‘By ‘ell, look at that,’ Stevie stared ravenously at the plate.
‘Tomato sauce?’ asked Kevin, going back to the cupboard.
‘Fucking brilliant.’
For a moment, there was silence as they got stuck in, Kevin pouring the tea, Steve banging out as much ketchup as he could over the top of his steaming feast.
‘Fucking hell,’ Steve picked up his knife and fork with relish. ‘How much am I looking forward to this?’
Kevin never got a chance to answer that. The next minute there was an almighty crash as a brick came flying through the window, smashing its way into the sink and sending shards of glass across the room.
‘What the—?’ Steve leapt to his feet, outraged. A hammering started at the front door. Along with the freezing cold blast of air from the ruined window came the noise of angry shouting.
‘Right, you, Smith! Ya sneaky English cunt! Your tea is oot!’
Kevin flew under the table, curled himself up into a little ball.
Steve made for the front door, flung it open and stared into the mad eyes of the rat-faced keyboard player from Mood Violet. For a second both of them regarded each other with some shock, the other not being who they had expected to see.
Then Robin started up again. ‘Where is he? Where is your lover boy? You hidin’ him in there or what?’ He tried to look past Steve into the house. ‘Hoy, Smith! I’ve come fer you. And wha’s mine…’
‘What the fuck are you talking about?’ Steve spluttered. ‘You’ve just put a bastard brick through my kitchen window!’
‘Get oot ma way,’ Robin tried to push past him, but Steve’s frame filled the door.
‘You’re not listening to me!’ Steve roared and grabbed hold of the lapels of the Scotsman’s coat, pushed him away from the front door and up against the outside wall. It took all of his might to do it. Robin may have been a foot shorter and three stone lighter but he was possessed with the superhuman strength of the insane.
‘What the fuck are you doing here?’ Steve demanded, pushing his fists further into the bony shoulders, forcing Robin up against the brickwork, pinioning him there so he couldn’t move his arms.
Robin’s eyeball’s bulged. ‘Get off! Get off!’ he screamed, writhing in Steve’s grip like a sack of ferrets, twisting his head from left to right, trying to find the space to headbutt his opponent. Up close his pitted face and saucer eyes were the picture of dementia. He looked disgusting.
‘Are you gonna tell me or what?’ Steve bellowed.
‘Vincent Smith!’ Robin said and spat a huge wad of green right into Steve’s face. ‘He’s got mah girrul!’
‘Ugh, you cunt!’ Steve brought his knee up sharply, as hard as he could, into Robin’s groin. The shriek that emitted was enough to wake the dead, but at that end of Ladbroke Grove, no one cared to put their heads out of the window to see what was going on.
Steve let him drop, writhing to the ground, got in another kick to his kidneys.
‘Whass happening, man?’ Lynton was suddenly beside him on the doorstep, his forehead creased, holding onto the side of his face. Panting, Steve opened his mouth to answer.
‘Oh no,’ Lynton said first. ‘Not that fucking bitch from Hell…’
Steve wheeled round. Rocking and swaying on the pavement across the road, her arms drawn tightly around her chest, was Donna. Or perhaps more accurately, the remains of Donna.
She appeared to be wearing nothing but a satin nightdress with a mohair jumper over the top, hardly enough to keep out the bitter cold. Her legs were bare and scratched to fuck and she wobbled on the concrete in a pair of stilettos. But the most shocking thing about her was her hair. The beautiful black mane she’d been so proud of now looked like the wings of a half-plucked cockerel. Huge clumps of it had been pulled out from the side and the crown of her head.
She looked at them staring at her and started to laugh – a high-pitched, hysterical noise, hideous to behold.
‘Oh, Jesus Christ and Mother of God.’ Steve’s mind spun back to what he had seen going on in Tony Stevens’s garden.
‘Get back inside,’ he told Lynton. ‘Keep the door fucking locked until I come back in.’
Lynton backed off slowly, his eyes round with horror. He slammed the door shut.
Robin was still rolling on the ground making gurgling noises. Steve kicked him one more time for luck then ran across the road.
Donna stopped laughing as he approached. She cocked her head to one side and looked at him as if she was trying to place him.
‘What the fuck’s happening, Donna?’ Steve said, not knowing whether to reach out for her or not. She looked totally destroyed but he had already seen what she’d done to Lynton. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘We’ve come for Vince,’ she said, in the voice of a child. ‘Vince and Sylvana. They are here, aren’t they?’
‘What are you talking about? What’s that mad cunt doing throwing bricks through my window?’
Donna put her hand over her mouth and snorted. ‘Oooh. That was a bit naughty, wasn’t it? But Vince deserved it, you see. He’s done a very bad thing to both of us.’
She smiled a smile that was as deranged as the face of the Scotsman, her eyes unfocussed, pupils like black holes. Dried, congealed blood stuck to the tufts of hair on the side of her head. Only one night ago, Steve had been trying to get her into bed. Now it looked like she was more fit for Bedlam. What the bloody hell had Stevens done to her?
Instinctively, he reached to touch her. ‘Get off!’ she shot away from his grasp. She wobbled around for another few seconds, then kicked off her shoes and started running back down Ladbroke Grove. ‘I don’t know you!’ she shrieked as she ran. ‘Get away from me!’
‘Donna!’ Steve’s mind was now totally in turmoil. ‘Come back! I’m not gonna hurt you! Let me help you, please…’ He started to run after her, but he was so done in from the exertions of subduing Robin on top of the night before that he only managed a couple of yards before he fell back, exhausted.
He couldn’t bring her inside, what was he thinking of? Lynton would do his pieces.
He put his hands on his knees and tried to get his breath back, tried to clear his head. Glanced back over the road. Robin had managed to get to his feet and was shuffling away in the other direction, listing like a drunkard, catching hold of lampposts to steady his journey. Still Steve had no idea what was going on. Perhaps he was having a nightmare. Perhaps he’d wake up soon.
A police siren cut through such fanciful thoughts. The blue light flashed past him, the headlights momentarily illuminating Donna, who was still running, running over the railway bridge, running like she was fleeing the hounds of Hell. Fuck knows where she was going to. But a run-in with the boys in blue was the last thing Steve needed now. He turned and went back to the house.
‘Well?’ Tony demanded. ‘Where is he?’
The desperation in the other man’s eyes made Steve feel sick to his stomach. No, Stevens was far from being a strong man. He was a weak, bullying ponce. Steve had seen the truth of him all right. So he decided to string his answer out.
‘One of his druggie mates dropped by the house. I was out at time so I couldn’t tell you who, but he gave Lynton a number to call. Lucky Lynton was in, really. Kevin’s been hiding under the bed since the mad Jock smashed our window; he won’t open the door to no one. And I think he’s got a point, don’t you? I don’t really think it’s safe for us to stay in that house much longer. ‘Cos it comes to something when you can’t call police to come and take away the lunatic that’s threatening to kill you on your own doorstep ‘cos if you do, you’re gonna get evicted. And I’ve boarded up that window for now, but it sort of draws attention to us, don’t you think? That and the nonstop circus outside.’
Tony nodded hastily as Steve spoke, crushing his cigarette out in the ashtray and immediately lighting another.
‘Yeah, yeah,’ he said impatiently. ‘I’ll sort out somewhere else for you soon as I can. By th
e end of next week, I promise.’
‘I’m sure you have your contacts,’ Steve said.
‘Yeah.’ Tony’s voice turned slightly menacing. ‘As you have yours, Stephen. Now tell me what’s happened to Vince.’
The two men eyeballed each other for a tense moment, cigarette smoke hanging on the air between them.
‘I don’t like being called Stephen,’ said Steve. ‘It reminds me of my Da. Come to think of it, so do you.’
A muscle jerked underneath Tony’s left eyeball. Rage blazed in his eyes. But he managed to keep his voice level when he eventually spoke. ‘I apologise, Steve.’ He extinguished his current cigarette more slowly and deliberately than the last one. ‘Now please, just tell me. Where is Vince?’
‘Paris,’ said Steve, leaning back in his seat to regard the effect this bombshell would have. ‘The Flying Scotsman was right. He has run off with that lass from Mood Violet. He needed someone to go and get her passport for her…so they could elope.’
Tony’s eyes closed and he leaned forwards, putting his head in his hands. It seemed to Steve that he shrunk before his eyes, his shoulders sagging and his chest caving in.
‘You fucking queer.’ Donna’s words echoed through Steve’s brain. Now it was all starting to fall into place.
When Tony finally looked up, his eyes were sad and old.
‘Here’s the number.’ Steve laid the crumpled piece of paper he’d been carrying in the pocket of his jacket down on the table between them. ‘It’s the Hilton. You might be able to catch him before he goes. You never know; he might invite you to the wedding. Make you his best man or summat.’
‘Thanks,’ said Tony dully, pocketing it without looking at it.
‘Right,’ said Steve, getting to his feet. ‘I’ll leave you to sort out our accommodation problem then, shall I? In the meantime, none of us fancy hanging round here any more, so we’ll be back in Hull. You might want to send someone to fetch Vince’s stuff for him, if he still wants any of it. But you don’t have to worry about Rachel, if you even were. She’s moved out already.’
Tony looked up at Steve and nodded. It was hard to tell whether he’d even heard what had just been said.
‘Ta ra then,’ Steve headed for the door. When he left, Tony was still sitting there, staring into space.
27
Watching The Detectives
May 2002
‘Hello, Eddie.’ Tony Stevens’s voice purred down the line. ‘I’ve got a bit of news for you. I’ve finally found our Monsieur Pascal. He’s alive and well and living in Deauville.’
This was a surprise. I pressed the button on the remote control, turning down the sound that had been blaring out from the stereo. Since I’d got up that morning, I’d been back in 1981, listening to Butcher’s Brew with fresh ears after Kevin’s revelations. I was intent on deciphering the lyrics, now that I understood they weren’t as abstract as they seemed.
‘Wow,’ I said, impressed.
‘I had a chat with him just now and he still seems very compos mentis,’ Stevens continued. ‘He remembers all about the case, I hardly had to jog his memory at all. And he kindly said I could pass his number on to you, and that he’d be happy for you to talk to him. He might have retired ten years ago, but there’s plenty of life in the old dog yet.’
‘That’s fantastic,’ I could hardly believe my luck. ‘Thanks, Tony.’
‘Not a problem.’ He sounded fairly pleased with himself too. ‘Let me know how it turns out. Even if he can’t add anything more to what I’ve already sent you, at least it gives you a bit of colour.’
‘Damn right it does,’ I said. ‘I was thinking of going over to France to see the place for myself, but if his memory’s that good he can probably set the scene a lot better. That’s just great.’
I jotted down the number Stevens gave me. After what had happened with Louise my vain notion of going to Paris had gone right out of the window. I had no mind to be mocked by the city of lovers now. But this was just what I needed.
The old detective was as sprightly on the phone as Stevens had implied. He still had all his files, he said, in an accent that hadn’t strayed far from its Gallic roots, despite the amount of time he’d spent in England. He said that now he was connected to the Internet, it was easier to search for any fresh news on old cases. That if I wanted him to, he’d start digging around a bit, see if anything came up. He still had some old police friends left from back then. Still a few of the old codgers left. He sounded genuinely delighted to have been asked to help out.
We exchanged email addresses so he could send any relevant information my way, then we could talk over the details on the phone.
‘I cannot promise you anything, Monsieur,’ he said. ‘This trail was tricky enough when it was still warm. But I will do my best for you. What say you give me a week and then I can have it all straight in my own mind at least? And you never know, maybe someone can pop out of the woodwork to help us.’
I was almost jumping up and down when I finally put the phone down and got on to Gavin straight away. I’d done enough sneaking around behind his back for the time being, I thought, and anyway, this lead had come from his contact.
Gavin sounded mildly amused at the thought of a geriatric gendarme coming to our aid. He suggested we got together to discuss the questions we could put to him.
‘Have you come across anything else new yourself?’ he asked me.
Lucky I was on the phone. If this had been a face-to-face conversation I might not have been able to meet his eye. ‘Hmmm,’ I dithered, searching for something I might throw him that wouldn’t involve my extra-curricular activities with Ray Spencer. Then I remembered. The magazine Christophe had given me. ‘Well, there is something I need to show you,’ I said. ‘A magazine article with a picture of Vince in it. It doesn’t say much, but there is one interesting thing – there’s a girl with him in the photograph. A girl with blonde hair. Now if I remember rightly,’ I reeled my mind back, ‘Pascal’s report mentioned a mystery blonde. Maybe this is her.’
‘Right,’ Gavin sounded surprised. ‘You’d better bring her over then, mate. See if we can ID her.’
‘Right you are,’ I said.
‘Oh, and one more thing,’ Gavin cut in before I put the phone down. ‘Would you mind letting me see Pascal’s report myself? It might help.’
He sounded a little rankled.
‘Sorry, I didn’t realise you hadn’t,’ I said. ‘I’ll bring it right over.’
I started to get a bit nervous on the way over. Wondered if, by some jungle drum or other, Gavin had found out that I’d been seeing another journalist behind his back. I hadn’t heard him sound so curt before. But I managed to head that thought off before it went too wild. He’d probably just been rankled that Tony had sent me the report and not copied him in on it. He didn’t like to be left out. So Christ knows how he would feel when I did have to fess up about Ray, but we’d cross that bridge when we came to it.
My worries evaporated as soon as I got to Elgin Crescent, dispersed by the smell of freshly-brewed coffee in Gavin’s sunny kitchen and the way he rubbed his hands together as I unloaded my bag on the table.
‘Right, mate,’ he said, disposition now as fair as the weather. ‘Shall we take these outside and read ’em?’
Looked like Gavin was taking the task seriously. In an uncharacteristically scholarly fashion I’d never seen him adopt before, he donned a pair of reading glasses to scan the closely typed pages, whistling between his teeth as he came to the most intriguing bits.
‘Reckons he was hooked up with gangsters, hey?’ he said, as he reached the part about Marco ‘the Arab’.
‘The French coppers didn’t sound too helpful, though, did they?’ I asked.
‘Nah,’ Gavin shook his head. ‘I guess for them it was just another case of wiping the scum off the streets and who cares so long as they’re outta here.’
He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. I waited until he’d finished his slow traw
l through the document, underlining certain sentences and suggesting a few questions, before showing him the magazine. ‘Here you go,’ I said. ‘What do you make of her?’
Gavin stared hard at it, then jerked his head back. He pushed the magazine out in front of him, as if he could see it better from a distance, then pulled it back in to under his nose and lifted up his glasses to squint at it.
‘Jeez,’ he said, ‘that chick looks familiar’
‘Really?’ I leaned over to see if there was something there I’d missed. But she didn’t look familiar to me.
‘You mean she’s not some Parisian streetwalker?’
Gavin frowned. ‘I don’t think so, mate, but I suppose she could be. It’s just something about the expression on her face reminds me of someone...’
Then he shook his head. ‘Nah, it couldn’t be. The hair’s totally wrong for a start.’
‘Who do you think it was?’
Gavin picked up his coffee cup and took a thoughtful swig. ‘This chick called Donna Woods. You come across her yet?’
I frowned myself, tried not to give anything away. ‘She was Mood Violet’s manager, wasn’t she? I must admit, I’m not quite up to speed on their set-up yet,’ I lied. ‘Although I suppose I should be by now.’
‘She ran their record label.’ Gavin nodded. ‘Vada, yeah, you heard of it?’
I nodded.
‘Right. But by the time this picture was taken…’ he scrutinised the notes Christophe’s girlfriend had translated ‘…that would have been November 1981. She was in the loony bin by then.’
‘The loony bin?’ I echoed.
‘Ah, in case you hadn’t got that far, Donna was another one of Sylvana’s casualties,’ Gavin said, peering at me over the top of his specs. ‘I guess she had to deal with the fall-out from her side of things – the madness of Robin Leith for one thing, losing her livelihood for another. Only she didn’t deal with it. She went berko. Had to be sectioned for her own protection.’
‘Really?’ I could feel my palms starting to sweat. I glanced away from his gaze, around the raised rockery and the hollyhocks that were nodding on the gentle breeze, bumblebees humming amongst them, going about their work. Tried to push the madness and darkness away.
The Singer Page 34
