter, careful not to give away too many details. Pre-trial, police officers have got to watch what they say in case they blurt out anything that might prejudice a fair hearing for the suspect.

  ‘You think he’s the one, then?’ she said, when I’d finished.

  ‘Bastard,’ Fox added, with a violent snarl. Mrs Fox gave him a reproachful look, though she must have felt the same.

  It was a good question. I was 50 per cent certain at best. Malik, from the conversation we’d had on the way down, was closer to 80 per cent. Like Knox, he couldn’t see any viable alternative, which made drawing conclusions easier for him.

  It was Malik who answered. ‘We’re very sure it’s him, Mrs Fox. As sure as we can be. There’s substantial physical evidence linking him to the scene of the crime.’

  ‘Good. I don’t think I could stand an acquittal. Not on top of everything else.’

  ‘We can’t predict the future, Mrs Fox,’ I said, ‘or juries. We can only do our best. But I think the case is very strong.’

  ‘Bastard,’ said Fox again, still not looking at us. I think he meant Wells, but it was difficult to tell.

  ‘Mark Wells will spend a considerable part of the rest of his life in prison if he’s found guilty, Mr Fox,’ Malik told him. ‘And we’re going to do everything in our power to make sure that happens.’