by Mark Timlin
‘You’re an angel.’
We got in the back, and Don got in on the front passenger side, and Chas drove us slowly back to the hotel through almost empty streets.
22
The limo slid to a halt outside the entrance to the car park. The barrier was down, blocking our way in. Dawn had just been a faint pink glow over the rooftops as we’d turned under the arch into the mews and the lights mounted on metal poles were still lit, and made dark shadows on the cobbles. The gatekeeper’s hut was deserted. Chas tapped the horn lightly. Definitely illegal at that time of night. I hoped the neighbours wouldn’t complain. No one showed. He turned to Don and said something we couldn’t hear. Don glanced into the back of the car. He looked worried. Ninotchka leaned forward and pressed the button that lowered the partition between us and the driver’s compartment.
‘Something wrong?’
‘There should be one of our blokes here. I don’t understand it. Lock your doors, I’m going to check.’
‘Want me to come?’ I asked.
‘No. Stay here. Look after Miss Ninotchka. Will you wind up the partition, miss? I don’t want to take any chances. If there’s no one about, we’ll drive round the front.’
‘Maybe we’d better do that now?’ I suggested.
‘I’ll just take a quick look,’ said Don. ‘I’ll stay near to the car. Now please close all the windows and lock your doors.’
Ninotchka did as she was told, and closed the partition. I slipped the lock on my door, and leant over and did the same on her side. All of a sudden I wished I had a gun handy.
Don got out of the car. He unholstered his pistol and held it in his right hand. Chas kept the engine running. Don squeezed through the gap between the barrier and the fence and walked to the hut. He tried the door knob and the door opened. He looked down, then back to the car, and waved his gun hand, gesturing us away. I hit the button to lower the partition. Chas stuck his head out of the open driver’s window, and as the partition slid down I heard Don shouting: ‘Get back. Get away. Go! Go! Go!’ Chas stuck the column-mounted gear shift into reverse and slammed his foot down on the accelerator. The limo stalled. He’d given it too much gas.
I saw Don move his head, and look behind the car down the mews, and lift his gun. I looked through the back window as Chas ground at the starter. Someone was running towards the car. A shadowy, frightening figure with wild hair and limbs that looked too long for his body. As he ran his shadow lengthened across the ground which seemed to make him look even more frightening. He slammed against the back of the car and spreadeagled across the boot, and his face pressed close up to the tinted glass. The angle of the floods around the car park lit up his face. He looked crazed. Eyes wide and staring. A straggly beard. Filthy, matted hair and a gap-toothed mouth open in a silent scream. Ninotchka’s wasn’t. She looked back and put her hands to her mouth and cried an awful cry. As she screamed the starter caught and Chas put the car into gear and we sped backwards, picking up the figure as we went.
Chas was looking back through the open partition, his eyes as wide as those of whoever was leeched to the back of the car. The huge car veered crazily from side to side, and the bumper caught one of the tubs outside a mews house door. It exploded, and dirt showered the back of the vehicle. ‘Stop!’ I shouted, and he hit the brakes and the figure was catapulted off the boot.
He rolled and came to his feet, and ran off away from us. I heard the clatter of footsteps and Don ran past the car in pursuit. I slipped the lock on my door, opened it and got out. I ran towards the car park, jumped over the barrier and went to the hut. The door was jammed open by the body of a Premiere security man. I didn’t recognise him. His throat had been torn out. The floor of the hut was slick with blood. I didn’t bother looking for vital signs. He was dead.
I turned and ran back to the car. Chas sat in the front looking shocked. I slammed my hand on the door sill. ‘Round the front,’ I shouted. ‘Quick!’ He didn’t respond. I opened the door and pushed him across the bench seat and got in behind the wheel. I reversed the car fast down the mews, then out under the arch, and it screamed up the wrong side of the street, and skidded to a halt outside the main door. I didn’t bother with Chas. I jumped out of the car, opened the kerbside back door and dragged Ninotchka out, up the steps, through the doors and into the foyer. Two more Premiere men were in the lobby. I quickly told them what had happened, brushing aside their questions. One got on the radio, the other hit the phone on the reception desk. I bundled Ninotchka into the lift and up to her suite.
When we were inside she came into my arms and burst into tears. I held her close. She was sobbing and shaking so hard it was difficult to make out what she was trying to say. Eventually she calmed down a little. ‘Nick,’ she said. ‘Nick… My God, I knew him.’
‘Who?’
‘That guy. That guy out there.’
‘You knew him?’
‘Yes.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Of course I’m sure!’
‘Who was he?’
‘Bobby. Bobby Boyle.’
‘Who?’
‘Our old drummer.’ And I remembered what the roadies had talked about at dinner. When was it, one, two days ago? Everything was starting to merge together like a bad dream.
‘Christ,’ I said, and she started to cry again.
23
I sat Ninotchka down, and went to the bar and poured a couple of drinks. Two very large brandies. After what we’d been through I thought we deserved them. And even if we didn’t, I for one needed something, and by the look of it so did she. The adrenalin rush seemed to have negated the night’s alcohol intake. I felt stone-cold sober. And stone cold. The glass rattled against Ninotchka’s teeth as she took a sip. When the colour started to return to her face, I said, ‘Are you absolutely sure you recognised that guy?’
She nodded.
‘I can’t believe it. He looked like a skipper to me.’
‘A what?’
‘A tramp. A derelict. One of the street people. The lucky few who sleep in the West End for free.’
‘I’d recognise Bobby anywhere.’
‘He didn’t look like my idea of a rock star.’
‘He’s changed, Nick. He’s been sick. He didn’t used to look like that. He was pretty. Real pretty. He just took too much acid, that’s all.’
‘But even so.’
‘Nick, I lived with the guy for six months. Some things you don’t forget.’
‘Are there any of these guys you haven’t had an affair with?’
‘Oh, Nick. For fuck’s sake, don’t be so straight.’ She was the second person to call me that in a couple of days. Maybe I should grow a beard. ‘That’s the way it is,’ she went on.
Outside I could hear the scream of sirens getting closer. ‘In the wunnerful, fun world of rock and roll?’ I said. ‘It hasn’t been much fun for some poor fuckers lately. You didn’t see the state of the geezer in the car park.’
‘God!’ she said. ‘That poor guy. I forgot.’
‘It looks like your pal’s number one suspect. Whatever you say.’
‘No. Not Bobby.’
‘Come on, Ninotchka. Give me a break.’
‘No!’
‘It’s been a long time since you knew him.’
‘No.’
‘And you said yourself he’d taken too many drugs.’
‘No,’ she said again. ‘Not Bobby. He’s the gentlest guy I ever met.’
‘People change.’
‘Not that much. He couldn’t do anything like that.’
The sirens were right outside now, whooping and hollering in the street below us.
‘I have to tell the police,’ I said.
‘No. No, you can’t!’
‘Ninotchka, two people are dead.’
‘Then I’ll d
eny it. Say I was mistaken. It wasn’t Bobby. It was what you said. A bum. Street trash.’
‘Hell, Ninotchka, don’t give me that crap. I’ll still tell them what you said.’
‘Don’t.’
‘And do what instead?’
‘Try and find him yourself. He’s hurting, Nick. Didn’t you see his eyes?’
Yes, I thought. Mad eyes. Killers’ eyes maybe. ‘And if he kills again?’
‘I keep telling you, he didn’t kill anyone. Find him quickly and you’ll know for yourself. Don’t let the police get him first. They’ll drive him even crazier. You can do it. You’re good.’
‘I’ll think about it,’ I said. ‘I’ll have to tell Roger.’
‘Why?’
‘Because he might have some idea where to start looking. He is the top man. Or at least the closest to the top that I trust.’
She smiled. She was beautiful when she smiled. Even through tear stains. ‘You trust Roger?’ she asked.
‘Yeah.’
‘I like you, Nick. D’you know that? You’re a good judge of character.’
‘I hope so.’
‘Promise me then? Promise you won’t tell.’
‘OK,’ I said reluctantly. ‘But I’m definitely telling Roger what I’m up to.’
I used the phone. Lomax answered after the ninth or tenth ring. ‘’lo,’ he said.
‘Roger? Sharman.’
‘What? What the fuck? Do you know what time it is?’
‘What does it matter? The cops’ll be waking you up soon enough. Can’t you hear them?’
‘Why? What the hell’s happened now?’
I told him, as concisely as I could, leaving out any mention of Bobby Boyle. ‘But I want to see you before they do,’ I said when I’d finished.
‘What about?’
‘Not on the phone. Come up to Ninotchka’s suite. I can’t leave her alone, and Don is otherwise engaged.’
‘I’ll be right up.’
‘Don’t answer the phone again. Just get here.’
He arrived in less than five minutes. His thick hair was mussed and he had a dark five o’clock shadow. He was wearing jeans, a rugby shirt and a pair of Timberland shoes. ‘What’s up?’ he asked as soon as I let him in. ‘I should be downstairs. It sounds like all hell’s breaking loose down there?’
‘Drink?’ I asked before answering.
‘Perrier.’
I poured some into a tall glass over ice. ‘Bobby Boyle,’ I said as I handed it to him.
‘What about him?’
‘Where is he?’
‘Slough, I think. I have an address for him. He lives with his father. Why?’
‘Get it for me.’
‘Why?’ he asked again.
Then I told him the bits I’d left out on the phone. As I talked he kept looking from me to Ninotchka and back.
‘Shit,’ he said when I’d finished. ‘Everyone thought he was all right.’
‘How do you mean?’ I asked.
‘He was in a mental hospital. Paranoid schizophrenia was the diagnosis. But they seemed to have it under control. When Keith and I came over last year we visited him. He seemed fine. He was released a few months ago.’
‘Christ!’ I said. ‘See, Ninotchka? The guy’s as crazy as a coot.’
‘No,’ she said. ‘He’s not. He’s just sick. I told you that.’
‘Tell it to the men in white coats.’
‘I don’t care what you say, he still didn’t kill anyone. Roger, you know him.’
Lomax shrugged. ‘Years ago, sure. But now? Who the hell knows?’
‘Nick’s going to find him,’ said Ninotchka, ‘and prove he didn’t have anything to do with any killings.’
‘Yeah?’ said Roger. ‘But if he is going around murdering people…’ He didn’t finish the sentence.
‘Yeah, I know, Rog,’ I said. ‘But I promised Ninotchka. Give me just a few hours. You say he’s in Slough?’
‘That’s where we send his royalty cheques. He still gets plenty. His share of the big ’un. Ninotchka, we should tell the cops.’
‘No,’ she insisted.
‘Listen,’ I said, ‘I’ve agreed to keep shtuum ’til I get a chance to check on this Bobby Boyle character. Let’s leave it at that for now. OK?’
I saw Lomax open his mouth to argue, when we were interrupted by an urgent banging on the door.
24
Of course it was the cops, a pair of uniforms looking for the people in the car who had left the scene of the crime. When they saw Ninotchka, they removed their hats and began acting like a pair of groupies at a Bay City Rollers reunion. Ninotchka was the very soul of charm. I wouldn’t have believed that she’d been scared half to death not thirty minutes earlier.
The coppers were not quite so polite to Lomax and me. But Lomax wasn’t having any. He went straight to the phone and called up the top man in The Box’s pet law firm. Not the junior this time, you note, but the big cheese himself. When he got through, he handed the receiver to the nearest copper, who turned red, white, and then green in the space of half a minute. When the policeman had made doubly sure that the call was over, he replaced the handset as if it was made of spun sugar, smiled feebly at Lomax and asked us very politely if we’d mind terribly staying where we were until one of his superiors arrived.
We all agreed that we would stay. The policeman who’d taken the call then informed us that his colleague would be outside if we needed anything and both coppers left. ‘Very good,’ I said. ‘I wonder what was said.’
Lomax gave me a look.
‘To frighten him like that,’ I continued.
‘He didn’t have to say much,’ Lomax said. ‘He’s lunching with the Commissioner of the Met today, and dining with the Prime Minister tomorrow. And he didn’t appreciate being woken up.’
‘Our Prime Minister?’ I asked.
‘No, the Prime Minister of Lithuania. Of course your Prime Minister,’ said Lomax sarcastically.
I was going to tell him that I was the one that did the witty lines, but I didn’t. ‘Well, he certainly put him in his place,’ I said.
Ten minutes later Carpenter and Ripley arrived. They weren’t so easily put off as the uniform, but were still wary, I could tell. I would have been too, in their shoes.
Ninotchka and I went through the whole story. Neither one of us mentioned Bobby Boyle. I still wasn’t sure it was a good idea, but it was one of those times when, once you’ve started lying, you’ve just got to carry on, no matter how bitter the end might turn out to be.
Eventually we were allowed to go to bed. I suppose by that time it was just after six. I didn’t. I just had a shower and some of Wilfred’s coffee, and got ready to go to Slough. I found Lomax in his room, and he gave me the address I needed. He wasn’t happy about it, but I got him to promise to keep quiet until I reported back with whatever I found, if anything. I suppose the last thing he needed right then was more scandal involving the band.
Then I went to the parking garage and got my car. It started first time, and I pulled it up the ramp and through the barrier into the mews. The gatekeeper’s hut had been taped off and two policemen I hadn’t seen before were keeping a pair of eyes on things. A couple of Premiere men were on duty just inside the fence. By then, I think anyone with any sense was working in twos. I was alone again as usual.
But then, sense was never my long suit.
25
Slough is a real shit hole, believe me. I think I read somewhere that once there was a plan to twin it with a public toilet in Belgrade, but the citizens of Belgrade turned down the deal. Slough is the sort of place that pit bull terriers go to die, but hardly, I thought, where ex-rock stars go to live. The address I was looking for was on the edge of the town. It was a three-up, three-down, red-brick dump in a street similar t
o every other street for miles. The front garden was three foot deep from wall to front window, and I pushed open the distressed wooden gate and knocked on the front door that last saw paint before litres took over from gallons and new pence from L.S.D.
There was no answer, so I knocked again. And somewhere, way back in the house, I heard a noise and saw some movement through the dusty pane of translucent glass.
I knocked for a third time and a tired old voice said: ‘Who’s there?’
I didn’t answer the question. ‘Mister Boyle?’ I asked.
‘That’s right.’
‘I want to talk to you about your son.’
‘He’s not here.’
My heart sank. ‘Do you know where he is?’
‘No.’
‘Will you open the door?’
‘Who are you?’
‘My name’s Sharman, I’m a private detective, and I’d like to talk privately.’
There was silence for a minute, but it seemed longer, and then the voice said again: ‘Have you any identification?’
I took out one of my cards and put it through the letter box. Another minute, and I heard a rattling of chains and turning of locks, and the door cracked open. A face the colour of cigarette smoke, topped with greying hair, appeared in the gap.
‘What about my son?’
‘Can we talk inside?’ I asked.
For a moment I thought he was going to slam the door in my face, and I wouldn’t have blamed him if he had. But he sighed and pulled the door all the way open, and walked down the dingy hall away from me. I stepped inside, and closed it quietly behind me, and followed him into the first room on the right. It was small and untidy inside, with a grime of dust on every surface. The man stood on the faded carpet and faced me, and he seemed to have a grime of dust on every surface too. The room was hot, and smelled of old chip fat, and the curtains were drawn against the world. The television was on with the sound turned down low. A table lamp with a canvas shade decorated with a picture of Beachy Head was sitting on top of the TV, and its dim light illuminated a man who looked as if he’d just about had enough of the pain the world could give him. He was wearing a ratty cardigan with stains of food or snot down the front, over a yellowed shirt that had once been white, and dark blue trousers, greasy and wrinkled. His bare feet were stuffed into grey corduroy slippers. It was one of the most depressing sights I’ve ever seen.
