by Greg Keen
‘I hope you don’t regret bringing him in, Kenny. That’s all I’m saying.’
‘Gary’ll be in touch for Billy Dylan’s address,’ I said. ‘I’ve asked him to keep an eye on his place in case McDonald puts an appearance in.’
The fat man grunted.
‘In the meantime, I want you to focus on Billy’s background. He did six months in Longmill Prison last year. That’s where he took his bookkeeping course.’
‘So what?’
‘What kind of accountancy qualification do you get after six months? You’d barely know how to switch a calculator on.’
‘How am I going to find out what Billy Dylan got up to in the nick?’
‘Use your imagination.’
‘Thanks, Kenny, that’s really helpful,’ Odeerie said. ‘And by the way, has your brother signed his new client form? Because I’ve had nothing back yet.’
‘He’s good for the money,’ I said.
‘It’s not just that,’ Odeerie said. ‘We need to have the right—’
‘Sorry, mate,’ I said, ‘you’re breaking up. I’ll call you later.’
I called Mountjoy Classics to make sure Will would be available and was told by Caroline that it was his day off. I informed her that I had a valuable item that needed to be delivered to him personally and did she have his number? Will answered like a man roused from a deep sleep.
‘Mr William Creighton-Smith?’ I asked in a snotty accent.
‘Er, yes, that’s right,’ he said, sounding a bit more together. ‘Who’s this?’
‘My name is Jeremy Danvers. I’m calling from LJ Couriers. We have a package that we’ve tried to deliver to your workplace. Unfortunately we’ve been informed it’s your day off.’
‘What kind of package?’ Will asked.
‘I believe it’s a promotional gift from the Porsche car company. However, it is high-value and we do need you to sign for it personally.’
‘Could you deliver it to my home address?’
‘Do you reside in the London area?’ Will confirmed he did. ‘Stay on the line a moment and I’ll check with our courier if he can redirect.’ I put Will on hold for a minute and lit a ciggie up. ‘As long as you’re going to be home in the next hour,’ I said after a couple of tokes. ‘Could you give me the address and the postcode?’
‘No problem,’ Will said. ‘Have you got a pen handy?’
NINETEEN
According to the plaque above its main entrance, Brundle Gardens had been built in 1924. Had the red-brick mansion block been situated in Kensington or Chelsea, it would have been prime real estate. Two hundred yards from Kilburn Tube station, however, and the squirearchy wasn’t desperate to bag a weekend pied-à-terre.
After our ill-fated test drive, I’d planned on never having to see Will Creighton-Smith again. Now I was rocking up to his flat with an envelope of incriminating photographs. Safe to say that he wasn’t likely to cut me a slice of Battenberg and ask if I wanted one lump or two with my Earl Grey.
Set against this was the fact that I had the whip hand. Any sign of retribution and I could take the snaps to the local cop shop. Although Will and I might not be hugging each other like brothers in arms, at least the conversation would be civil.
A workman was repairing the intercom panel. He overrode the lock and allowed me into the building. Its lobby smelled of curry and disinfectant. Carpet tiles curled at the edges like stale sandwiches and a couple of the spotlights in the ceiling had popped. I entered the lift and pressed the button more in hope than expectation.
The machinery juddered before ascending. A sign claimed that it could hold eight people max. I had my doubts about that. The same carpet tiles that graced the lobby had been used on the third floor. Plaster walls were chipped and scuffed. It was incredibly warm, although there wasn’t a radiator or a heating duct in sight.
‘Exodus’ by Bob Marley & the Wailers was playing at volume in the flat opposite the lift. Its thumping bass accompanied me down the corridor. The numbers on the doors had been painted in black above spyholes to see who was calling. I rapped on 312 and waited for an answer. There was no answer. I pushed the door. It opened.
Will had probably nipped out for a pint of milk or a gram of coke. He might not be entirely delighted to find me kicking back on his sofa but there wasn’t much he could do about it. Cut up rough and I’d wave the photographs under his nose.
I’ve accessed a few places clandestinely in my time. There’s always a buzz of excitement cut with a sense of voyeurism and the fear of discovery. I felt a tingle in my spine as I entered the sitting room. Nets hung over a large bay window overlooking the street. They hadn’t been washed in a while but admitted sufficient light to illuminate the room. A bookcase held several military memoirs and the collected works of Chris Ryan and Tom Clancy. Interspersed with the paperbacks were framed photographs of Will.
In one he was sat on the hood of an armoured vehicle. There were sweat stains on his singlet, and a khaki hat had been pushed back on his head. Muscles bulged in his arms and his moustache bristled like a bog brush. Faded writing read Granby ’91.
Another featured Will with two other guys on bar stools holding up steins of beer. In a third he was lined up in a regimental photograph behind a small but flamboyantly horned antelope. The last looked to be the most recent. Will was in front of an expensive-looking villa wearing Ray-Bans, white shorts and a polo shirt. His belly was on the march and his hairline in retreat. The smile looked a trifle strained.
A sofa faced a serving hatch. This was where George Dent and Will had been sitting when they were snorting bugle. Open the hatch slightly and a camera could be left behind it, programmed to take interval shots.
A hand clamped itself around my mouth from behind and something pinched the side of my neck hard. A dozen fireworks blossomed and faded into darkness.
And then the darkness faded too.
I was lying on my back in a large enamel bath. My hands had been fastened beneath me. My socks had been removed and my feet secured with swathes of electrical tape. They were in an elevated position between the taps. A towel was fastened tightly around my mouth and nose to the point that I could only just about breathe. All that emerged when I tried to speak were muffled grunts.
‘You’re awake,’ Will Creighton-Smith said. ‘That’s good. I was worried I might have done you some permanent damage before I got the chance to do you some permanent damage. If you know what I mean.’
I struggled to part my wrists and ankles. The best I could manage was to slide my feet off the taps. Will leant over and put them back. He was wearing a grey T-shirt that struggled to make it over his stomach and a grin that turned mine over.
‘Not so cocky now, are we, sport?’ he said. ‘D’you know how much it cost me to get that wing mirror replaced? Five hundred quid, that’s how much.’
I said that I’d repay the money. Will leant over and put his ear to my mouth. I attempted the sentence again. All the extra volume did was increase the level of distortion through the towel.
‘Sorry, still couldn’t catch it. Tell you what, when all the fun and games are over we’ll see what you have to say then. If you’ve got anything to say at all, that is.’
The problem with having incriminating photographs in your jacket pocket is that you have to be able to access your jacket. Mine was hanging two feet above me from a plastic hook. Next best thing is that you tell the person who’s trussed you up that the photographs exist and where they are. No chance on that front either.
Will perched on the side of the tub. ‘Actually, I’ll level with you,’ he said. ‘What’s going to happen to you now probably won’t kill you unless you’ve got a dodgy ticker. Have you got a dodgy ticker?’
I nodded vigorously.
‘No, I don’t think you have,’ he said. ‘And if you have, then never mind. I’ll dry you off and tell the medics you took a heart attack.’
Fear engulfed my body. My limbs shook involuntarily as though the temper
ature in Will’s bathroom had suddenly dropped by ten degrees.
‘God, that takes me back,’ he said. ‘In the eighties we’d give the odd Paddy a washing if he didn’t tell us what we wanted to know. They used to shiver like fuck as well. Ulster was a shit posting, but it definitely had its compensations.’
Will shifted position on the bath. I could hear the faint sound of Bob and the Wailers knocking out ‘Could You Be Loved?’ I’ve never been much of a reggae fan.
‘Most of the Provos were like you,’ he continued. ‘Full of the blarney and all that rebel toss. Until they’d had a washing, that was. Then they were just a bunch of spud-munchers, begging for it all to stop.
‘You’ll get fifteen seconds. Don’t ’fess up and you’ll get more. It’ll be fucking horrible and afterwards you will do absolutely anything I ask, from giving me a blowjob to jumping out of the window.’ Will smiled. ‘That was the option we used to give the Micks. The window, I mean; not the blowjob.’
He got up from the bath. I heard a tap filling a container. He reappeared holding a small plastic watering can with the words BABY BIO embossed on its side.
‘You’ll feel like you’re dying,’ he said, ‘and if we go on long enough that’s what’ll happen. Don’t think you’re tough enough for that, though, are you, sport?’
I held my breath as the towel covering my nose and mouth became sodden. Suddenly and inexplicably my lungs were full of cement. My body spasmed as the pressure in my chest increased to the point where it must surely implode. The pressure mounted. And it kept on mounting. And then it mounted some more.
As my brain began to shut down, it transmitted a series of unconnected images: a baby crawling across a floor; a tree alone in a snow-covered field; an astronaut bouncing across a lunar landscape; men and women streaming out of factory gates; a snake with a mouse in its jaws; Stephie throwing her head back and laughing.
When the towel was pulled away, it was as though my system had been shocked into stasis. And then oxygen rushed into the void.
‘Enjoy that?’ Will asked.
I tried to reply but couldn’t.
‘Thought not. Laughing on the other side of your face now, aren’t you? So, what’s it going to be, sport? More of the same, or do you want to tell me why you were asking all those questions the other day?’
‘In . . . my . . . jacket,’ I gasped.
Will frowned and pulled it off the hook. He removed the envelope from the inside pocket and examined the photographs. His eyes widened and his jaw dropped.
‘Get me out of here,’ I said. ‘Right now.’
Will had to help me into the sitting room. It took ten minutes and several whiskies before the shock began to subside. Once, when I was having root-canal work, the drill slipped. It was mildly uncomfortable compared to being waterboarded. Despite the Scotch and the blanket around my shoulders, I couldn’t stop shaking.
Will defended his actions by saying he’d almost lost his job as a result of my clipping the Jag’s mirror. When my teeth stopped chattering, I called him a variety of names, many of which began with the first three letters of the alphabet.
I’d have carried on indefinitely if it hadn’t been necessary to get down to business. Will was sitting on the sofa and I was on a bentwood chair. I spread the photographs on the coffee table between us.
‘What’s going to happen now is that I’m going to ask you a series of questions which you’re going to answer immediately, without any hesitation. So much as scratch your arse and I take copies of these straight to the police. Understand?’
Will nodded.
‘Okay. First up is why are you and George Dent snorting coke together, and why did you photograph the occasion?’
‘George came to Founder’s Day last year,’ he said. ‘He caught me having a line in the Gents and asked if he could join me.’
‘Were any of the other cemetery crew there?’
‘Only George.’
‘Did he say if he’d spoken with any of the other boys?’
‘He mentioned that he saw Timms now and again.’
‘What about Blimp Baxter?’
‘Nothing about him. The main thing he wanted to know was whether I could source him some coke.’
‘Which I’m guessing you could?’
‘I fix a few mates up now and again.’
‘From the goodness of your heart?’
‘No, I need the money. And so would you if you had my ex-wife’s lawyers on your case. That was why . . . Well, that was why I took the photos.’
A wave of nausea came over me and I broke off my interrogation to take a few breaths to steady myself. ‘How much did you ask for?’
‘Twenty thousand.’
‘Which he paid?’ Will nodded. ‘Did you go back for more?’
‘George said that if I asked for seconds he’d take the pictures to the police.’
‘Why leave them with him in the first place?’
‘I wanted to give him something to think about.’
‘Did you believe him about reporting you?’
‘Absolutely. There was something rather desperate about old George. But then, you often hear about kiddie-fiddlers being unable to live with themselves, don’t you? Probably why he did a header out of the window.’
‘How long did you supply him for?’
Will hesitated. I looked at the photographs.
‘About three months,’ he said immediately. ‘But this was last year.’
‘Sure?’
‘Sure.’
‘Did he talk about anything in particular?’
‘Like what?’
‘A new boyfriend, maybe?’
‘God, no. All he wanted to do was get his gear and piss off as quickly as possible. It was all I could manage to get him to do a line for the camera.’
I drained the last of my whisky, poured another and lit a Marlboro. Judging by Will’s expression, the flat was a smoke-free zone. I blew a stream across the table and changed the subject. ‘Why did you go to the cemetery in seventy-nine?’
‘God knows. Because it was a laugh, probably.’
‘Ray Clarke says you were friendly with Simon Paxton.’
‘I wouldn’t put it like that, exactly . . .’
‘How would you put it?’
‘I used to hang round with Paxo because he was a freak. He was obsessed with all this magic stuff, and he had a thing about death.’
‘You mean he liked reading about it?’
‘I mean he liked killing things. Paxo would buy mice in the village pet shop. He’d put each one into a plastic bag and watch it suffocate. He seemed fascinated with the point at which something . . . ends.’
‘Did you get a kick out of it too?’
‘The first couple of times. After that it got boring. There’s only so often you can watch a mouse snuff it. Unless you were Paxo, that was.’
‘Why do you think he chose you?’
‘It was like some sort of initiation thing. Afterwards we were . . . What’s the word?’
‘Complicit?’ I suggested.
‘Probably. And Paxo could be good company when he felt like it. Although that changed after the cemetery.’
‘In what way?’
‘It weirded us all out, but it affected Paxo most. He blew his A levels because he got so into all that magic crap. All you’d ever see him doing was reading a book by that Porteus bloke.’
‘What was it called?’
Will shrugged. ‘It was forty years ago.’
‘The White Tower?’
‘Actually, that does ring a bell. Paxo carried the bloody thing around wherever he went. Right up until they expelled him.’
‘Was he depressed?’
‘The opposite, if anything. He had this superior look on his face, as though he knew something you didn’t. It pissed the other boys off and one day he copped a decent hiding off a few of them. The more they put the boot in, the more the crazy bastard laughed. He was begging them not to stop in
the end.’
‘Was he okay?’
‘In the san for a couple of days but it was just cuts and bruises. There was no repeat performance, mind you.’
I’d found out what I needed to know and time was moving on. I gathered the photographs together.
‘If you don’t mind me asking, what’s your interest in all this?’ Will said.
‘Peter Timms hired me to make a few enquiries.’
As Peter was dead, there was no longer any need for client confidentiality, although the main reason I’d dropped his name was to see Will’s reaction. It landed like a ton of bricks.
‘Timms?’ he said. I nodded. ‘Why was Timms so interested about what happened in Highgate Cemetery? He was with us, for fuck’s sake.’
‘It was more about a few things that had happened since.’
‘Such as?’
‘George Dent’s suspicious death.’
‘He killed himself. What’s suspicious about that?’
‘George was high on drugs when he fell, Will.’
‘I hadn’t supplied him for months.’
‘So you said.’
‘It’s true. He jumped because he was going down for the child porn and I had nothing, repeat nothing, to do with that.’
No one likes being associated with child pornography. Even allowing for this, Will’s denial seemed particularly vehement.
‘I believe you,’ I said. ‘Apparently George had seen someone who looked like Alexander Porteus and Peter wondered if it might be someone playing mind games.’
‘Why would anyone do that?’
‘I’ve no idea and neither did Peter.’ Will looked authentically blank. ‘A pile of scaffolding fell on him last night. The police think his death was an accident.’
‘But you don’t?’
‘I’m not sure,’ I said. ‘George Dent reported seeing Alexander Porteus and died ten days later. Now Peter Timms is dead and he saw Porteus too. Both of them went on your cemetery expedition. Makes you think a bit, doesn’t it?’
Judging by Will’s expression, it certainly did. I got to my feet and he rose from the sofa. ‘Erm . . . What d’you intend to do with the photographs?’
