Never Die in January (A Macrae and Silver Mystery Book 2)

by Alan Scholefield

  “It looks like we was burgled.”

  “Clever boy.”

  “Don’t get sarky with me! I said what the hell happened?”

  “And don’t use that tone with me. I’m not one of your little tarts. I suppose that’s where you’ve been all night. With one of your tarts!”

  Stoker’s head seemed about to burst apart. He sat down on the bed and said softly, “You better tell me or I’ll mark you.”

  “We had a visit. That’s all. While you were out gallivanting. Christ, you need your head read. You make threats and cause trouble and when the time comes where are you?”

  “Threats? Who’d I threaten?”

  “Who the hell d’you think? George Macrae, you silly bugger.” Stoker experienced two simultaneous emotions: blazing anger and chilly apprehension. The delights of the night before faded. The headache grew suddenly worse. “OK…OK…tell me what happened.”

  “Well, all he had to do was wait for you to go, didn’t he? You never think of consequences. That’s where you’re different from Artie. He was always thinking.”

  “Spare me the fucking lecture!”

  “Well, you won’t be told. I mean all he did was sit in his car and wait for you to leave the house. And if you’d come back like you said you would none of this would have happened.”

  “But — you mean he robbed us?”

  “Course he didn’t.”

  Stoker’s mind was cloudy. But at last he was able to collect his thoughts. “Jesus! The tapes!”

  He ran into the spare bedroom and one look was enough. A large oil-painting of African elephants had been thrown on to the bed and the wall safe, which it had been hiding, was open. He could see boxes of jewellery and bundles of ten-and twenty-pound notes in rubber bands, but no tape.

  Molly stood in the doorway. “He made me, Gary. Look what he did to my face.”

  “Get out of my way!”

  He ran downstairs and out of the french windows that led into the garden. He ran — ignoring his throbbing head — up the path to the garden office. The door was ajar. Drawers had been opened, their contents spilled out on to the floor.

  “This one’s gone too!” he shouted. “And he’s tom the page from the ledger!” He ran back to the house. Molly had come downstairs and he caught her by the wrist.

  “You’re hurting me!”

  “I’ll break your arm if you don’t shut up. Tell me exactly what happened.”

  It was soon told. An hour after he’d left Macrae arrived at the front door, forced his way in, made her give up the master tape and the copy. He had threatened to hurt her if she didn’t cooperate and indeed had done so just, as he put it, to show willing. Stoker stood at the windows, looking out but seeing nothing. “He’s too much for you to handle, Gary. Leave him.”

  “Too much? You know what he did to me?”

  “You told me.”

  “Shut your mouth.”

  “You want my advice, don’t mix it with Macrae. You’ll lose.”

  “You think so?”

  “I’m sure.”

  “You rotten bitch.” He stood over her and she tensed in case he hit her. But his face filled with contempt and disgust. “Look at you. When you haven’t got your make-up on you could be my mother. Christ, I dunno what I saw in you.”

  “I’ll tell you what you saw: money, lots of it. And clothes. And an expensive car. And an available body. That’s what you saw. And you had it all. Except you decided to mix it with Macrae.”

  The word “Macrae” was Pavlovian and activated something inside Stoker’s aching head. He pushed Molly out of his way and ran down the front steps to the Rolls. From the back he pulled out a tyre lever but instead of getting into the Rolls he unlocked a small Mercedes parked nearby — Molly’s car. Macrae might know the Roller but he didn’t know the Merc.

  He shot off down the street in the swirling fog and began to thread his way through Camden towards Macrae’s house in Battersea.

  “Muh pud prik?” Harold Marshall said. “Pork fried with hot chillies. Does that appeal? Or…” he looked down the menu. “Kai pud prik. Chicken fried with hot chillies.”

  He knew she knew what he was doing but she didn’t seem to react.

  “Or one could have gung pud prik — prawns cooked with chillies.

  I wonder if those are the long thin prawns or the short fat ones. Which do you like?”

  He looked slyly over the menu at her. She raised her own eyes and he flinched and looked away. It was difficult to meet those eyes. They had changed. They lay deep in her head, glowing redly. They made him uneasy, restless. It was as though, for a moment, blinds had been lifted on an inner world that frightened him in its unfamiliar intensity. He wasn’t used to looking in people’s eyes and finding that. Briefly he was sorry he had brought her.

  It would have been hard to refuse her. She had walked into the Zanzibar at lunchtime and found him with a G and T in his hand. She had stood in the darkened room and reminded him of his offer of lunch.

  “At the Thai,” he had said. “Of course I remember. A libation first?” He touched his silvery hair. But she said she would have wine with her lunch, if that was in order.

  “Absolutely.”

  He was dressed much the same way as he had been on their first meeting. He flushed with pleasure as he took her arm to cross the road. He pressed firmly through the heavy wool of her coat and found the flesh beneath. He squeezed. She did not respond, but neither did she reject him.

  Nothing like this had happened to Harold Marshall for a long time. His wife had died more than twenty years before and his pickings had been slender since then. No, not slender, bloody nearly zero. There had been a black cleaning lady whom he had inveigled back to his flat and whom he had paid, and there had been an elderly friend of his dead wife who had made it easy for him and then talked of marriage.

  It hadn’t been for want of trying, though. The problem was, he supposed, a universal one: older women did not appeal to him but he did not seem to be able to interest the younger ones.

  There had been times in the past when his desperation had reached the point of wanting to buy a woman, a tart, and several times he had set off for the West End to find one.

  But the streets seemed devoid of tarts. Perhaps he was looking in the wrong places but it was apparently telephone numbers in phone boxes now and he didn’t like the idea of walking into an unknown flat by himself.

  He’d seen reports on television of whores at King’s Cross Station, so he’d gone there. But Harold was fastidious and timid. The women, most of whom seemed drunk or high on drugs, scared him. The thought of Aids scared him. He longed for the old days when comfortable-looking women in high heels and coats stood in the darkness of shop doorways and said: “Looking for a nice time, love?”

  Now it was thigh-length boots and rubber and doing it in parked cars or derelict sites where discarded syringes glittered in the trampled weeds.

  As he guided Irene to a table he felt his spirits — and what juices remained in his body — begin their upward flow, as though in a springtime long ago.

  Then, for the first time, with his sly mention of prik this and prik that, he had looked over the menu directly into her eyes, and seen, well, to be frank he didn’t know what it was, but it had made him uneasy.

  “I don’t care,” she said. “You order.”

  He made much of that. Then there was the ceremony of the wine; the Niersteiner. Was the temperature quite right? He drank thirstily. The wine on top of the G and Ts brought his face out in a military flush.

  He started to relax. Her eyes no longer bothered him quite so much. God, she was a sexy piece. Just the way he liked them. Big breasted, white skinned. He visualized her with her clothes off eating the Thai food, sucking the long, greasy prawns. Keep that image, he thought, and you won’t have a failure.

  He put his foot out to touch hers and spoke quickly about the army days as though to cover the act. She did not reply. Hardly listened.
r />   Abruptly she broke straight across him and said, “Tell me about Gerald.”

  He chewed a piece of fried pork and smiled hesitantly. “What do you want to know?”

  “Tell me about his women.”

  “His women?”

  “Is he married? Does he have girlfriends?”

  “Why?”

  “I’m interested in him.”

  “Why?”

  “I’m a sociologist, in a way.”

  “What’s Gerald — ?”

  “His looks for one thing. He looks like an albino.”

  “God, don’t ever call him that! He hates that.”

  She ignored him. “His height for another. He’s short. Then the car and the dog. I wondered if he was a type, that’s all.”

  He drank more wine. There was something weird about Irene. No matter. If she wanted to talk about Gerald he’d talk about Gerald. He’d talk about anything, Christian Science, Hitler, the balance of payments, any bloody thing as long as she’d lie down for him and open her legs.

  “Gerald,” he said, and lit a cigarette. “Well that’s quite an interesting subject, sociologically speaking.”

  “Do you think he’s a sociopath?”

  “A what?”

  “Is he mental, deranged?”

  “Now hang on a sec.”

  “You’ve known him since he was a child, haven’t you?”

  “Yes, but — ”

  “Well, is he a sadist, do you think? Is he a masochist? In other words, is he a bloody loony?”

  Other patrons looked towards them and Marshall lowered his eyes.

  “My dear girl, you — ”

  “Come on, Harold. What’s his relationship with women? What turns him on? Violence? Start with his mother. Mavis, you said her name was.”

  If he didn’t she might become more strident.

  He said, “Gerald was afraid of her. She was his mother and his father. She was tough. Lots of people were afraid of her. I was myself at times. A mannish sort of woman. I called her bossy-boots, but only to myself. Don’t mind admitting it.”

  “We’re talking about Gerald, not you.”

  “I’m just trying to explain.”

  “Was she violent with him?”

  “Well…yes…I suppose you could say she was. But I’m not sure I’d use the word “violent”. Strict. I mean she didn’t stand any nonsense. She used to slap his face if he was what she called “cheeky”. I was sorry for the little chap. I suppose that’s why I eventually took him into the business. Of course he’s damned good too.”

  “You mean she hit him when he was small?”

  “When he was small. When he was a teenager. She used to slap him even when he was grown up. In the office. I saw her.”

  “What about his relationship with other women? Girls.”

  He looked down at his plate. “He had one once with a much older woman. I don’t think I should be talking about it. It’s his business.”

  “Sociologists are like doctors,” she said.

  He pressed her foot and she let it remain where it was for a moment, then withdrew it.

  “I don’t suppose it would go any further,” he said.

  She pushed her foot back against his. His hand shook as he lit another cigarette.

  “Well, he had an altercation with her.”

  “Altercation? What’s that mean?”

  “He hit her. I suppose you could say he beat her up. God knows why. Anyway she called the police. But finally she wouldn’t go on with it so they didn’t charge him. I suppose she was too embarrassed. I mean he’d been living with her. She was over forty. Had a son older than Gerald.”

  “How old was he?”

  “Seventeen.”

  “And then…”

  “Then?”

  Her foot touched his ankle.

  “Well, he once…I don’t know the truth of it…but it was said he’d tried to force himself on a customer in an empty flat. She came into the office and complained. But she was known in the district as a bit of…well, not a tart exactly, but someone who was of easy virtue. Yes, I think that’s the phrase.”

  “I wonder why he does it?”

  “I know one thing. He’s got a terrific temper. He doesn’t like being contradicted. Gets that from Mavis.”

  “He doesn’t sound a very nice man.”

  “Gerald’s all right. Bloody good at selling, I can tell you that.”

  He paid and they stood on the pavement.

  “Tell Gerald I’d like to see him,” she said.

  “Why?”

  “There’s a tap leaking.”

  “Probably needs a washer.” He took her arm. “My flat’s only round the comer,” he said.

  “What?”

  “I thought you and I…you know, perhaps a Drambuie. Coffee.”

  “I’ve got things to do,” she said.

  “Hang on…hang on…”

  “I’ve got to find an ironmonger’s.” She tried to free her arm.

  “You can’t just leave me like this.”

  “I can do anything I please.” She pulled away. “You’re a dirty old man.”

  His face became blotchy. Other women had called him that.

  “You bitch!”

  She turned and walked away along the pavement. He watched the sway of her hips. He saw her naked. He saw her dimpled buttocks stiffen and relax with every step. He felt like crying.

  “Have you been avoiding me, Sergeant?” Scales was standing at Leo’s desk.

  “No, sir.”

  “I’ve left you messages. Mr Wilson tells me he gave you a message himself to report to me.”

  “Things were coming to a head, sir.”

  “Oh?” He bent close to Leo.

  “It looks as though the information was wrong, sir.” This was said in an undertone.

  “Wrong?” Scales frowned.

  “My information is that the…uh…the transaction never took place. That it was a set-up. Someone was trying to put the knife in, sir.”

  Scales looked thunderous. “You’d better come into my office right away. We can’t talk here.”

  Scales turned and marched through the big CID office.

  As he did so Leo’s phone rang.

  A woman’s voice said, “You know who’s speaking?”

  He had been speaking to her earlier that afternoon. “Yes. I know.”

  “No names, then.”

  “OK.”

  Scales had paused at the door and was looking at Leo who placed a hand over the receiver and said, “I’ll be right with you, sir.”

  Scales nodded briskly and marched on.

  “Sorry,” Leo said. “I had to speak to someone.”

  “You taping this?”

  “Absolutely not. What happened?”

  Without mentioning Stoker by name, Molly gave him an edited version.

  “And the tapes?”

  “Burnt.”

  “Good. Listen, why did you bring, you know…into it?”

  “The big man?”

  “Yes. Why not keep it anonymous?”

  “Don’t talk soft. I had to have someone do the deed, didn’t I?”

  “You could have said it was me.”

  “You?”

  The way she said it annoyed Leo.

  “Yes. Me.”

  “He’d never have believed it.”

  Leo swallowed his pride. “All right, so — ”

  “Wait. That’s not what I’m ringing about. He’s gone after the big man.”

  “When?”

  “About an hour ago.”

  “Why didn’t you call me?”

  “I tried to call him first. Anyway you weren’t in.”

  “OK. Thanks. And I mean it.”

  “I don’t want your bloody thanks. Whatever I had has probably gone out the window now. So don’t get all grateful, because I didn’t do it for either of you. I did it for me. I’ve got my life to live. If anything happens to the big man who d’you think’ll p
ay for it in the end?”

  Leo phoned Macrae’s house. The line was engaged. He sat for a moment, thinking, then he ran for his car.

  CHAPTER XXI

  “That’s what I keep saying, Mum. It’s on the cusp. That’s right…With what in the ascendant? I dunno. It doesn’t say.”

  Frenchy was lying on Macrae’s sofa, the phone to her ear. She was dressed in long leather boots, a miniskirt the size of a facecloth, and her favourite peek-a-boo top. Her hair fell about her face and she held a magazine in one hand. On her nose, and seemingly out of place, was a pair of spectacles. Frenchy was short-sighted.

  “No, it says with the Sun in Aries it’s good for affairs of the heart. Also good fortune…”

  Macrae stood in the doorway looking at what was peeking and what was booing. Normally he would have done something about Frenchy right there and then. But the tension of the past days had not only affected his stomach but also his libido. He hadn’t been to bed with her in more than a week and he was getting looks with big question marks in them. He knew she was wondering if he was having it off with someone else. He wanted to say to her, “Look, I’m having problems,” but could not find a way of doing it.

  “No…No…Mum…You’ll be all right. Why? Because it says so…! Well, you order whatever paper you want, see what it says.”

  She read from the magazine in her hands. ““Good weather. Benign times.”…Benign. Right. Means nothing bad.”

  There was a quacking noise from the other end and Frenchy said, “But that’s in Africa or someplace. You don’t get typhoons in Broadstairs in June.”

  Macrae drew his finger across his throat. Frenchy nodded. “Yeah…OK Mum. I’ll ring you tomorrow.”

  She put down the phone. “Sorry, George. But you know what she’s like. Typhoons, earthquakes. They worry her.”

  “You’ve been talking for nearly an hour.”

  “Well,” she said, with exasperating logic, “you weren’t using it.” That was undeniable but it irritated him.

  “I might have wanted to.”

  “Did you?”

  “No, but someone might have wanted to ring me.”

  “You’re on holiday. Anyway, they’ll ring back.”

  “Next time you call your mother use your own phone.”

  She gave him a hard look but said nothing. Instead she began to hum. It was a tuneless noise and she knew it drove Macrae out of his skull.