Cold Kill

by David Lawrence

  ‘Bolted to the floor. It’s faked up to look like a cupboard. You open the cupboard, there are some trinkets. Take out the back and there’s the safe.’

  Stella looked at the crime report again. ‘Jewellery and other items to the value of a quarter of a million pounds.’

  ‘If that’s what it says.’

  ‘I don’t know how much you’ve been told about the manner of your husband’s death –’

  ‘He was tortured.’ Trixie’s mouth gave a little twist. Out of nowhere, she said, ‘I knew about the girls. There were always girls.’ Stella and Silano waited, but Trixie went on as if she had never interrupted herself. ‘To make him tell where the safe was.’ Stella nodded. ‘But they didn’t go near it.’

  ‘So he didn’t tell them,’ Stella observed.

  ‘That doesn’t make sense.’ Trixie shook her head. ‘That’s not Oscar.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘He would have told them. Oscar would have told them.’

  Silano asked, ‘What makes you say that?’

  Trixie looked at him. ‘Who do you think he was – James fucking Bond?’

  Silano said nothing.

  ‘It’s not a question of being brave,’ Trixie said, ‘not a matter of holding out or being tough. He’d’ve told them, because we’re insured and, anyway, what’s a quarter of a million to Oscar?’

  One of the sparkly friends came back to remind Trixie of her appointment with her lawyers. Stella said, ‘We might need to talk to you again. And we’ll need a photo of your husband.’

  Trixie gave her a mobile number. She said, ‘There are framed photos all round the house. Take what you want.’ Then, ‘Tell me about the girl.’

  ‘We don’t know that much,’ Stella said. ‘She’s been identified. We’re still making inquiries.’

  ‘What name?’ Trixie asked.

  Stella shrugged. It would be in the papers. She said, ‘Ellen Clarke.’ Then, as an afterthought, ‘Did you know her?’

  Trixie shook her head. ‘What was she like to look at?’

  Stella thought of the plum-dark, swollen face, the insane red-rimmed grin. She said, ‘Young. Blonde.’

  ‘Pretty?’

  ‘I expect so.’

  Trixie gave a laugh that brought her to the edge of tears. ‘There were different girls, but they all looked the same.’

  It wasn’t her house, but she walked to the door with them. A taxi was waiting in the driveway. She put on her coat and walked out to the cab. Before she got in, she said, ‘Do you know who they looked like?’ Stella knew the answer. ‘They looked like me. Like me when I was young.’

  Trixie was right: a quarter of a million was nothing much to Oscar Gribbin, which was one of the reasons he was on the ‘obbo’ list with Serious Crimes. While Silano went to talk to someone on the SC Squad, Stella called in on Anne Beaumont. Only one of them had mixed motives. Silano wanted to know about Gribbin’s connections. Stella wanted answers to questions, some of which had to do with Kimber and Mister Mystery, but others were closer to home. She had telephoned from the car on the off-chance and been told, ‘Come now,’ so she’d dropped Silano at Notting Hill and driven down to Knightsbridge.

  ‘It’s Christmas,’ Anne said. ‘They forget their neuroses and their crumbling relationships and jet off to the ski-slopes.’

  ‘Though some return early,’ Stella observed. She told Anne about Oscar and the blonde and the sorrowing wife.

  Anne thought for a moment, then said, ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Know what?’

  ‘I don’t know what to think. Were they both at the scene – Kimber and Mister Mystery?’

  ‘Forensics might tell us but forensics take time,’ Stella said. ‘Shall we have a drink?’

  ‘It’s early.’

  ‘It’s Christmas.’

  Anne took an open bottle of Sauvignon Blanc from the fridge. ‘Are you drinking too much?’

  ‘Almost certainly.’

  Anne poured two glasses of exactly the same size, a non-critical gesture. ‘It’s as if there were two separate events,’ she said: ‘a burglary with associated violence and a killing that demonstrates the same pattern as the attacks on Blake, Simms and Reilly.’

  ‘We’ve considered that – Ellen Clarke is the real target, she’s followed, there’s no opportunity to kill her until she reaches the house, and Gribbin is a complication.’

  ‘So they’re both murdered out of necessity, but whoever kills them decides to rob the place – why not? – which is where the torture of Gribbin comes in.’

  ‘Yes. Except the safe was untouched, though the wife is certain that he’d’ve told them whatever they wanted to know.’

  ‘Who wouldn’t?’ Anne sipped her drink and paused, savouring the gooseberry tang, then nodded as if the wine had been a good idea after all. She said, ‘We ought to be thinking about it as two separate events. His death, her death. One we recognize, one we don’t.’

  ‘But they’re connected.’

  ‘I know. Pretend they’re not. What do you get?’

  ‘Tell me,’ Stella said.

  ‘I don’t know. I’m asking you – you’re the cop.’

  They finished the wine without finding an answer. Stella said, ‘Delaney wants us to go away somewhere for Christmas.’

  ‘Will you?’

  ‘In case you hadn’t noticed, I’m tits-deep in a multiple murder case.’

  ‘He doesn’t want you to go away. He wants you to go back.’

  Stella smiled. She said, ‘I’d worked that much out for myself.’

  ‘Think of them as separate events.’

  ‘The killings?’

  ‘Yes, the killings.’ Anne paused. ‘Also a life with Delaney and a life without.’

  62

  Pete Harriman was waiting for her with a fistful of reports. He said, ‘I’m paper monitor. This is doing my fucking head in.’

  ‘I took Silano because the last thing a sorrowing wife wants to see is evidence of extreme violence, and you’re it.’

  Harriman handed over the reports. ‘Crime report update, scene of crime analysis, budget summary from DI Sorley who’s obviously close to death, memos from everyone, confirmation of the five-k reward on Kimber, yellow-board responses – all crap – emails from Serious Crimes and Forensics, ten while-you-were-away notes, lots of luck, I’m on my lunch break.’

  Stella watched Marilyn Hayes watching Harriman as he made for the door. After a moment’s indecision, Marilyn got up and followed him out. Stella sat at her desk and sifted the paper Harriman had given her. The budget summary went into the bin, the rest she skim-read, looking for new information. After about ten minutes she got to the crime scene update where Oscar Gribbin’s ‘personal effects’ had been listed: whatever he’d had on him at the time of death. Stella read through, then called Harriman on his mobile. When he answered, she heard the end of his last remark tagged on to his response to the phone: ‘…it’s okay, we’ll talk. Hello?’

  ‘Where’s DC Hewitt?’

  ‘Running the door-to-door on Harefield.’

  ‘Okay, you’re standing in for her.

  ‘What’s happened?’

  ‘Oscar Gribbin had a five hundred pound casino chip in his pocket. Jumping Jacks. Last port of call, maybe. Or fairly recent, anyway. Definitely worth a look. I’ll need Maxine for a briefing, then we’ll get down to the casino later tonight.’

  ‘Take me, Boss.’

  ‘Forget it.’

  ‘It’s overtime!’

  ‘Call her in, Pete, and get yourself over to Harefield. You can take your scar down there and wear it with pride.’

  Maxine was dressed for the estate, so she’d stopped off to change. Stella had wondered whether the diesel jeans were an in-joke. She sat with a coffee and waited for ten minutes until Maxine emerged from the bedroom in a black trouser suit – narrow pants and a frock coat.

  ‘You look like a gambler,’ Stella told her, ‘riverboat style.’

 
; ‘I like to put people at their ease.’

  Stella said, ‘Look at my hair, here at the back.’

  ‘What am I looking for?’

  ‘Delaney took a snip of my hair, to show how easy it was.’

  ‘Easy for Kimber?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Maxine peered; she raised her hand and ruffled Stella’s hair a little. ‘I see it. He took a chunk, didn’t he?’

  ‘Where?’

  Maxine touched the right side of Stella’s head. ‘You’re layered, so it doesn’t show all that much.’

  ‘I thought it was the other side,’ Stella said.

  ‘No,’ Maxine said. Then, ‘Don’t worry. No one would know.’

  *

  They were going unannounced, but Stella had done some background work. They knew that Billy Souza ran Jumping Jacks and they knew that he’d been under suspicion a number of times. In police terms, ‘under suspicion’ meant ‘guilty as hell but no proof’. DS Gerry Harris’s name had appeared on a number of reports and Stella had called him a couple of times, but he was out of the office, so she’d emailed and left it at that. Harris was fast becoming her main man at Notting Hill Serious Crimes Squad.

  As they walked out to the car, Stella asked, ‘How did it go?’ She meant the Harefield door-to-door.

  ‘We showed the mugshot,’ Maxine told her, ‘and we mentioned the sum of five thousand pounds. Harefield Estate is a refuge for the deaf, dumb and blind.’

  ‘Even the straight ones?’

  ‘Especially the straight ones. The scared ones. The ones behind the B & Q door-chains.’ As Stella opened the car, Maxine added, ‘You’d think they’d be glad of five grand, what with Christmas coming up.’

  ‘What’s Christmas,’ Stella asked, ‘if you spend it in intensive care?’

  Jan returned twenty minutes after they’d gone. She made herself a drink, then found the note that Maxine had left for her. She walked to the window to draw the curtains, drink in one hand, note in the other.

  Kimber looked up as she stood framed by the window, the light behind her, head bowed to read. He knew her real name now. Someone had called out to her as she was leaving work: ‘We’re going for a drink, Jan.’

  But Jan had said no. Jan had taken her usual route home, the route Kimber knew so well. Jan with her fur-trimmed leather coat and the bright red beanie. Jan with the even features and the mouth made for kissing.

  Jan who had been close enough to touch.

  Billy Souza wasn’t available to them. It was JD who told them this. He was wearing a dinner jacket and a hard smile. Stella smiled back and suggested that Billy make himself available within the next ten minutes. JD’s glance went a fraction above Stella’s head, and she turned to look at the CCTV camera, transferring the smile to whoever might be watching.

  To Billy.

  Maxine waited until JD had walked away, heading for the rear of the gaming room, then said, ‘How much can I lose at blackjack and claim back on exes?’

  ‘Pretend you’re asking Mike Sorley,’ Stella said. Then, ‘Why?’

  ‘I know the dealer. She was my chis for a while. Used to fence a bit, hook a bit, hang out with some tough types. Last saw her when she was a club hostess, but that was a year ago. I thought she must be doing time.’

  ‘And here she is, offering us an inside edge.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘Don’t lose.’

  Maxine laughed. ‘Tell me how.’

  Louise hadn’t been opposite a strong winner since the night Leon Bloss’s soft hands had caused Billy to haul her off the table. She had been dealing a house advantage all night, but now she looked up and saw bad luck coming across the room. When Maxine sat down at the table, Louise dealt her a ten-seven, which made her feel a little better until Maxine tapped for a card and drew the three of hearts. The blackjack table isn’t a place for catching up with old acquaintances, so when the house paid twenties or better Maxine took her chips and laid down a card of her own: a business card. Louise swept it up with the rest: the fast fingers of the professional dealer.

  The locals had been back into the murder house and collected a few photos of Oscar Gribbin. In the one Billy Souza was looking at, Oscar was at some charity function, wearing a dinner jacket and a cheesy smile. He said, ‘I know him, yes. He’s a punter.’

  ‘Know him well?’ Stella asked.

  ‘Well enough to extend a line of credit, not well enough to call him by his first name.’

  ‘It’s possible that he was here on the night he died.’

  ‘Who knows? I think he came in one or two nights a week.’

  ‘Alone?’

  ‘Look,’ Billy said, smiling expansively, ‘if there’s trouble, I know about it, if someone loses heavily, I know about it, if someone hits a winning streak, I know about it. Most punters call in, win a little, lose a little more, then go home. What do I know? I’m running a business.’

  ‘The reason we’re here,’ Maxine said, ‘is that if your casino was Oscar Gribbin’s last call before going home, the killer might have followed him from here. Maybe he won heavily, maybe someone saw that.’

  ‘I don’t think he was here,’ Billy said. ‘Not the night you mentioned. No.’

  ‘He had a Jumping Jacks chip in his pocket when he died.’

  ‘Means nothing. People keep them as lucky pieces.’

  ‘A five hundred pound chip.’

  Billy spread his hands: so what?

  Stella said, ‘If he was here that night, then it’s probable that he was with a girl. Tall, blonde, pretty, name of Ellen Clarke.’ The only picture Stella had seen of the blonde was the scene of crime shot, but she thought ‘pretty’ was a more than even bet.

  Billy smiled. ‘Who knows?’

  ‘You have CCTV, don’t you?’

  ‘Night by night. It records over.’

  ‘You have security staff.’

  ‘If he threatened a dealer, they’d remember. Otherwise –’

  Stella said, ‘What time do you open for business?’

  ‘Noon.’

  ‘DC Hewitt will be back at ten tomorrow. Have your staff here, everyone, dealers, cashiers, security, scrutineers, waiters. We’ll need to talk to them all, show them the photo, ask them what they remember.’

  ‘I could ask them myself,’ Billy said.

  ‘It’s a kind offer,’ Stella said. ‘Ten a.m. No sick-notes.’

  As they were going through the gaming room, Louise looked up. Maxine raised her hand as if to scratch her chin, but with thumb and little finger extended: phone me. Louise snapped a card from the shoe and dealt someone a losing hand.

  Stella got into the shower and washed her hair. She felt for the missing lock. She could feel it, then she couldn’t. She put on a thick bathrobe, walked through to the main room and went to the window to look out. A sleety rain was falling. The late-nighters were going by, heads bent against the wind.

  She had tried to feel him, feel his presence – if he was really there, if he was really following her – but no instinct had made her turn, or had sent a shiver across her shoulders. No goose had walked on her grave. After a while she let down the blind and went through to the bedroom. She took off the robe and put on a big T-shirt. It was part of George’s uncollected wardrobe. She put out the light. Unusually, she fell asleep almost at once.

  She dreamed she was dancing with someone, though she couldn’t see his face. They turned and turned in the dance. She gripped his arms as he gripped hers. Her hair was flying.

  She doesnt know. I dont have to follow I just wait for when she comes back. I wait up the street then I go over the wall and get behind the wheelie bin. The blind was down but you see shapes. She came in and took something off then put something on. You can see shapes. She puts the light out when shes got into bed. Its a bedside light. The room goes dark but there she is. Shes in there. Shes sleeping. Sweet dreams Stella.

  Leon Bloss was sitting in a car two streets off the Strip and talking to a trader. In fact p
eople called him the Trader. This man knew about all sorts of merchandise, but mostly he knew about gemstones. He also knew about risk. He turned the four-strand bracelet in his hand and it caught the glow from streetlights, giving back a soft blue gleam.

  He said, ‘Is there a call out on this, Leon?’

  Bloss shrugged. ‘There will be.’

  ‘Then best to keep it for a while. You know that. If the cops are interested, it’ll have to be broken, in which case the price drops.’

  ‘I need to cover some expenses,’ Bloss said.

  ‘You’ll take what you can get?’

  ‘I’ll have to.’ Bloss gave a chirpy smile. ‘Christmas on the way...’

  ‘I can raise you ten-k on this. Maybe fifteen. Minus my commission.’

  Bloss knew this meant that the Trader could raise twenty. He said, ‘I’ll take eighteen, no commission.’

  The Trader was a big man, broad shouldered, maybe six-four, dark complexioned. He gave Bloss a sorrowful look. ‘You don’t sound as if you’re in a position to cut deals, Leon. You sound like a man on the move.’

  ‘You’re right. I could move on. Take it somewhere else.’

  The Trader laughed. ‘Don’t shit me, Leon. That’s your plan, is it? Where are you going to take it – Harefield? Stonebridge? Some dudes down there be more than happy to do business with you. They’ll take your fucking bracelet and shoot your dick off instead of saying thank you.’ He had small hands for a big man. He slipped the bracelet over his wrist. ‘Fifteen,’ he said.

  Bloss shrugged. ‘Fifteen.’

  It was the sum they’d both been reaching for. The Trader said, ‘A few days. I’ll call you.’

  He drove Bloss down to the tube at Notting Hill, facing down the faint-hearted in the one-lane rat-runs, the bracelet half hidden under his shirt cuff. It threw a glitter when he swung the wheel.

  63

  The Jumping Jacks logo was the knave of hearts and the knave of diamonds, each set against a bright white playing-card. The neon version was mounted on the wall of the casino. At night, the jacks hopped and bopped in alternating rhythms. At ten in the morning they were as dull and lifeless as the staff lined up outside Billy Souza’s office. Billy had taken the morning off, so JD was deputizing. His method of doing this was to walk with a roll to his shoulders and rarely blink. He went for a stare-out with Frank Silano, which made Silano laugh out loud.