Nothing happened, and there was relief when the door closed behind me for the last time that night.
The first thing I did when I got upstairs was phone in sick. I didn’t know how much they knew at the station about the investigation into me but I found it hard to imagine that Knox wouldn’t have been informed of it by now. Next I rang Raymond’s mobile, but he wasn’t answering, and neither was Luke, his bodyguard, so I left a message asking for him to call me and telling him I wasn’t going to be at home for the next couple of days. Just in case he was thinking about sending anyone round. Then I made a cup of coffee and told myself not to panic. Foresight, if not right, remained on my side.
I went to bed about ten o’clock and fell asleep surprisingly easily. I remained out like a light the whole night, and for once I actually felt partially refreshed when I awoke the following morning at just after eight.
It was now time to plan my next move. Each day I remained here the chances of my being arrested grew higher, which meant that I was going to have to take the plunge fast. I needed to shake off my surveillance, grab the money from the Bayswater deposit box, and go to ground for a bit. As soon as I started running and they realized that I was on to them, that was it; there’d be no turning back. I was going to have to keep running for the rest of my life.
I went round the corner to get a paper, acting as casually as possible and not spotting anything or anyone untoward, then returned to read it over a light breakfast of toast and coffee. There was no obvious mention of the Traveller’s Rest investigation within its pages and nothing on the Miriam Fox case. Now that an arrest had been made and charges laid, there’d be no further mention of her murder until the trial, and probably not much coverage then. Instead, there were the usual tales of woe from Britain and abroad: a farming crisis; renewed famine in Africa; a couple of food scares; and a liberal sprinkling of murder, mayhem and fashion tips.
When I was on my sixth cigarette of the day, I decided I had nothing to lose by calling Carla Graham. I phoned her office from Raymond’s mobile, concerned about the possibility that my own phones had been bugged. She picked up on the fourth ring and I was relieved to hear no meeting-type noises in the background.
‘Hello, Carla.’
‘Dennis?’
‘Yeah, it’s me. How are you?’
She sighed. ‘Busy. Very busy.’
‘Well, I won’t keep you long.’
‘I was going to call you today anyway,’ she said.
‘Oh yeah?’
‘Look, I don’t want you to take this too seriously, but you said to let you know if anyone else went missing.’ An ominous sensation crept up my back as partially buried thoughts suddenly unearthed themselves like zombies in a graveyard. ‘And someone has.’
‘Who?’
‘Anne Taylor.’
Anne. The girl I’d shared coffee with less than a week ago. The girl I’d saved from abduction.
‘Jesus, Carla. When did this happen?’
‘She was last seen on Sunday afternoon.’ She seemed to sense my unease. ‘She’s done this before on several occasions so I don’t think there’s any real cause for alarm. And obviously, there is a man in custody for the murder.’
‘I know, but it isn’t as cut and dried as that. There are a lot of unanswered questions, and everyone’s innocent until proven guilty. You of all people should know that.’
‘I still don’t think you should read too much into it. Anne is that type of girl.’
‘And so was Molly Hagger, but you can’t help getting concerned. When did Anne last go missing like this?’
‘About a month ago.’
‘How long was she gone for then?’
‘A couple of nights. A similar length of time to this. That’s why we haven’t been too worried. The last time she went AWOL it was because she was off on a binge with an older woman. She got stoned, fell asleep, and when she woke up twenty-four hours later she came back here.’
‘And before that? When did she last go missing before that?’
‘I can’t remember. A few months ago. Look, Dennis, no-one here thinks anything untoward’s happened.’
‘So why were you going to phone and tell me?’
‘Because you asked me too. Personally, I think Anne’s doing her usual thing, which is going out, taking drugs, and doing exactly what she fancies, regardless of what anyone tells her, because that’s what she’s like. But I felt I ought to tell you because you were worried and I suppose I’d never forgive myself if Anne did end up like Miriam Fox, dead in some back alley with her throat cut, and I hadn’t bothered reporting it. Although I still think the chances of that happening are fairly remote.’
‘OK, OK, I get your point. I don’t like it, though.’ And I didn’t. Anne’s disappearance had sown more doubts in my mind. Maybe somehow, defying all the odds, Mark Wells wasn’t our man. Not that it should have mattered; I had far bigger fish to fry now. I sighed. ‘Look, do me a favour and inform the police. Tell them what’s happened.’
‘Dennis, you are the police.’
‘Not any more I’m not.’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘I resigned. Yesterday.’ Not quite true, but it might as well have been.
‘Are you playing games, Dennis? Because if you are, I’m not interested.’
‘No, I’m not. Honestly. I handed my notice in. It’s been a long time coming.’
‘But what are you going to do? I mean, are you trained for anything else?’
Killing people, I thought.
‘Not really, but I’ve got a bit of cash put aside. I thought I’d maybe head abroad for a while. Do some travelling. I’ve always wanted to do something like that.’
‘Well … Good luck with it. I hope it works out for you. When are you hoping to go?’
‘As soon as I can. Probably before the end of the week.’
‘You know, I think I’m jealous.’
‘You could always come with me.’
She laughed. ‘I don’t think so. Perhaps one day I’ll come out and visit you.’
‘You should do. What’s keeping you here?’
‘I can’t believe I’m actually being encouraged to be more of a rebel by a policeman. I don’t know, Dennis. At the moment I’m happy the way things are.’
‘Are you? Really?’
There was a short silence on the other end of the line before she spoke again. ‘It just wouldn’t work. I don’t know you well enough. I think we should leave it at that.’
‘OK, but it’d be good to see you one last time before I go.’ As soon as I said this, I knew that this was a risk I should not be taking, but I didn’t seem able to help myself.
‘Yes,’ she said, ‘it would, but I don’t know when we’re going to get the chance.’
‘Look, I remember you saying the other night that you liked poetry. They’re doing a reading by some contemporary poets tonight at a place called the Gallan Club, not far from me. Why don’t we meet there for a drink? It’s a nice spot.’
Carla ummed and aahed for a few minutes, but finally agreed to come over for an hour or so. I began to tell her where the club was but it turned out she knew the place vaguely anyway. ‘And don’t forget to tell the police about Anne,’ I added. ‘Report it formally. You never know what might have happened and it’s better to be safe than sorry.’ Again she told me that she thought there was nothing to worry about, but I insisted and she ended up agreeing to do it.
After I’d hung up, I made another cup of coffee and lit cigarette number seven. Anne Taylor was not my concern. Even if I’d stayed a copper and remained connected to the Miriam Fox murder case, she would still not have been my concern. Mark Wells was almost certainly Miriam’s murderer. But I couldn’t help wondering what had happened to Molly Hagger and where Anne had got to. I would certainly have expected really to have surfaced by now. Her best friend had been killed, and it was difficult to believe that she wouldn’t have at least shown her face to find out wh
at was going on, or contact the authorities if she believed Wells was responsible. And now Anne had disappeared only a few weeks after Molly. There might, as Carla clearly thought, be a perfectly logical explanation for it, but for me it was all too coincidental, particularly on top of the attempted assault the previous week. I couldn’t help but feel that I was missing something, something neither I nor any of my erstwhile colleagues were aware of, but try as I might I couldn’t put my finger on what it was. And, with everything else, it felt like it wasn’t worth trying.
But sometimes, you know, it’s difficult to let go. So I picked up my home phone, this time not caring who was listening in, and made a call to Malik’s mobile.
It rang ten times before he answered, and when he heard my voice I couldn’t tell whether he was happy that it was me or not. I wondered briefly if he knew that his superiors were on to me.
He asked me how I was feeling, having presumably heard that I’d phoned in sick, and I told him I was OK just a little under the weather.
‘I haven’t been sleeping too well. I think I need a holiday.’
‘Why don’t you take a couple of weeks? You’re bound to be due it.’
‘I am. Maybe I will.’
‘Anyway, what can I do for you, Dennis?’
Dennis. I was never going to get used to that from him. ‘How did the raids go this morning? Have we laid any charges yet?’
‘We pulled in everyone we were meant to, but no charges yet. You know what it’s like with these kids. It’s like treading on egg shells. You’re not even allowed to raise your voices with them in case they get upset.’
‘I’m sure one or more of them did the old lady.’
‘I think everyone’s sure of that. It’s proving it that’s the problem, not that I have to tell you that.’
‘How is she?’
‘The old lady? Touch and go. What I think personally is that one way or another she’s going to die as a result of what happened. It might take a few weeks – it might even take a few months- – but either way, those kids were responsible.’
I agreed with him. ‘Look, the reason I’m calling is the Miriam Fox case.’
‘Oh yeah?’ He spoke the words without much enthusiasm. I told him what Carla had told me about Anne’s disappearance while he listened at the other end. When I’d finished, he asked me what I was doing talking to Carla. ‘I thought you weren’t going to bother contacting her.’
‘She contacted me. I told her to if anyone else went missing. And this one seems like one coincidence too many. Two young girls, both no more than fourteen, disappear within a month of each other from the same children’s home. At the same time, a girl both of them have had some association with, and who was best friends with one of them, is murdered. All three were prostitutes working the same area of King’s Cross. I know people disappear, and I know we’ve got Mark Wells in custody, and that the evidence against him’s good, but something about this just isn’t right.’
‘Like you said, people disappear…’
‘Yeah, I know. I know. People disappear all the time, especially teenage crackheads, but with this frequency? And we know one met a violent end, and one of the others was assaulted during an attempted abduction just a matter of days ago, something I was witness to. And now we’ve got this thing where the evidence against the suspect in the murder – the shirt – is linked to one of the missing girls.’
‘I wouldn’t read too much into that, Dennis. Giving the shirt away to someone who’s not around to deny it is just an easy excuse for Wells to use.’
‘Has anyone been trying to find her?’
‘Who? Molly Hagger? Not that I’m aware of. But if you’re concerned, you should be talking to Knox, not me. Why don’t you see what he has to say about it?’
‘Because I know what he’ll say, Asif. That we’ve got a man in custody, that there’s no evidence for extending the inquiry further…’
‘And he’d have a point, wouldn’t he? You’re right, it all seems a bit coincidental, but what can we do about it? On Hagger and the other girl, there’s no evidence that anything untoward’s happened, and, as you say, they’re not the sort of girls whose disappearance is going to cause anyone any surprises.’
‘I just wanted to run it by you. See what you thought.’
‘And I appreciate you thinking of me. What I’d say is this. It’s strange, but strange is all. Maybe you ought to keep your ear to the ground and see how things pan out, maybe have a few words with some of the street girls, but I wouldn’t worry about it too much yet. There’s plenty of other things to concern yourself with, and you shouldn’t be thinking about them anyway. You ought to be in bed resting and getting yourself well so you can come back here and help us out.’
But I’d never be going back to help them out. I’d miss Malik, even if he had started calling me Dennis and dispensing advice just a little bit too readily. He was a good copper, though, and the thought that perhaps I had played a small part in getting him that way felt good. I told him he’d be doing me a favour if he could keep his ears open for any relevant developments among the King’s Cross whores, and he told me he would. I thanked him, said that I’d see him shortly, promised him t I’d get to bed straight away and take it easy, then rang off.
But I didn’t go to bed. Instead, I spent the rest of the day mulling over my plans and making preparations; occasionally phoning Danny’s mobile, always without success; sometimes stopping to look out of the window at the iron-grey sky and pondering the fates of Molly Hagger and Anne Taylor; wondering what secrets Miriam Fox had taken to her grave.
And all the time something was bothering me, and I couldn’t put my finger on what it was. Something I’d missed; something that flickered and danced round the recesses of my memory like the shadows of a flame, irritating me because it was important in some ill-defined way but I was unable to coax it out, however hard I tried.
And as darkness fell on my last night as a serving police officer, and the rain the forecasters had warned us about finally swept in from the west, I realized I was still just as ignorant of what had happened in the Miriam Fox murder case as I had been on the morning I’d first stared down at her bloodstained body.
29
I phoned a minicab to take me down to the Gallan Club, and it got me there at about a quarter to eight. It was raining steadily and, though not as cold as the previous night, there was still a bite in the air.
I’d never been to the Gallan before, even though it was only about half a mile from where I lived. I’d walked past it plenty of times though, most notably the previous day when they’d had a blackboard outside saying that tonight was contemporary poets night. It wasn’t really my cup of tea, but I suppose it made a change from sitting around in the pub. It was quiz night at the Chinaman as well, and it would be the first time I’d missed it for non-work reasons for as long as I could remember.
The interior of the Gallan was small and dimly lit. The stage, empty when I walked in, was at the end furthest from the door, while the rest of the floor space was taken up by evenly clustered round tables. A bar on the left-hand side ran the length of the room. All of the tables were occupied, and a small crowd milled about the bar. Most of those present were the type of people you’d expect at a poetry evening where the headline act was someone called Maiden Faith Ararngard: fresh-faced students in long coats, sipping delicately at their beers; a group of eco-warriors with an overabundance of piercings and pantomime clothes; and a few older intellectual types who looked as though they spent every waking hour in the hunt for hidden meanings to pointless questions.
I’d half expected this type of line-up and had dressed down as far as my wardrobe would allow so that I didn’t look too much out of place. It hadn’t worked. Faded jeans and a sweatshirt with a hole in the elbow were never going to blend me in with this crowd, although at least I was pretty much guaranteed there’d be no undercover coppers in here. Like me, they’d have stuck out a mile.
Carla ha
dn’t arrived, so I went to the bar and ordered a pint of Pride from a guy with a bolt through his nose and a beard that was close to a foot long. He gave me a bit of a funny look like I’d come dressed as a Doctor Who villain, but he was efficient, and that’s always the most important trait for any barman. I paid for my drink and stood close to the door so that I could see Carla when she made her entrance.
I didn’t feel particularly comfortable in there, and in a way that said something about her and me. She knew we were never going to be an item; it was me who found it difficult to accept. But accept it I was going to have to do. From tomorrow I was on the run. I had a false passport in my possession which I’d got from one of Len Runnion’s contacts a few months back. It had been an insurance policy after a CIB investigation into a couple of ex-colleagues at the station had given me a case of cold feet. It was a good one, too. I’d grown a ten-day beard and put on some glasses for the photograph and it looked very unlike me. But I wasn’t going to be able to use it yet. There’d be an all-ports alert out for me as soon as I broke cover, which would mean me having to lie low for a couple of weeks until the fuss had died down. Maybe I’d drive down to Cornwall or up to Scotland, somewhere a bit isolated. Not for the first time that day, I experienced a strangely exhilarating feeling of apprehension.
I was vaguely amused to see that the first act up was Norman ‘Zeke’ Drayer, a.k.a., apparently, the ‘Bard of Somerstown’. Norman was dressed in a lincoln green jacket with tassles that looked as though it was made of felt, a pair of cricket whites, and knee-length black boots. Thankfully, he didn’t have a hat with a feather in it on his head, or he’d have been a dead ringer for Robin Hood.
He danced onto the stage to polite applause and immediately opened up with a bawdy ballad about a buxom country girl called Annie McSilk and the difficulties she had fending off the advances of amorous farmers. It was actually quite good, and I had a few laughs in spite of myself, even if it did go on a bit too long. Unfortunately, it was also the high point of his act. The next three poems in his stint veered off into the boring half-Wworld of social justice and had me looking at the door every twenty seconds for any sign of Carla. By the time he danced off the stage, with theatrical bows all round, the applause had been all but drowned out by the buzz of individual conversations.
Die Twice Page 22
