by Greg Keen
Bearing in mind that he’d had Farrelly waving a red-hot screwdriver in his face, followed by over three hours in the boot of a car, it was a bravura performance from Hicks. Not that Billy Dylan appreciated the finer points.
‘Has all the money gone?’ his mother asked.
‘You’ve got to look at it as an investment—’
‘I said, has the fucking money gone?’ she said.
‘There was no other way to raise the cash,’ Billy said. ‘Read the script, Ma. Once you’ve seen it, you’ll realise that—’
‘You think I give a toss about your poxy script?’
Billy crumpled as though he’d been punched in the gut. I almost felt sorry for him. Then I remembered that he’d beaten the shit out of Odeerie.
‘Okay, you can leave now,’ Meg Dylan instructed me.
‘Not without Hicks,’ I replied, and pulled the flash drive out of my pocket.
‘What’s that?’ she said.
‘Billy gave Sean access to his laptop when they were working together. He copied the drive in case there were any creative differences down the line. There’s all manner of fascinating stuff on there: names, cash transfers, account numbers . . .’
Billy put his head in his hands.
‘How much d’you want?’ Meg Dylan asked.
‘Nothing,’ I said, and tossed the stick to her. ‘Although if anything untoward happens to me or Sean, then a copy gets emailed to the police.’
Meg thought about it, although not for long. ‘You’ve been clever, Kenny, but watch your step. If that gets out, you’ll wish you’d never been born.’
‘Keep your side of the bargain and it’s going nowhere,’ I said. ‘Oh, and we’re taking Magda too,’ I added. ‘Assuming she wants to come, that is.’
Meg Dylan stared at me as though my ears were melting. ‘What d’you want that Polish slag for?’ she asked.
‘Just get her in here,’ Farrelly interjected.
Meg nodded at Lance, who reluctantly left the room. For the next five minutes things were a bit strained. Billy stared daggers at Hicks, while Meg’s expression suggested that she was thinking how, or perhaps whether, she was going to tell her husband about all this in the next visitors’ session at Brixton.
Farrelly recommenced his inspection of the menagerie, occasionally picking up one of the animals and holding it to the light. I wondered how things could go wrong (at least a dozen ways) and what we could do if it did (basically fuck-all).
Magda looked disconcerted when she entered the room. The last time I’d visited she’d ended up chowing a mouthful of broken glass. Her English wasn’t sensational and it took five minutes to explain to her that my brother was willing to provide her with a job and a place to stay. If she wanted to leave, then it would mean packing immediately. I wasn’t entirely sure if she believed me or not, but it didn’t seem to matter. ‘I get my things,’ she said, and headed for the door.
‘Hold up a minute,’ Farrelly said.
The giltwood chair was the only classy piece of furniture in the room. If it was reproduction then it was an excellent reproduction. If genuine, it had been hand-carved by a master craftsman the best part of two centuries ago.
Farrelly upended it and splintered a leg free with the heel of his shoe.
‘I reckon you’re due some compensation, luv,’ he said to Magda.
She had no idea what he was talking about and nor did I. That was until Farrelly entered the gallery containing the crystal menagerie and brought the chair leg down on to one of the shelves.
Lance bellowed and charged across the room. It was the same strategy he had used against Gary in the lobby of my flat. Farrelly Senior was a different proposition.
Ducking low, he stabbed the chair leg hard into Lance’s ribs. The big man gasped and fell to his knees like a penitent in chapel. Farrelly brought the improvised club down on his skull. We wouldn’t be hearing from Lance again that afternoon.
Farrelly wiped the chair leg and handed it to Magda. A smile spread across her face and she went to work. When all the shelves had been taken care of, she began to stomp the animals into splinters, grunting with the effort. Whatever indignities had been visited upon Magda during her incarceration with the Dylans – and no doubt there were many – they were at least partly exorcised during a fifteen-minute orgy of ecstatic destruction. But it wasn’t Magda’s efforts that had me transfixed.
Meg Dylan’s face was the best show in town.
THIRTY-SIX
The return journey was a quiet one. Magda had a vacant expression, and appeared stunned by the enormity of her actions. Sean Hicks stared listlessly out of the window, and I fought against exhaustion. Dropped off first was Hicks, who lived in a block of flats on Green Lanes. Before releasing the central locking, Farrelly turned to face him. ‘Fetch the copy of that stick thing to my gym tomorrow afternoon,’ he said. ‘If I’m not there, leave it with the big geezer on reception.’
‘What copy?’ Hicks asked. ‘The only one I had was on my key ring.’
‘The one you gave to Farrelly last night?’
He nodded.
‘And I handed over to Meg Dylan,’ I said, and sighed. ‘So the only thing keeping us all alive, we don’t actually own any more?’
‘Don’t bleedin’ tell no one,’ Farrelly instructed Hicks.
‘Of course I won’t,’ he said. ‘Can I go now, please?’
Farrelly released the central locking system and Hicks got out of the car.
‘Actually, I wouldn’t mind some fresh air,’ I said. ‘I’m feeling a bit sick.’
After exiting the Volvo, I caught up with Hicks.
‘Christ, what now?’ he said. I showed him a picture of Gary on my phone.
‘Did this guy come to see the play?’
‘He did, as a matter of fact,’ he said, after taking a moment to examine it. ‘Same row you two were in. I remember thinking he didn’t fit in with the usual crowd.’
‘Was Billy Dylan around that night?’
Hicks nodded. ‘We were going to talk about some changes to his script after the show. He and Lance left just before the final curtain, though.’
‘Did they say why?’
‘No, I just got a text from Billy saying that something urgent had come up and that he’d call me to rearrange.’
‘Right,’ I said, and couldn’t help but ask, ‘Was his script really that good?’
‘Yeah,’ Hicks said, ‘it was.’
‘What was it called?’
‘Graveyard Zombies. I know what you’re thinking – just another crap zombie movie. But this one really did have some class. It was kind of a satire on—’
‘That wasn’t what I was thinking.’
‘Oh, okay.’
‘However good it was, Sean, you need to forget about the film and Billy Dylan.’
Hicks’s face indicated this wouldn’t be a problem. I said goodbye and trotted back to Farrelly’s car. ‘What were you talking to him about?’ he asked.
‘Just emphasising that he really needs to keep his mouth shut,’ I said.
‘You ain’t gonna puke?’ Farrelly asked.
‘No,’ I replied. ‘I ain’t gonna puke.’
My brother had agreed that Magda could temporarily bunk in with his housekeeper and cook, both of whom lived in the servants’ quarters of his house in Fulham. Farrelly waited for me while I led her to the front door.
The housekeeper answered the bell. Annie greeted Magda by name and said how pleased she was to meet her. I handed her rucksack over and said to Magda that I would drop by to see her in a day or two. She nodded and followed the housekeeper through the door. I was halfway back to the car when I heard footsteps behind me.
Magda’s hug was brief and powerful. She muttered something in my ear in Polish, and then barrelled back up the stairs before I could request a translation.
‘I didn’t get no fucking hug,’ Farrelly said when I rejoined him in the car. I extended my arms. ‘Behave yourself,’ he sa
id. ‘Your brother must have a bob or two. That place is bleedin’ enormous. How come he made a bundle and you’re broke?’
‘Malcolm has talent.’
‘Means sod-all if you don’t do nothing with it.’
‘Yeah, but you’ve got to have it in the first place.’
Farrelly turned his gaze from the house to me. ‘You’ve just fronted out Billy Dylan and got that poor mare out of shtook.’
‘And your point is?’
‘You spend too much time peering up your own arsehole.’
‘Did you get that in a fortune cookie?’
Farrelly took the kind of deep breath that parents often do when their kids are properly irritating them. ‘Your nut needs sorting out,’ he said.
‘You applying for the job?’ I asked.
‘Don’t bleedin’ tempt me,’ he replied.
Farrelly dropped me off outside the flat. I invited him in but he was keen to get to St Michael’s before visiting time was over. I asked him to give Gary my best and tell him that I’d be in to see him soon. Ten minutes later I was pondering his advice over a black coffee laced with a shot of Monarch, and half a dozen stale Jaffa Cakes.
Did I spend too much time examining my own fundament? My therapist had emphasised the importance of challenging negative assumptions. I told her that I’d blown the chance of leaving Soho with the only woman I’d ever loved, which was the pure truth any way you sliced or diced it. Greta had asked why I couldn’t begin another relationship. And to be fair, that’s what had happened.
Olivia and I were in the very early stages, but it might lead on to something longer-term. If it didn’t, then at least it was taking my mind off Stephie.
And perhaps Farrelly had a point about my career. I might have been barking up the right tree for the wrong reason with Connor Clarke, but at least Will and Simon were still alive as a result. And Meg Dylan would be keeping Billy on a short leash for the foreseeable future. My ringing phone interrupted the positive-thinking binge.
‘Hello, stranger,’ I said to Olivia.
‘Sorry, Kenny,’ she said. ‘Things have been hectic. How are you?’
‘Not bad. How was Edinburgh, by the way? I forgot to ask.’
‘Edinburgh?’ she repeated as though I’d said Leningrad. ‘Oh, yes, Edinburgh was fine. Sorry, it seems ages ago now. Do you still want to meet tonight?’
‘Assuming you do,’ I said. Olivia sounded as knackered as I felt.
‘I think that would be best,’ she said, which was odd.
‘How about something to eat? There’s a new Thai place on Frith Street looks like it might be pretty decent.’
‘Actually, I think a drink would be better, if that’s okay with you,’ she said. ‘And I won’t be able to stay too long, I’m afraid.’
‘Why’s that?’ I asked.
‘I promised to help Seb with his packing.’
‘Where’s he going?’
‘Arizona.’
The Coach and Horses is an old-school boozer that hasn’t changed its décor since the early seventies. Everyone prepared for the worst when Norman Balon, its tyrannical landlord, retired. Fortunately all the new owner did was install an upright piano. The oak panelling remains, as do the red vinyl bar stools, the signs promoting Skol lager and Double Diamond, and the feeling that Jeff Bernard or Peter Cook might stagger through the door at any moment.
After ordering a large waga, I occupied the only free table in the place, on which lay a discarded copy of the Standard. Predictably its front page carried the sensational news of Blimp Baxter’s death and the subsequent shooting of his suspected killer. He had been named as Connor Clarke and there was a picture on page two.
It was the photo taken in the garden at the Carbury Estate. Connor was standing behind Judy’s wheelchair with a broad smile on his face. A man who looked less like a serial killer you would be hard-pressed to find. And yet, as the report pointed out, he was also being linked to the deaths of three other people.
Olivia arrived wearing the same grey coat she had worn when we’d met in Highgate Cemetery. Only when she sat down did I notice the shadows under her eyes. I went to the bar for drinks and returned to find her reading the paper.
‘This is horrendous,’ she said. ‘D’you think it was some kind of sex thing?’
‘It was a bit more complicated than that.’ I took a sip of my drink. ‘Connor thought he was keeping his father alive by killing Blimp. He murdered three other men for pretty much the same reason.’
‘You sound as though you knew him.’
‘Read paragraph three.’
‘“The suspect was interrupted by a man thought to be in his late fifties, who is currently helping police with their enquiries.” That was you?’
‘That was me.’
‘Christ, Kenny. What happened?’
Olivia’s G&T remained untouched throughout my account. Her hand flew to her mouth when I got to Blimp’s head on the snooker table, and I took it easy on the adjectives from there on in. Connor’s obsession with her grandfather and The White Tower didn’t get much of a reaction, although, after she expressed her general shock and sympathy at my ordeal, it was the element we wound up discussing.
‘I suppose that wretched book will start selling again,’ she groaned. ‘An auction house is listing it as being written by my grandfather. I’ve demanded they either remove it from sale or state that William Gifford is the real author.’
All of which explained why I’d seen the title highlighted in the catalogue on her desk.
‘A friend of Connor’s father had his life destroyed by The White Tower forty years ago,’ I said, and took a sip of my waga. ‘His name’s Simon Paxton.’
‘You’re joking! I went to see him.’
‘Really?’ I asked, choosing not to reveal that so had I. ‘Why was that?’
‘He had some books he was looking to sell. A few were first editions by my grandfather and Simon wanted to see if I was interested.’
‘Were you?’
Olivia nodded. ‘He had to move out of the house and was selling everything off. At least, that’s what he told me.’ She pulled her coat tighter around her shoulders. ‘Kenny, you don’t think there was any other reason he wanted to meet?’
‘Probably not,’ I said. ‘It makes sense that if you have rare books by an author you’d go to the dealer who specialises in his works.’
Some tit on the piano was trying to initiate a sing-song.
‘I can barely hear myself think,’ Olivia said after glancing at her watch. ‘D’you mind if we go outside? There’s something I’d like to discuss.’
In the past, when women have announced the need for a discussion, it’s usually been about my drinking, plans for the future, unsuitable friends, thoughts on children, attitude to Catholicism, perspective on tracker mortgages or tendency to sarcasm. Given that Olivia and I were technically only on our third date, it was unlikely to be any of the above. And yet I still had a sinking feeling as we made our way outside.
The Coach had provided a few benches for the use of smokers. The only other taker on a parky night was a ginger geezer in his seventies hunched over a pint of Guinness. Olivia sat with her back to him and got straight down to it.
‘You know I told you on the phone that Sebastian is checking into the Cedars rehab unit for three months?’
‘The place in Arizona?’
‘That’s right. Well, the thing is . . . the thing is that I’m going too.’
‘To make sure he doesn’t back out? Probably a good idea—’
‘Actually, I’ll be living there.’
‘Erm . . . I’m not with you, Olivia.’
She sighed and ran a hand through her hair. ‘The Cedars places heavy emphasis on the need for family support. Seb and I have dual nationality, which means I can go to the States with him. We’re flying out tomorrow.’
‘For the whole three months?’
Olivia nodded. ‘After that, we plan on living in America full-t
ime. Seb thinks a fresh start is just what he needs.’
‘Sure, but isn’t selling up a bit drastic?’ I said. ‘Why not go to Arizona until the treatment’s finished and see how things are then?’
Olivia took my hand. ‘My mind’s made up, Kenny. If I’m not there for Seb, there’s a real chance he won’t make it. You do understand that, don’t you?’
Had I mentioned that Sebastian had been stealing from Olivia on behalf of Connor Clarke, it might have made a difference. But I had an idea that there were some things about her brother that Olivia would have to find out for herself. Maybe that would happen in Arizona and maybe it wouldn’t. Time alone would tell.
‘If you’ve made your decision then you’ve made your decision,’ I said at around the same time a car drew to a halt on the opposite side of the road.
The horn tooted and Olivia looked up. ‘There’s Seb now,’ she said. ‘Let’s keep in touch, Kenny.’ She gave me a brief kiss, trotted over the street and got into the car. Her brother looked out of the driver’s window and grinned. Actually, grin doesn’t even nearly describe it. Triumphant leer would be nearer the mark.
As the green Ford Focus pulled away from the curb and headed north up Greek Street, I realised that I’d done Billy Dylan a disservice. Although undoubtedly a piece of shit in human disguise, Billy hadn’t tried to run me down in Brewer Street.
Sebastian Porteus had been responsible for that.
THIRTY-SEVEN
Two weeks after Blimp’s murder, an arcade owner in Brighton contacted Odeerie. The guy suspected his staff were filching cash from the machines and wanted someone to keep the place under surveillance. Said person would need to pass for the kind of loser who might realistically spend three hours a day playing slot machines. Odeerie showed him my photograph and I was hired on the spot.
I was travelling on the 9.21 from Victoria and had fallen into a light doze when I felt a tap on my shoulder. The young woman looked familiar but I couldn’t place the face. She was wearing a dark-blue skirt with a matching jacket, and had a chop cut that accentuated delicate cheekbones.
