by Greg Keen
‘We’ve seen enough,’ I said.
The sound recording began with the electronic parp of a ringing phone. Emily hadn’t skimped on the equipment. The quality was loud and crisp.
Dean Allison answered groggily as though roused from a heavy sleep – ironic, bearing in mind that he was about to receive an even bigger wake-up call.
‘It’s me,’ Emily said with a hardness that Dean couldn’t have failed to notice.
‘Everything all right?’ he asked.
‘Your video arrived. I played it last night.’
‘Okay, so what’s your decision?’
‘I’m taking it straight to the police.’
‘You’re doing what?’ Dean asked.
‘You heard.’
‘Why?’
‘Because you’re blackmailing me.’
‘You’ve got no proof of—’
‘And I’m being raped.’
Dean chuckled. ‘I don’t know what tape you’ve been watching, Em, but I think it’s fair to say that you weren’t being raped in that video. More the other way round, if anything. You were always enthusiastic in the sack, I’ll give you that.’
‘Actually, I think the term is statutory rape,’ Emily said, mispronouncing the word slightly. ‘It means having sex with someone under the age of consent.’
A three or four-second pause on the tape followed this revelation. ‘But you weren’t underage,’ Dean said, all humour purged from his voice.
‘I was fifteen when we were seeing each other.’
‘You lied to me about how old you were?’
‘No, I didn’t, Dean,’ Emily said for the benefit of any third party who might subsequently listen. ‘Remember, I told you how old I was when we met and you said that it wasn’t a problem as far as you were concerned.’
‘I said no such thing,’ Dean snapped. ‘And anyway, how can you prove that you were underage? It’ll just be your word against mine.’
‘Oh no, it won’t,’ Emily said, beginning to enjoy herself. ‘I don’t know what tape you’ve been watching, Dean, but the one you sent to me has the time and date on it.’
There was another hiatus in the conversation, during which Dean presumably considered his next move.
‘Take it to the police and it’ll come out that you were seeing me. Castor will drop you immediately.’
‘You’re right there,’ Emily conceded.
‘So does that mean you aren’t going to show them?’
‘As long as you don’t send a copy to Cas. If he gets to hear that we were ever together, then I’ll be in a police station within the hour.’
‘You’re bluffing.’
‘Try me.’
Even twenty years after she had made her threat, it was clear that Emily was serious. Dean could have drawn no other conclusion at the time.
‘You stupid bitch,’ he said. ‘You think that moron’s going to stay with you? If he doesn’t OD then he’ll find some other brainless slut to fuck.’
‘That’s rich coming from a man who can barely hold a pair of drumsticks,’ Emily snapped back. ‘If it weren’t for Cas and JJ, you’d be working in a call centre.’
It took several seconds for Dean to reply.
‘You think you’ve been so clever, don’t you, Em?’ he said. ‘But you and the junkie had better watch out. I might not be the greatest drummer in the world, but I have other talents.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ Emily asked.
‘Wait and see,’ Dean said.
THIRTY-SIX
The audiovisual suite in West End Central had all the bells and whistles. A large oval table could have seated at least a dozen people. Each place came with its own microphone and operating console. The screen attached to the wall was the size of a pool table and the ozone tang in the air was reminiscent of the seaside.
Despite the hi-tech wizardry (or more likely because of it), DCI Shaheen had to summon someone from IT to connect the Handycam to the screen. While we waited, I filled him in on how I’d come across the footage. I also told him about my interviews with Dean Allison and suggested that he might want to look at his alibi again.
Shaheen made notes and asked a few questions about Davina Jackson and her relationship to Emily Ridley. I thought about recounting my trip to the slaughterhouse and decided against it. Shaheen would probably have grilled me for a couple of hours and might have insisted we visit the site. None of which I had time for.
The DCI’s face was passive throughout the video, although he was quick to switch the unit off after the film had finished. He laid the remote on the table next to his pad and frowned.
‘Does Dean Allison know you’ve got this?’
‘Nope. As soon as Odeerie and I saw what it was, I brought it straight to you.’
‘Who?’
‘Odeerie Charles. He’s my business partner.’
Shaheen jotted down the information.
‘So, what you’re claiming is that Emily Ridley had no idea she was being recorded?’
‘What do you think?’
Shaheen shrugged. ‘It looks that way,’ he said. ‘But we don’t know for sure.’
‘Yes, we do,’ I said. ‘And here’s the reason why . . .’
I played the recording Emily had made on the phone. Afterwards, Shaheen tapped his teeth with his pen for a few seconds and delivered his verdict. ‘Fair enough, it sounds as though Dean Allison probably did rape Emily.’
‘Probably? You can see the date on the tape.’
‘Okay, definitely raped her, then.’
‘And there’s the comment about waiting to see what other talents he has.’
Shaheen rubbed his hands over his face as though attempting to wipe away the tiredness etched into his features. I hadn’t expected him to dance with joy but I had anticipated a slightly more effusive reaction.
‘It’s not exactly a death threat, is it?’ he said.
‘Sounds like one to me.’
‘That’s because you’re hearing what you want to hear. You don’t like Allison, and after watching that I can understand why. Saying that he’s got “other talents” isn’t enough to bring a murder charge, though. The CPS wouldn’t look at it twice.’
‘At least check his alibi again.’
‘You think I haven’t already done that? Nine witnesses saw Allison in Chester’s bar at the time he says he was there. And the woman he met confirmed they spent the night together. No way could he have murdered Emily. Not unless one of his other talents was being in two places at the same time.’
‘You’re doing fuck-all, then?’
‘I’ll have him in and ask if he’s got any comment to make. Don’t get me wrong; if Emily Ridley were still alive then we’d almost certainly bring an historic rape charge against Allison. As things stand, though . . .’
‘He gets away scot-free?’
Shaheen shrugged.
‘How often does that happen?’ I asked.
‘Guilty people walking? All the time.’
‘Doesn’t it piss you off?’
‘Of course it does, but I’m not God, Kenny, I’m a copper. And if you can’t take losing a few then it’s time to hand your card in.’
Shaheen’s buzzing phone punctured the silence. He made an apologetic gesture and answered it. ‘When will he arrive?’ he asked, and looked at his watch. ‘Okay, give me a call after he’s processed and book an interview room. We’ll need to brief Sue Behan as well. When this gets out the press’ll go berserk.’
He killed the call and put the phone in his jacket pocket.
‘Thanks for bringing this to me, Kenny. I know it wasn’t the outcome you were looking for, but I hope you understand why.’
‘Was that call connected to the case?’ I asked.
‘What call?’
‘Oh, come on! I’ve bent over backwards for you. And it sounded as though you’re going to make whatever it is public soon, anyway.’
Shaheen ran a hand through his hair. ‘Okay, bu
t you don’t say anything to anybody, Kenny, otherwise I’ll have your nuts on a stick.’
I made a zipping motion across my lips.
‘Forensics put someone in the frame.’
‘Do I know them?’ I asked.
Shaheen nodded. ‘Kristos Barberis.’
They say the only two sure things about the future are that it will be different and that it will surprise you. That Whispering Nick’s Uncle Kris was being hauled into West End Central as a prime suspect held true on both counts. For one thing the guy had looked genuinely shocked when I uncovered Emily’s body on the Emporium’s roof, and for another I couldn’t imagine him murdering a hamster.
Shaheen pointed out that most killers would be fairly stunned if their victims were produced in front of them after twenty years, and that judging anyone by the face they present to the world is usually a mistake. He added that Kris hadn’t been charged, let alone convicted. Despite this, I could see that Shaheen was excited at the prospect of spending time in an interview room with him.
He refused point-blank to tell me what the forensic evidence was, although he pointed out that Kris was the only person who had both access to the CCTV and keys to the building. This meant that he was capable of returning to the club to hide Emily’s body at leisure and could have doctored the tapes to conceal the fact.
Except he hadn’t. The forensic evidence would turn out to be flawed and it was protecting the real culprit: Dean Allison. The more I thought about the tapes, the more I became convinced Dean had killed Emily and probably Castor. The problem was proving the fact before I was admitted to hospital in less than forty-eight hours.
I took a detour on my return from West End Central to pass the Emporium. Flowers had been heaped against the walls of the building, as had photographs of Emily Ridley and Castor Greaves. Judging by the messages scrawled across them – rip sweet angels, together 4 eternity, true love never dies – most fans were convinced that Castor was kicking back in the great dressing room in the sky where the Jack Daniel’s flows like water and the rider never ends. They might think differently if they knew about my experiences in the slaughterhouse two days ago.
Continuing my journey to Brewer Street, I wondered whether Dean Allison really was capable of setting up something as elaborate as the slaughterhouse business to cover his tracks. Odeerie’s dismissal on the grounds that he had a busted jaw and was Johnny No-Mates had sounded convincing. But that was before we played the tapes. Dean’s ‘other talents’ claim had been so malevolent that I could believe him capable of anything, including mock execution by proxy.
The question was pushed to the back of my mind as I mounted the stairs. Someone was moving around the flat. My stomach backflipped and I was about to clatter back down to street level and call the cops when I remembered that my brother Malcolm was due back from Hong Kong that day. It made sense that he would come round ASAP and had let himself in when I hadn’t answered my doorbell.
As there were no signs of forced entry, and the lock was a Banham, there could be no other explanation. Nevertheless, I opened the door as quietly as I could. The sounds stopped immediately. Brandishing the snooker cue I kept for emergencies, I pushed the sitting room door open. Farrelly was sitting on the sofa peeling an orange.
‘Where the fuck have you been?’ he said without looking up.
The white towel was draped over the coffee table. On it were two pieces of hardware. Largest was the body of a handgun. Next to it was the magazine that I’d just watched Farrelly load with bullets taken from a small cardboard box.
‘It’s a Beretta M9,’ he said. ‘The US army uses ’em so they’re reliable, but you gotta know what you’re doing otherwise you could fuck up and you can’t afford that.’ He picked up the gun. ‘First of all, insert the magazine. Then close the slide.’ He performed both actions. ‘Safety’s up by your thumb here,’ he said, holding the weapon at an angle in order that I could see it. ‘Make sure it’s on release. These things hardly ever jam, so if it ain’t workin’, chances are the safety’s on. This is on and this is off.’ He repeatedly clicked the catch back and forth, saying metronomically, ‘On, off, on, off, on, off, on, off, on, off’, as he demonstrated the mechanism.
‘I think I’ve got that bit, Farrelly,’ I said.
‘Just make sure you have, because once this thing’s in sight he’s gonna know what’s coming and you need to be fast. For fuck’s sake don’t try and shoot it with one hand and don’t hold it down here. You ain’t Humphrey Bogart.’
Farrelly elevated the weapon from his waist and held it at arm’s length. Both gnarled hands were folded around the grip.
‘Keep it up at eye level with your arms stretched out,’ he said. ‘Don’t be too tight or too loose. Make sure that you’re ready for the recoil. You want to be about this distance away from him. Any closer and he might grab you; any further and there’s an even chance you’ll miss the fucker.’
Farrelly pointed the gun at the mirror. The fact that he appeared to be involved in a duel with himself only served to heighten the demo’s surreal quality.
‘That’s only eight feet,’ I said.
‘Don’t make no difference,’ Farrelly replied. ‘He’ll be begging for his life and your hands are gonna be shaking like fuck. Put two into his chest. And then, no matter what, put another pair in his nut. There’ll be all kinds of shit flying around when you do him in the head. You gotta be prepared for that.’
‘I’ll bear it in mind.’
Farrelly put the gun on safety and lowered it.
‘Shouldn’t I be using a silencer?’ I asked.
‘Nine millimetres don’t make much noise,’ Farrelly said. ‘Better take a couple of practice shots in the woods to get used to it, though. Speaking of which, where are you planning on doing it?’
‘Not sure,’ I said.
Farrelly released the magazine and pulled the slide back. He checked the well and chamber were clear before releasing the slide and putting the safety on. Then he put both magazine and gun back on to the coffee table.
‘Best thing is to stake him out for a couple of weeks and see what his habits are. That way you can make a move when there’s no one around.’
‘It has to be tomorrow.’
‘What?’
‘I’m in hospital the day after.’
‘Can’t it wait until you get out?’
I shook my head. ‘I might not get out.’
‘Why’s that?’
‘The tumour’s huge. There’s a chance I won’t make it through surgery.’
Farrelly’s lips pursed like an art expert asked to ratify an old master of doubtful provenance. ‘Still a hundred per cent?’ he asked. ‘Because you could always farm it out to a pro, or just forget the whole fucking thing, which would be a better idea.’
‘No way. I want Jake to know it’s me.’
‘You can call it off right until the last moment.’
‘I’ll bear that in mind.’
‘Last bit of advice,’ he said, reaching for his jacket. ‘Once it’s done, stick the shooter in your bag and walk away as though you haven’t got a care in the world. Do not run unless you know for sure someone’s after you. And don’t call me afterwards; I’ll get in touch with you. Any questions?’
‘Only one,’ I said, handing over a brown envelope full of cash. ‘D’you think I can do it? Only you’ve always seemed to think that I’m a bit of a . . .’
‘Useless twat?’ Farrelly suggested.
‘Pretty much.’
The imp of death stroked his chin.
‘Thing you’ve got to watch out for is bottling it,’ he said. ‘Once you point the gun at this geezer then you can’t choke. Otherwise he’ll send someone after you. Don’t let nothing or no one change your mind. Understood?’
‘Understood,’ I said.
It was nearly nine when I bought four five-kilo bags of rice from the Yip Hing. Hauling them out of my bedroom window and on to the roof was a pain. But if I was going to
check the gun was working before tomorrow then it was my only option. An L-shaped brick construction sheltered the ventilation fans from the elements. More importantly, it meant no one could see what I was doing from the other buildings.
After arranging the bags against a wall, I loaded as Farrelly had demonstrated, slotting the flat end of each round against the flat end of the magazine. A voice in my head played a running commentary: You’re seriously doing this? You’re out of your mind. Murdering a sack of basmati is a lot different to murdering Jake Villiers. You’re a skip-tracer, not Carlos the Jackal. Stop it, Kenny. Stop it now!
The last two sentences were courtesy of my mother. They were the kind of instructions issued when I was pulling a wheelie on my bike or tormenting my brother in the back of the car. Although Ma was no longer around, I was confident that rehearsing an execution on a Soho rooftop would have inspired similar orders.
And yet what did I have to lose? There was a good chance I’d die under the knife. Even if I didn’t, I might as well be in a prison hospital as a regular one. Sure, I’d found Emily Ridley’s body, but she would have been discovered eventually. The real challenge had been to track down Castor Greaves and I’d failed to do that.
One positive thing I could do with whatever time I had left was take Jake Villiers out of the game. Stephie would never thank me but if I planned things well enough then she’d never know I was responsible.
Fuck it, as Confucius probably once said.
I levelled the pistol at the bags in the same way Farrelly had demonstrated an hour earlier. The weapon jumped and made a sound like a cracking whip. Dry rice cascaded from one of the bags. My grip was steadier second time round.
THIRTY-SEVEN
That an arrest had been made in connection with Emily Ridley’s murder dominated the morning news. All the police would reveal was that the man was in his sixties and an employee of the Emporium club. Reporters named Kristos Barberis as the man of the moment. Kris’s picture flashed up on the screen every three minutes with rolling text informing viewers that he’d been detained at West End Central police station overnight and that questioning would continue today. In other news, the pound had continued its downward trend against the dollar, a man from Perpignan had received a successful face transplant, and I was partially deaf in my left ear.
